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by the vered
e, or ental
tains a reflex or shadow of himself. Nor is it strange that we should place affection on that which is invisible: all that we truly love is thus; what we adore under affection of our senses, deserves not the honour of so pure a title. Thus we adore virtue, though to the eyes of sense she be invisible: thus that
of noble friends that we love, is not that part that we embrace, but that sensible part that our arms cannot embrace. God being all goodness, can love nothing but himself, and the traduction of his holy Spirit. Let us call to assize the loves of our parents, the affection of our wives and children, and they are all dum shows and dreams, without reality, truth, or constancy: for first there is a strong bond of affection between us and our parents; yet how easily dissolved ? we betake ourselves to a woman, forget our mother in a wife, and the womb that bare us, in that that shall bear our image: this woman blessing us with children, our affection leaves the level it held before, and sinks from our bed unto our issue and picture of posterity, where affection holds no steady mansion. They, growing up in years, desire our ends; or applying themselves to a woman, take a lawful way to love another better than ourselves. Thus I perceive a man may be buried alive, and behold his grave in his own issue.
XV. I conclude therefore and say, there is no
happiness under (or, as Copernicus will have it,) above the sun, nor any cram in that repeated verity and burthen of all the wisdom of Solomon, All is vanity and vexation of spirit; there is no felicity in that the world adores. Aristotle whilst he labours to refute the ideas of Plato, falls upon one himself: for his summum bonum is a chimera, and there is no such thing as felicity. That wherein God himself is happy, the holy angels are happy, in whose defect the devils are unhappy; that dare I call happiness : whatsoever conduceth unto this, may with an easy metaphor, deserve that name ; whatsoever else the world terms happiness, is to me a story out of Pliny; an apparition, or neat delusion, wherein there is no more of happiness, than the name. Bless me in this life with but peace of my conscience, command of my affections, the love of thyself and my dearest friends, and I shall be happy enough to pity Cæsar. These are, O Lord, the humble desires of my most reasonable ambition, and all I dare call happiness on earth, wherein I set no rule or limit to thy hand of providence : dispose of me according to the wisdom of thy pleasure : thy will be done, though in my own undoing.
H. COOKE, PRINTER, HIGH-STREET.