The dutiful ADVICE of a loving SON To his aged FATHER. LONDON: Printed for Benjamin Fisher, dwelling in Aldersgate-street at the Talbot. 1632. THE DUTIFUL ADVICE OF A LOVING SON TO HIS AGED FATER. SIR, I Humbly beseech you, both in respect of the honour of God, your duty to his Church, and the comfort of you● own soul, that you seriously consider in what terms you stand; and weigh yourself in a Christian Balance, taking for your counterpoise the judgements of God: Take heed in time tha● the word Tekall written of old against Balthasar, and interpreted by Daniel, be not verified in you, whose exposition was, You have been poised in the scale, and found of too lightweight. Remember, that you are now in the weining, and the date of your pilgrimage well nigh expired, and now th●● it behoveth you ●● look towards yo●● Country, your fo●●ces languisheth, yo●● senses impair, yo●● body droops, and 〈◊〉 every side the ●●●nous Cottage 〈◊〉 your faint, & feebl● flesh threateneth fall. And having many harbingers death to premonitor you of your end, how can you but prepare for so dreadful a stranger. The young man may die quickly, but the old cannot live long: the young man's life by casualty may be abridged, but the old man's by no Physic can be long adjourned, and therefore if green years should sometimes thinks of the grave, th● thoughts of old ag● should continually dwell in the same. The prerogative of Infancy is innocence; of Childhood, reverence of Manhood, maturity; and of old age, wisdom. And seeing then that the chiefest properties of wisdom are to be mindful of things past, careful for things present, and provident for things to come; Use you now the privilege of nature's talent to the benefit of your own soul, and procure hereafter to be wise in welldoing, and watchful in the foresight of future harms To serve the wo●● you are now unable and though y●● were able, yet y●● have little cause 〈◊〉 be willing, seei●● that it never ga●● you but an unhappy welcome, a hurtful entertainment, an● now doth abandon you with an unfo●●tunate farewell. You have long sowed in a field of flint, which could bring you nothing forth but a crop of cares, and afflictions of spirit; rewarding your labours with remorse, and affording for your gain, eternal danger. It is now more than a seasonable time to alter the course of so unth●●●ving a husbandry and to enter into t●● field of God's chur●● in which, sowi●● the seed of repenta●●● sorrow, and wagstring them with 〈◊〉 tears of humb●● contrition, you ma● hereafter reap a more beneficial ha●●●vest, and gather th● fruits of everlasting comfort. Remember, I pray you, that your spring is spent, your summer overpast, you are now arrived at the fall of the leaf, yea, and winter colours have long since stained your hoary head. Be not careless, (saith Saint Augustin) though our loving Lord bear long with offenders; for 〈◊〉 longer he stays, 〈◊〉 finding amendment the soarer he 〈◊〉 scourge when 〈◊〉 comes to judgement: And his p●●●tience in so long forbearing, is only 〈◊〉 lend us respite to ●●●pent, and not a●● wise to enlarge ●● leisure to sin. He that is to 〈…〉 with variety of storms, and cannot come to his desired port, maketh not much way; but is much turmoiled; So he that hath passed many years, and purchased little profit, hath had a long being, but a short life; For, life is more to be measured by well doing, than by number of ye●●● Seeing that 〈◊〉 men by many 〈◊〉 do but procure ●●●ny deaths, & o 〈…〉 in short space 〈◊〉 to the life of inf 〈…〉 ages; what is 〈◊〉 body without 〈◊〉 soul, but a co 〈…〉 carcase▪ And 〈◊〉 is the soul with●●● God, but a sepul●●●● of sin? If God be the way, the life, and the truth; he that goeth without him, strayeth; and he that liveth without him, dyeth; and he that is not taught by him, erreth. Well (saith Saint Augustine) God is our true, & chiefest life, from whom to revolt, is to fall; to whom to return to rise, and in wh●●● to stay, is to sta●● sure. God is he fro● whom to depart 〈◊〉 to dye; to whom 〈◊〉 repair, is to reviv● and in whom 〈◊〉 dwell, is life for ever▪ Be not then of 〈◊〉 number of the●● that begin not 〈◊〉 live, till they be r●●●dy to dye: and then, after a foes desert, come to crave of God a friend's entertainment. Some there be that think to snatch heaven in a moment, which the best can scarce attain unto in the maintenance of many years, and when they have glutted themselves with worldly ●●●lights, would j 〈…〉 from Dives diet, 〈◊〉 Lazarus Crown●● from the service 〈◊〉 Satan, to the sol 〈…〉 of a Saint. But be you w●●● assured, that God not 〈◊〉 so penurions 〈◊〉 friends, as to h●● himself and 〈◊〉 kingdom scaleab●● for the refuse a●● reversions of their ●ives, who have sacrificed the principal thereof to his enemy's, and their twne brutish lust; ●hen only ceasing 〈◊〉 offend, when the ability of offending 〈◊〉 taken from them. True it is, that a ●hiefe may be saved ●pon the cross, and mercy found at the last gasp: But 〈◊〉 (saith Saint Aug 〈…〉 though it be p 〈…〉 ble, yet it is sc 〈…〉 credible, that 〈◊〉 death should 〈◊〉 favour, whose w 〈…〉 life deserved de●●● and that the rep●●●tance should be concepted, that 〈◊〉 for fear of hell, 〈◊〉 love of himself, 〈◊〉 for the love of 〈◊〉 and loathsomeness of sin cryeth for mercy. Wherefore, good Sir, make no longer delays; but being so near the breaking up of your mortal house, take time before extremity, to pacify God's anger. Though you suffered the bud to be blasted, though you permitted the 〈◊〉 to be perished, 〈◊〉 the leaves to dry 〈◊〉 yea, though you 〈◊〉 the boughs to ●●ther, and the bo 〈…〉 of your tree to gr●● to decay; yet (ala 〈…〉 keep life in the ro 〈…〉 for fear lest 〈◊〉 whole tree become fuel for hell fire▪ For surely where t●● tree falleth, there shall lie, whether towards the South, or to the North, to heaven, or to hell; and such sap as it bringeth forth, such fruit shall it ever bear. Death hath already filled from you the better part of your natural forces, and left you now to the Lees and remissals of your we 〈…〉 is and dying day▪ The remain 〈…〉 whereof as it can 〈…〉 be long, so doth warn you speed 〈…〉 to ransom your follmer losses; for wh●● is age, but the 〈…〉 lends of death, a●● what import●●● your present weak●●nesse, but a nearne 〈…〉 of your approaching dissolution, you are now embarked in your final voyage, and not far from the stint and period of your course. Be not therefore unprovided of such appurtenances as are behooveful in so perplexed and perilous a journey; death itself is very fearful, but much more terrible in respect 〈◊〉 the judgement i● summoneth us un●to. If you were no● laid upon your departing bed, burdened with the heavin load of your forme● trespasses, and gore● with the sting and prick of a festered Conscience; if yo● felt the cramp of death wresting your heartstrings, and ready to make the rueful divorce between body and soul: If you lay panting for breath, and swimming in a cold and pale sweat wearied with struggling against your deadly pangs, O what would you give for an hour's repentance; at w●●● rate would you 〈…〉 lieu a day's contri●●●on: Then wor〈…〉 would be woe 〈…〉 less in respect of little respite, a sh 〈…〉 truce would see 〈…〉 more precious t●●● the trersures of 〈◊〉 Empire, nothing would be so muc● esteemed as a sh 〈…〉 trice of time, whi●● now by days, and months; and years, is most lavishly misspent. Oh how deeply would it wound your woeful heart, when looking back into your former life, you considered many heinous, and horrible offences committed, many pious works, and godly deeds omitted, 〈◊〉 neither of both serpented, your ser 〈…〉 to God promis 〈…〉 and not perform 〈…〉 Oh how un 〈…〉 solably were 〈◊〉 case, your frie●● being fled, your ●●●●ses affrighted, y●●● thoughts ama●● your memory d●●cayed, and y●●● whole mind ag 〈…〉 and no part able to perform what it should; but only your guilty Conscience pestered with sin, that would continually upbraid you with many bitter accusations. Oh what would you think then, being stripped out of this mortal weed, and turned out both of service, and h〈…〉 room of this wic 〈…〉 world, you are 〈…〉 ced to enter into selcouth and stra●●● paths, and 〈◊〉 unknown and 〈…〉 lie company to 〈◊〉 convented befo●● most severe Iudg● carrying in y●●● conscience your ●●●ditement, writ●●● in a perfect Regist●● of all your misdeeds, when you shall see him prepared to give sentence upon you, against whom you have so often transgressed, and the same to be your Umpire, whom by so many offences you have made your enemies, when not only the Devil, but even the Angels would plead against you, and your ow●● self, in despite 〈◊〉 yourself, be y●●● own most shar●● appeacher. Oh what wou●● you do in th●● dreadful exige●● when you saw 〈◊〉 ghastly Dragon, a●● huge gulf of he●● breaking out wi●● most fearful flam●● when you heard the weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth; the rage of those hellish monsters, the horror of the place, the terror of the company, and the eternity of all those torments. Would you then think them wise that should delay in so weighty matters, and idly play a●●● the time allotted, 〈◊〉 prevent these intolerable calamitie●● Would you then c 〈…〉 it secure to nurse your bosoms many Serpent's sins? and to fo●●●● in your souls so ●●●ny malicious ace●●sors, as mortal 〈◊〉 horrible offence▪ Would you 〈◊〉 ●●●● ●hant, whose traffic is toil, whose wealth is trash, and whose gain is misery: what interest have you reaped, that might equal your detriment in grace and virtue? or what could you find in the vale of tears, that was answerable to the favour of God, with loss whereof, you 〈◊〉 contented to 〈◊〉 it. You cannot 〈◊〉 be inveigled 〈◊〉 the passions of yo●● which making a 〈…〉 tialitie of things, 〈◊〉 no distance betw●●● counterfeit and ●●rant, for these 〈◊〉 now worn out 〈…〉 force, by tract 〈◊〉 time are fallen i 〈…〉 reproof by trial of their folly. Oh let not the crazy cowardness of flesh and blood daunt the prowess of an intelligent person, who by his wisdom cannot but discern how much more cause there is, and how much more needful it is to serve God then this wic●●● world. But if it be 〈◊〉 ungrounded ●●●●sumption of 〈◊〉 mercy of God, 〈◊〉 the hope of his ●●●stance at the 〈◊〉 plunge (which misdeed is the ordi●●●ry lure of the div●●● to reclaim sin●●●● from the pursuit 〈◊〉 Repentance. Al●● ●hat is too palpable a collusion to misled a sound and serviceable man, howsoever it may prevail with sick and 〈◊〉 affected judgements: who would rely upon eternal affairs upon the gliding slipperness, and running streams of our uncertain life? who, but one of of distempered 〈◊〉 would offer 〈◊〉 to the decipher 〈…〉 all thoughts; 〈◊〉 whom dissembl 〈…〉 may to our cost 〈…〉 to deceive him impossible. Shall we estee● it cunning to r 〈…〉 the time from 〈◊〉 and bestow it o 〈…〉 enemy's, who 〈…〉 p tale of the 〈◊〉 minutes, and will examine in the end how every moment hath been employed. It is a preposterous kind of policy in any wise conceit to fight against God, till our weapons be blunted, our forces consumed, our limbs impotent, and our best time spent; & then when we fall for faintness and have fou●● ourselves alm●●● dead to presume 〈◊〉 his mercy. Oh! no, no, 〈◊〉 wounds of his m 〈…〉 sacred body so 〈◊〉 rubbed, and rent by your sins, 〈◊〉 every part and ●●●●cell of our bodies diverse, and sim●●●● ways abused, 〈◊〉 be then as so many wherstones & incentives to edge & exasperate his most just revenge against us. It is a strange piece of Art, and a very exorbitant course, when the ship is sound, the Pilot well, the Mariners strong, the gale favourable, & the Sea calm to lie idly at the road, burni●● so seasonable wreather; And when 〈◊〉 Ship leaketh, the ●●●lott sick, the ma●●●●ners faint, the sto 〈…〉 boisterous, and 〈◊〉 Seas a turmoil 〈…〉 outrageous surg 〈…〉 then to launch 〈◊〉 (hoist up sail) 〈◊〉 set out for a l●●● voyage into a 〈◊〉 Country. Yet such is the skill of these evening Repenters, who though in the soundness of their health, and perfect use of their reason; they cannot resolve to cut the Cables, & weigh the Anchor that withholds them from God. Nevertheless, they feed themselves with a strong perswas●●● that when they 〈◊〉 astonished, their 〈◊〉 distracted, the ●●●derstanding dus●● and the body's 〈◊〉 souls wracked, 〈◊〉 tormented with 〈◊〉 throbs, and grip●● a mortal sickn 〈…〉 then forsooth 〈◊〉 will begin to thy 〈…〉 of their weigh 〈…〉 matters, and bec●●● sudden Saints, when they are scarce able to behave themselves like reasonable creatures. No, no if neither the Cannon, Civil, nor the Common Law will allow that man (perished in judgement) should make any testament of his temporal substance, 〈…〉 owe 〈◊〉 he that is anima●●● with inward 〈◊〉 boyles of an u●●●led Conscience, ●●●●strained with 〈◊〉 ringing fits of 〈◊〉 dying flesh, may 〈…〉 in all his ability, 〈◊〉 circled in on ev●●● side with many 〈◊〉 strange incombar●●●ces be thought 〈…〉 due discretion to ●●●●spose of his chiefest jewel, which is his Soul, and to dispatch the whole manage of all eternity, and of the treasures of heaven in so short a spurt. No, no, they that will loiter in seede-time, and begin to sow when others reap; they that will riot out their health, and begin to 〈◊〉 their accounts 〈◊〉 they are scarce 〈◊〉 to speak. They 〈◊〉 will slumber 〈◊〉 the day, and 〈◊〉 their journey w●●●● the light doth 〈◊〉 them, let th●● blame their o●●● folly if they die 〈…〉 debt and ete●●●● beggars, and 〈◊〉 headlong into 〈◊〉 lap of endless perdition. Let such listen to Saint Cyprians lesson, Let, saith he, the grievousness of our sore be the measure of our sorrow; let a deep wound have a deep and diligent cure; Let no man's contrition be less than his crime. FINIS.