Kitabı oku: «The Colloquies of Erasmus, Volume I», sayfa 14
THE APOTHEOSIS OF CAPNIO
The ARGUMENT
Canonizing, or entring the incomparable Man, John Reuclin, into the Number of the Saints, teaches how much Honour is due to famous Men, who have by their Industry improv'd the liberal Sciences.
None that has liv'd Well, dies Ill.
POMPILIUS, BRASSICANUS.
Po. Where have you been, with your Spatter-Lashes?
Br. At Tubinga.
Po. Is there no News there?
Br. I can't but admire, that the World should run so strangely a gadding after News. I heard a Camel preach at Lovain, that we should have nothing to do with any Thing that is new.
Po. Indeed, it is a Conceit fit for a Camel. That Man, (if he be a Man,) ought never to change his old Shoes, or his Shirt, and always to feed upon stale Eggs, and drink nothing but sour Wine.
Br. But for all this, you must know, the good Man does not love old Things so well, but that he had rather have his Porridge fresh than stale.
Po. No more of the Camel; but prithee tell me, what News have you?
Br. Nay, I have News in my Budget too; but News which he says is naught.
Po. But that which is new, will be old in Time. Now if all old Things be good, and all new Things be bad, then it follows of Consequence, that that which is good at present, has been bad heretofore, and that which is now bad, will in Time come to be good.
Br. According to the Doctrine of the Camel, it must be so; and therefore, hence it follows, that he that was a young wicked Fool in Time past, because he was new, will come to be a good One, because he is grown old.
Po. But prithee, let's have the News, be it what it will.
Br. The famous triple-tongu'd Phoenix of Learning, John Reuclin, is departed this Life.
Po. For certain?
Br. Nay, it is too certain.
Po. Why, pray, what Harm is that, for a Man to leave an immortal Memory of a good Name and Reputation behind him, and to pass out of this miserable World, into the Society of the Blessed?
Br. How do you know that to be the Case?
Po. It is plain, for he can't die otherwise, who has liv'd as he did.
Br. You would say so, indeed, if you knew what I know.
Po. What's that, I pray?
Br. No, no, I must not tell you.
Po. Why so?
Br. Because he that entrusted me with the Secret, made me promise Silence.
Po. Do you entrust me with it upon the same Condition, and, upon my honest Word, I'll keep Counsel.
Br. That honest Word has often deceived me; but however, I'll venture; especially, it being a Matter of that Kind, that it is fit all honest Men should know it. There is at Tubinge, a certain Franciscan, a Man accounted of singular Holiness in every Bodies Opinion but his own.
Po. That you mention, is the greatest Argument in the World of true Piety.
Br. If I should tell you his Name, you'd say as much, for you know the Man.
Po. What if I shall guess at him?
Br. Do, if you will.
Po. Hold your Ear then.
Br. What needs that, when here's no Body within Hearing?
Po. But however, for Fashion Sake.
Br. 'Tis the very same.
Po. He is a Man of undoubted Credit. If he says a Thing, it is to me, as true as the Gospel.
Br. Mind me then, and I'll give you the naked Truth of the Story. My Friend Reuclin was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was some Hopes of his Recovery; he was a Man worthy never to grow old, be sick, or die. One Morning I went to visit my Franciscan, that he might ease my Mind of my Trouble by his Discourse. For when my Friend was sick, I was sick too, for I lov'd him as my own Father.
Po. Phoo! There's no Body but lov'd him, except he were a very bad Man indeed.
Br. My Franciscan says to me, Brassicanus, leave off grieving, our Reuclin is well. What, said I, Is he well all on a sudden then? For but two Days ago, the Doctors gave but little Hopes of him. Then, says he, he is so well recover'd, that he will never be sick again. Don't weep, says he, (for he saw the Tears standing in my Eyes) before you have heard the Matter out. I have not indeed seen the Man this six Days, but I pray for him constantly every Day that goes over my Head. This Morning after Mattins, I laid myself upon my Couch, and fell into a gentle pleasant Slumber.
Po. My Mind presages some joyful Thing.
Br. You have no bad Guess with you. Methought, says he, I was standing by a little Bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant Meadow; the emerald Verdure of the Grass and Leaves affording such a charming Prospect; the infinite Beauty, and Variety of the Flowers, like little Stars, were so delightful, and every Thing so fragrant, that all the Fields on this Side the River, by which that blessed Field was divided from the rest, seem'd neither to grow, nor to be green; but look'd dead, blasted, and withered. And in the Interim, while I was wholly taken up with the Prospect, Reuclin, as good Luck would have it, came by; and as he past by, gave me his Blessing in Hebrew. He was gotten half Way over the Bridge before I perceived him, and as I was about to run to him, he look'd back, and bid me keep off. You must not come yet, says he, but five Years hence, you shall follow me. In the mean Time, do you stand by a Spectator, and a Witness of what is done. Here I put in a Word, says I, was Reuclin naked, or had he Cloaths on; was he alone, or had he Company? He had, says he, but one Garment, and that was a very white one; you would have said, it had been a Damask, of a wonderful shining White, and a very pretty Boy with Wings followed him, which I took to be his good Genius.
Po. But had he no evil Genius with him?
Br. Yes, the Franciscan told me he thought he had. For there followed him a great Way off, some Birds, that were all over Black, except, that when they spread their Wings, they seem'd to have Feathers, of a Mixture of White and Carnation. He said, that by their Colour and Cry, one might have taken them for Magpies, but that they were sixteen Times as big; about the size of Vultures, having Combs upon their Heads, with crooked Beaks and Gorbellies. If there had been but three of them, one would have taken them for Harpyes.
Po. And what did these Devils attempt to do?
Br. They kept at a Distance, chattering and squalling at the Hero Reuclin, and were ready to set upon him, if they durst.
Po. What hindred them?
Br. Turning upon them, and making the Sign of the Cross with his Hand at them, he said, Be gone, ye cursed Fiends to a Place that's fitter for you. You have Work enough to do among Mortals, your Madness has no Power over me, that am now lifted in the Roll of Immortality. The Words were no sooner out of his Mouth, says the Franciscan, but these filthy Birds took their Flight, but left such a Stink behind them, that a House of Office would have seem'd Oyl of sweet Marjoram, or Ointment of Spikenard to it. He swore, he had rather go to Hell, than snuff up such a Perfume again.
Po. A Curse upon these Pests.
Br. But, hear what the Franciscan told me besides: While I was intent upon these Things, says he, St. Jerome was come close to the Bridge, and saluted Reuclin in these Words, God save thee, my most holy Companion, I am ordered to conduct thee to the Mansions of the blessed Souls above, which the divine Bounty has appointed thee as a Reward for thy most pious Labours. With that he took out a Garment, and put it upon Reuclin. Then, said I, tell me in what Habit or Form St. Jerome appear'd, was he so old as they paint him? Did he wear a Cowl or a Hat, or the Garb of a Cardinal? Or had he a Lion by his Side? Nothing of all these, said he; but his Person was comely, which made his Age appear such as carried in it much Comeliness, but no Deformity. What Need had he to have a Lion by his Side, as he is commonly painted? His Gown came down to his Heels, as transparent as Crystal, and of the same Fashion of that he gave to Reuclin. It was all over painted with Tongues of three several Colours; some imitated Rubies, some Emeralds, and others Sapphires; and beside the Clearness of it, the Order set it off very much.
Po. An Intimation, I suppose, of the three Tongues that he profess'd.
Br. Without doubt: For he said, that upon the very Borders of the Garments were the Characters of these three Languages inscrib'd in their different Colours.
Po. Had Jerome no Company with him?
Br. No Company, do you say? The whole Field swarm'd with Myriads of Angels, that fill'd the Air as thick, as those little Corpuscles they call Atoms, fly in the Sun Beams; pardon the Meanness of the Comparison. If they had not been as transparent as Glass, there would have been no Heaven nor Earth to have been seen.
Po. O brave, I am glad with all my Heart, for Reuclin's, Sake; but what follow'd?
Br. Jerome, (says he) for Honour's Sake, giving Reuclin the Right-Hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the Meadow, and up a Hill that was in the middle of it, where they kiss'd and embrac'd one another again: In the mean Time, the Heavens open'd over their Heads to a prodigious Wideness, and there appear'd a Glory so unutterable, as made every Thing else, that pass'd for wonderful before, to look mean and sordid.
Po. Can't you give us some Representation of it?
Br. No, how should I, that did not see it? He who did see it, says, that he was not able to express the very Dream of it. He said, he would die a thousand Deaths to see it over again, if it were but for one Moment.
Po. How then?
Br. Out of this Overture of the Heavens, there was let down a great Pillar of Fire that was transparent, and of a very pleasant Form: By this the two holy Souls were carried into Heaven, in one anothers Embraces; a Choir of Angels all the While accompanying them, with so charming a Melody, that the Franciscan says, he is never able to think of the Delight of it without weeping. And after this there follow'd a wonderful fragrant Smell. When he waked out of his Dream, if you will call it a Dream, he was just like a mad Man. He would not believe he was in his Cell; he called for his Bridge and his Meadow; he could not speak or think of any Thing else but them. The Seniors of the Convent, when they found the Story to be no Fable, for it is certain that Reuclin dy'd at the very Instant that the holy Man had this Vision, they unanimously gave Thanks to God, that abundantly rewards good Men for their good Deeds.
Po. What have we to do, but to set down this holy Man's Name in the Calendar of Saints?
Br. I should have done that if the Franciscan had seen nothing at all of this, and in Gold Letters too, I'll assure you, next to St. Jerome himself.
Po. And let me die if I don't put him down in my Book so too.
Br. And besides that, I'll set him in Gold in my little Chapel, among the choicest of my Saints.
Po. And if I had a Fortune to my Mind, I'd have him in Diamonds.
Br. He shall stand in my Library, the very next to St. Jerome.
Po. And I'll have him in mine too.
Br. If they were grateful, every one who loves Learning and Languages, especially, the holy Tongues, would do so too.
Po. Truly it is no more than he deserves. But han't you some Scruple upon your Mind, in as much as he is not yet canoniz'd by the Authority of the Bishop of Rome?
Br. Why, pray, who canoniz'd (for that's the Word) St. Jerome? Who canoniz'd St. Paul, or the Virgin Mary? Pray tell me whose Memory is most sacred among all good Men? Those that by their eminent Piety, and the Monuments of their Learning and good Life, have entitled themselves to the Veneration of all Men; or Catherine of Sien, that was sainted by Pius the Second, in favour of the Order and the City?
Po. You say true: That's the right Worship, that by the Will of Heaven, is paid to the Merits of the Dead, whose Benefits are always sensibly felt.
Br. And can you then deplore the Death of this Man? If long Life be a Blessing, he enjoyed it. He has left behind him immortal Monuments of his Vertue, and by his good Works, consecrated his Name to Immortality. He is now in Heaven, out of the Reach of Misfortunes, conversing with St. Jerome himself.
Po. But he suffer'd a great Deal tho' in his Life.
Br. But yet St. Jerome suffered more. It is a Blessing to be persecuted by wicked Men for being good.
Po. I confess so, and St. Jerome suffer'd many unworthy Things from the worst of Men, for the best of Deeds.
Br. That which Satan did formerly by the Scribes and Pharisees against the Lord Jesus, he continues still to do by Pharisaical Men, against good Men, who have deserved well from the World by their Studies. He now reaps the blessed Harvest of the Seed he has been sowing. In the mean Time, it will be our Duty, to preserve his Memory sacred; to honour his Name, and to address him often in some such Manner as follows. O holy Soul, be thou propitious to Languages, and to those that cultivate them: Favour the holy Tongues, and destroy evil Tongues that are infected with the Poison of Hell.
Po. I'll do't myself, and earnestly persuade all my Friends to do it. I make no Question but there will be those that will desire to have some little Form of Prayer, according to Custom, to celebrate the Memory of this most holy Hero.
Br. Do you mean that which they call a Collect?
Po. Yes.
Br. I have one ready, that I provided before his Death.
Po. I pray let's hear it.
Br. O God, that art the Lover of Mankind, that hast by thy chosen Servant John Reuclin, renew'd to Mankind the Gift of Tongues, by which thy holy Spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy Apostles for their Preaching the Gospel; grant that all thy People may every where, in all Languages, preach the Glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the confounding of the Tongues of false Apostles; who being in a Confederacy to uphold the impious Tower of Babel, endeavour to obscure thy Glory, and to advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only Son Jesus Christ our Lord, and the holy Spirit, is due all Glory to eternal Ages. Amen.
Po. A most elegant and holy Prayer. As I live, it shall be mine daily. And I account this a happy Opportunity, that has brought me to the Knowledge of so joyful a Story.
Br. Mayst thou long enjoy that Comfort, and so farewell.
Po. Fare you well too.
Br. I will fare well, but not be a Cook.
A LOVER AND MAIDEN
The ARGUMENT
This Colloquy presents you with a very chaste Wooing, mingling many philosophical Notions with pleasant Jokes. Of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for the Sake of the outward Person, but the inward Endowments of the Mind; of the Firmness of Wedlock; of not contracting Matrimony without the Consent of Parents; of living chastly in Matrimony; of bringing up Children piously; that the Soul is not where it animates, but where it loves. The Description of a deformed Man. That Wedlock is to be preferr'd before a single Life, and is not, as it is vulgarly called, a Halter. That we must not consult our Affections so much as Reason.
PAMPHILUS and MARY.
PA. Good Morrow, Madam, cruel, hard Heart, inflexible.
Ma. Good Morrow to you too, Mr. Pamphilus, as often, and as much, and by what Names you please: But you seem to have forgotten my Name, 'tis Mary.
Pa. It should rather have been Martia.
Ma. Why so, pray, what is Mars to me?
Pa. Because just as Mars makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you.
Ma. Say you so! pray where's the great Slaughter of Men that I have made? Where's the Blood of the Slain?
Pa. You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon me.
Ma. What strange Story is this? Does a dead Man talk and walk? I wish I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are.
Pa. Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast. For now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death.
Ma. Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the Sight of thee?
Pa. My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost.
Ma. Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe Cherry, or purple Grape.
Pa. You coquet it with my Misery.
Ma. If you can't believe me, look in the Glass.
Pa. I would never desire a better Glass, nor do I believe there is a better in the World than I am a looking in already.
Ma. What Looking-Glass do you mean?
Pa. Your Eyes.
Ma. You Banterer! that's like you. But how do you prove yourself to be dead? Do dead Folks eat?
Pa. Yes, they do; but Things that have no Relish, as I do.
Ma. What do they feed upon?
Pa. Mallows, Leeks, and Lupines.
Ma. But you feed upon Capons and Partridges.
Pa. If I do, I relish them no more than Beets without Pepper or Vinegar.
Ma. Poor Creature! but yet you're in pretty good Case, for all that. And do dead Folks talk too?
Pa. Just as I do, with a weak Voice.
Ma. But when I heard you rallying your Rival a little While ago, your Voice was not very low then. But, prithee, do Ghosts walk, wear Cloaths, and sleep?
Pa. Yes, and enjoy one another too, after their Manner.
Ma. Thou art a merry Fellow.
Pa. But what will you say, if I prove it by undeniable Arguments, that I am dead, and that you have kill'd me too.
Ma. God forbid, Pamphilus; but let's hear your Arguments, however.
Pa. In the first Place, I think you will grant me this, that Death is only a Separation of Soul and Body.
Ma. I grant it.
Pa. But you must grant it so as not to eat your Words.
Ma. No, I will not.
Pa. You will not deny, I suppose, that the Person that takes away another's Life, is a Murtherer.
Ma. I grant that too.
Pa. I suppose you will grant that which has been allow'd by the greatest Men of many Ages, that the Soul of a Man is not really where it animates, but where it loves.
Ma. Make that a little plainer, I can't well understand it then.
Pa. You might as well bid me make an Adamant sensible of it.
Ma. I am a Maid, not a Stone.
Pa. Tis true, but harder than an Adamant Stone.
Ma. Go on with your Inferences.
Pa. Those that are in a Trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel, if you kill them outright.
Ma. Indeed I have heard so.
Pa. What do you think is the Reason?
Ma. Do you, Philosopher, tell that.
Pa. Because their Mind is in Heaven, where it enjoys what it dearly loves; and therefore is absent from the Body.
Ma. Well, what then?
Pa. What then, hard-hearted Creature? Then it follows, that I am dead, and you have killed me.
Ma. Where is your Soul then?
Pa. Where it loves.
Ma. Who took this Soul of yours away? What do you Sigh for? Tell me freely: There's no Hurt in it.
Pa. A cruel Maid, that I could not be angry with if she kill'd me outright.
Ma. You're very good-humour'd; but why don't you take her Soul from her too, and pay her in her own Coin, according to the old Proverb.
Pa. I should be the happiest Man in the World, if I could make that Exchange, that her Heart would pass as wholly into my Breast, as mine has into hers.
Ma. But may I play the Sophister with you now?
Pa. The Sophistress.
Ma. Can one and the same Body be both alive and dead?
Pa. Not at the same Time.
Ma. Is the Body dead, when the Soul is out of it?
Pa. Yes.
Ma. Nor does it animate it, but when it is in it?
Pa. No, it does not.
Ma. How comes it to pass then, that when it is there where it loves, it yet animates the Body it is gone out of? And if it animates when it loves any where, how is that called a dead Body which it animates?
Pa. Indeed, you argue very cunningly, but you shan't catch me there. That Soul, which after some Sort governs the Body of the Lover, is but improperly call'd a Soul, when it is but some small Remains of the Soul; just as the Smell of a Rose remains in the Hand, when the Rose is gone.
Ma. I see it is a hard Matter to catch a Fox in a Trap. But answer me this Question, does not the Person that kills, act?
Pa. Yes.
Ma. And does not he suffer who is kill'd?
Pa. Yes.
Ma. And how comes it about then, that when he that loves, acts, and she that is lov'd, suffers, she that is lov'd should be said to kill, when he that loves, rather kills himself?
Pa. Nay, on the Contrary, 'tis he that loves that suffers, and she is lov'd, that acts.
Ma. You will never prove that by all your Grammar.
Pa. Well, I'll prove it by Logic then.
Ma. But do so much as answer me this one Question, do you love voluntarily, or against your Will?
Pa. Voluntarily.
Ma. Then since a Person is at Liberty, whether he will love or no; he that does love, is guilty of Felo de se, and accuses a Maid wrongfully.
Pa. A Maid does not kill in being lov'd, but in not loving again. He is guilty of killing, that can save and don't save.
Ma. What if a young Man should fall into an unlawful Love, as suppose with another Man's Wife, or a Vestal Virgin? Must she love him again, to save the Lover?
Pa. But the young Man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to love, and by Right and good Reason, and yet am murthered. If Murther be a light Matter, I could indict you for Witchcraft too.
Ma. God forbid, do you make a Circe of me?
Pa. You are more barbarous than Circe herself, I had rather be a Hog or a Bear, than as I now am, half dead.
Ma. By what Sort of Enchantments do I kill Men?
Pa. By the Witchcraft of your Eyes.
Ma. Would you have me take my noxious Eyes off of you then.
Pa. No, by no Means, rather look more upon me.
Ma. If my Eyes are so infectious, how comes it about they don't throw others I look upon into a Consumption too? I therefore rather believe the Infection is in your own Eyes than mine.
Pa. Is it not enough for you to kill poor Pamphilus, but you must insult him too.
Ma. O pretty dead Creature! but when must I come to your Funeral?
Pa. Sooner than you think for, if you don't relieve me.
Ma. Can I perform such a wonderful Cure?
Pa. You can raise a dead Man to Life again with the greatest Ease imaginable.
Ma. Ay, if I had the Grand-Elixir.
Pa. You have no Need of any Medicine, do but love me again. And what's easier than that? Nay, what's more just? You can no other Way in the World get clear of the Crime of Murther.
Ma. In what Court must I be try'd? In the Court of Chancery?
Pa. No, in the Court of Venus.
Ma. They say, she is a very merciful Goddess.
Pa. Nay, the most severe in the World.
Ma. Has she any Thunderbolts?
Pa. No.
Ma. Has she got a Trident?
Pa. No.
Ma. Has she got a Spear?
Pa. No; but she is the Goddess of the Sea.
Ma. But I don't go to Sea.
Pa. But she has a Son.
Ma. Youth is not very formidable.
Pa. But he is very revengeful and resolute.
Ma. What will he do to me?
Pa. What will he do? That which I can't wish to be done to one I wish so well to. God forbid I should.
Ma. Tell me what it is, for I an't afraid to hear it.
Pa. Well, I'll tell you then; if you slight me that love you, and am no Way unworthy of your Love; I shall be much mistaken if he don't by his Mother's Order shoot you with a venomous Dart, and make you fall deeply in Love with some sorry Fellow or other, that would not love you again.
Ma. That's a most horrid Punishment indeed. I had rather die a thousand Deaths than to be so bitterly in Love with an ugly Man, and one that won't love me neither.
Pa. But we had a notable Example of this not long since upon a certain Maid.
Ma. Where did she live?
Pa. At Orleans.
Ma. How many Years ago was it?
Pa. How many Years! not ten Months.
Ma. What was her Name? What do you stick at?
Pa. Nothing at all. I know her as well as I know you.
Ma. Why don't you tell me her Name then?
Pa. Because I am afraid it is ominous. I wish she had been of some other Name. She was your own Namesake.
Ma. Who was her Father?
Pa. Her Father is alive at this Time, and is a topping Lawyer, and a rich Man.
Ma. Tell me his Name.
Pa. Mauritius.
Ma. His Sirname.
Pa. Aglaius.
Ma. Is her Mother alive?
Pa. No, she died lately.
Ma. What did she die of, say you?
Pa. Why of Grief, and it had like to have cost her Father his Life too, for all he was a Man of a strong Constitution.
Ma. Mayn't a Body know her Mother's Name.
Pa. Yes, Sophrona, every Body knows her Name. What do you mean by that Question? Do you think I invent a Lye?
Ma. Why should I think so of you? Our Sex is most to be suspected for that. But tell me what became of the Maid?
Pa. The Maid, as I told you before, came of very honest Parents, had a good Fortune, was very handsome, and in few Words, was a Match for a Prince; a certain Gentleman of an equal Fortune courted her.
Ma. What was his Name?
Pa. Ah me, I can't bear the Thoughts of it, his Name was Pamphilus as well as mine. He try'd all the Ways in the World to gain her good Will; but she slighted all his Offers. The young Man pines away with Grief. Presently after she fell deep in Love with one more like an Ape than a Man.
Ma. How!
Pa. Ay, so wretchedly in Love, that 'tis impossible to relate it.
Ma. Such a pretty Maid to fall in Love with such an ugly Fellow?
Pa. Ay, with a long-visag'd, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-ey'd, snub-nos'd, wide-mouth'd, rotton-tooth'd, stuttering, scabby-bearded, hump-back'd, gor-belly'd, bandy-legg'd Fellow.
Ma. You tell me of a mere Thersites.
Pa. Nay, they said he had but one Ear, neither.
Ma. It may be he had lost the other in the War.
Pa. No, he lost it in Peace.
Ma. Who dar'd to cut it off?
Pa. Jack Ketch.
Ma. It may be his Riches made Amends.
Pa. Over Head and Ears in Debt. And with this Husband this charming Girl now spends her Days, and is now and then drubb'd into the Bargain.
Ma. That is a miserable Story indeed.
Pa. But it is a true one. It is a just Retaliation upon her, for slighting the young Gentleman.
Ma. I should rather chuse to be thunder-struck than ty'd to endure such a Husband.
Pa. Then don't provoke Justice, but love him that loves you.
Ma. Well, if that will do, I do love you again.
Pa. Ay, But I would have that Love constant as mine own. I court a Wife, not a Mistress.
Ma. I suppose so, but yet we ought to be very deliberate in that which being once done, can never be undone again.
Pa. I have been deliberating too long already.
Ma. Love is none of the best Advisers; see that he han't impos'd upon you, for they say he is blind.
Pa. But that Love has Eyes in his Head, that proceeds from Judgment; you don't appear so amiable, only because I love you, but you are really so, and therefore I love you.
Ma. But perhaps you don't know me thoroughly. When once a Shoe is on, then you'll know where it pinches.
Pa. I'll venture it, but I gather from many Conjectures, that it will be happy for me.
Ma. What, are you an Augur then?
Pa. Yes, I am.
Ma. Pray by what Auguries do you prognosticate all this? What, hath the Night Owl appear'd luckily?
Pa. She flies for Fools.
Ma. Did you see a pair of Pigeons on your right Hand?
Pa. Nothing of all this. But have for some Years been satisfy'd of the Honesty of your Father and Mother; and in the first Place, that's no bad Sign. Nor am I ignorant how modestly and religiously you have been brought up by them, and it is a greater Advantage to be honestly educated, than honourably born. And then there's another good Circumstance besides, that as my Parents are none of the worst, so yours and mine have been very intimate for many Years, and you and I have known one another from our very Childhood, as they use to say; and besides all this, our Humours agree very well together. Our Age, Fortunes, Quality, and Parentage are pretty equal. And last of all, that which is the chief Thing in Friendship, your Temper seems to agree very well with mine. There are some Things that may be very good in themselves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my Temper may be to yours, I don't know. These are the Auguries, my Dear, that make me prognosticate that a Marriage between you and me would be happy, lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a Denial.
Ma. What would you have me say?
Pa. I will sing I am thine first, and you shall sing I am thine after me.
Ma. That indeed is but a short Song, but it has a long Chorus.
Pa. What signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one.
Ma. I have that Respect for you, I would not have you do what you should repent of when done.
Pa. Leave off teasing me.
Ma. Perhaps I shall not appear so amiable in your Eye, when Age or Sickness have spoil'd my Beauty.
Pa. No more, my Dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I don't only look at that blooming, lovely Body of yours, but it is your Guest within it I am most in Love with.
Ma. What Guest do you mean?
Pa. This Soul of yours, whose Beauty will grow as Years increase.
Ma. In Truth you have a very penetrating Sight, if you can see that through so many Coverings.
Pa. It is with the Eyes of my Mind that I see your Mind, and then besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our Age by our Children.
Ma. But then I shall lose my Maidenhead.
Pa. Right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine Orchard, would you rather chuse never to have nothing but Blossoms on the Trees; or would you rather, that the Blossoms should fall off, and see the Boughs laden with ripe Apples?
Ma. Oh, how cunningly you can argue!
Pa. Answer me but this one Question, which is the finest Sight, a Vine lying along upon the Ground and rotting, or twining round a Stake or an Elm-Tree, loaden with ripe Grapes of a curious purple Colour?
Ma. And pray do you answer me this Question; which is the most pleasant Sight, a Rose fresh and fair upon the Tree, or one gathered and withering in the Hand?
Pa. I look upon that the happier Rose that dies in a Man's Hand; there delighting the Sight and Smell, than that which withers away upon the Bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. As that Wine has the most Honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: Though this is to be said, that the Flower of a Maid does not presently fade, as soon as she is married: Nay, I have seen a great many, that before Marriage look'd pale and languid, and just as if they were dropping into the Ground: but having been in the Embraces of a Husband, they have brightened up, just as if they just then began to bloom.
Ma. But for all that, a Maidenhead is accounted a fine Thing.
Pa. A young Virgin is indeed a pretty Thing: But what's more monstrous than an old Maid? If your Mother had not shed that Blossom, we should never have had this fine Flower, yourself. And if we don't make a barren Match, as I hope we shan't, there will be never a Maid the less for us.
