THE TABLE OF CEBES THE PHILOSOPHER.  
¶ How one may take profit of his enemies, translated out of plutarch.  
¶ A treatise persuading a man patiently to suffer the death of his friend.   

The Printer to the reader.  
THis table of Cebes, showing how mortal creatures, blinded by Ignorance, wander in this world, and can not attain to very felicity, for that they be misled by false opinions; and wrong weenynges: was translated out of latin into english by sir Frances Poyngz, at the request of his brother sir Antony Poyngz, which translation is worthy of high commendation. And if any fault be therein, I know well, it is mistaking, for my copy was somewhat cumbrous, what for the enterlining and ill writing.   

The table of Cebes.  
IT chanced us to walk in the Temple of Saturn, where among many other gifts and oblations, that we saw, a Table was hanged up, for an offering. In the which was a picture very strange, containing in it certain fables and stories. The which we could neither conject whereof they were, nor of what time they were. For that that was peincted, neither seemed to us to be a city, nor a fortress, but there was in it one great circle or compass, containing within it two other circles, the one more, and the other less. There was also a gate in the first circle, and in the gate there seemed to us a great company to stand: And within the closure there appeared a multitude of women. In the entering of the first poarche and circuit there stood an old man, which seemed as though he commanded somewhat to the company, that entered in.  
A fatherly man standing by us, and seeing us muse & doubt of this picture long time among ourselves, said unto us: You strangers, be not ashamed, though ye doubt what this picture is. For there be many, that dwell in this city, that wots full little what the invention of this Table betokeneth. For, for to say troth, none of this city offered it, but a certain stranger in time paste came hither, a wise man and a noble philosopher, following both in word and deed the life of Pythagoras and Parmenides: who did build this temple in the honour of Saturn, and also did offer up to the same this picture. Did you ever, said I, know that same man by sight? Yea, said he, and had him long time in great reverence. For all be it he was but young, yet did he debate, and dispute, many things cunningly. And I have heard him talking often of the invention of this picture. For God's sake than, quoth I, except ye have some other great business, declare it unto us. For we greatly covet to know, what this fable signifieth. With good will friends, quoth he, but ye must understand, that the declaration of it is perilous. How so quoth I? For, quoth he, if ye attentifly hearken and understand that that is said, ye shall be both wise and happy. If ye do not, ye shall be made both unwise, unhappy, heavy and rude, and lead all your life after miserably. For this tale is like the riddle of Spinx, that she purposed to folk: the which if any body understood, he was safe, if he understood it not, he was slain of Spinx. The same manner is in this tale. For folly is to men a Spinx. And she also purposeth to folk, what is good, what is ill, what is not good, what is not ill in this life. These things except a man understand, he is slain of folly: But not utterly, as he that is devoured of Spinx, but a little and a little in all the whole life is consumed, like as they that be delivered continually to be tormented. But if a man understand these things contrariwise, folly is lost, the man is saved and made blissful and happy all his life after. Wherefore attend ye diligently and myshere me not. O good lord, into what a greedy desire hast thou brought us, if those things be as thou sayest? And I (quoth he) ensure you they be so. Well thou shalt not prevent us in telling: For we will hearken diligently, seeing the penalty is such.  
He took then a rod, and pointed to the picture. See you not, quoth he, this circuit. We see it. This ye must first know, that this place is called life: And the great company, that standeth before the door, be those that shall enter into life. The old man, that standeth above, having in his one hand a paper, and with the other, as it were showing somewhat, is called Genius, He commandeth the entrers, what they must do, if they will be kept safe in the life. What way doth he bid them go, and how, ꝙ I? Seest thou not (quoth he) hard by the gate, a certain seat, set in the place, where the great company entereth: in the which there sitteth a woman goodly of manners, with a fair luring countenance, and having in her hand a cup? I see her, but what is she, quoth I? She is called deceit, quoth he, mysleader of all folk. Than what doth she? She compelleth them, that come into the life to drink as much of her cup as she can. What drink? It is, quoth he, error and ignorance. What than? When they have drunk that drink they enter into life. whether than do all folk drink error or no? All drink (quoth he) but some more, some less. Furthermore, seest thou not within the gate a great sort of women, having divers horishe tatches? I see them. Those be called opinions, desires, and lusts. As soon as the company entereth, those leap forth and embrace every one of them, and afterward convey them away. whither do they bring them? Some bring them, quoth he, to safeguard, and some to destruction by Deceit. O marvelous god, what a strange drink tellest thou of. But all these foresaid women, quoth he, do promise, as though they would lead the entrers to the best things, and also to a life happy, profitable, and commodious: the entrers then through the Ignorance and error, that they drunk by Deceit, can not find, which is the true way in the life, but wander unadvisedly: as thou seest them that came in first, the which seem to wander thither, as those women point them. I see that, quoth I, but that woman, what is she, the which seemeth as it were one blind and mad: and standeth upon a round stone? She is called, quoth he, Fortune she is not only blind, but also mad and deaf. What doth she? She walketh every where, quoth he, and from some she taketh richesse: to some other she giveth: and from them by and by she taketh again that, that she gave them before, and delivereth it to some other, both without cause, without advisement, & inconstantly. And therefore that token declareth well her nature. what token is that, quoth I, that she standeth upon a round stone? what betokeneth that? Marry that her geftes be both uncertain and unstable. Wherefore they that trust unto her, suffer sharp and grievous troubles. But what meaneth the great company that stand about her, and what be they called? Certainly they be called folk without judgement or consideration. For every one of them doth ask those things, that be both transitory and vanishing. Wherefore than do they not look all a like, but some of them do seem to rejoice, and some of them be sorrowful, heavy, and casting abroad their hands? Those which seem (quoth he) to rejoice and laugh, be of them, the which have received somewhat of Fortune, and those call her good Fortune: But those, which seem to weep and cast out their hands, be of them, from whom she hath taken that the which she gave them before: And those call her ill Fortune. What things be those than, the which she giveth them, seeing that the receivers rejoice so much in receiving of them, and the loasers do so much droop and mourn for the loss of them? Those things (quoth he) the which many folks call goods. Ye but which be they? Richesses, quoth he, and glory, and nobility, and children, and lordship, and kingdoms, and other such like. Why be not those things good in deed? As of that (quoth he) we shall dispute an other time: but now let us go forth with this tale. Be it so.  
¶ See ye not then, after ye have passed this gate, another higher compass, and women standing without the same circuit appointed like harlots? Ye very well. The one of those is called Incontinence, an other Riot, an other Covetise, an other Flattery. Why do they than stand here? They await duly upon them, the which have received any thing of Fortune. What than? Than they skip forth and embrace them, and flatter, and pray them to abide with them, seeing, that they so doing shall have a pleasant life without any labour, grief or trouble. Than if any of them be persuaded by those women to enter into pleasure, so long as that conversation tickleth and delighteth him, so long he shall think it sweet, but afterward it is not so. For as soon as he calleth himself home, he shall well perceive, that he hath not eaten pleasure, but that he hath been by pleasure both eaten and wronged. For when he hath consumed all that Fortune gave him, he is compelled to be those women's slave, and to suffer all things, and to be filthy, and for their sakes to leave none ungracious deed undone: As to take men's goods from them, to commit sacrilege, to forswear and perjure themself, to betray, to rob and rove, and to do all other such like mischievous deeds: But when all things do fail them, than are they delivered to pain and torment. What pain and torment is that?  
Seest thou not behind yonder women (quoth he) as it were a little mouth of a cave, and a certain straight and dark place: and also there seemeth to ve women foul and sluttish, and their clothes all bawdy, ragged, and beggarly? I see it well. Of these (ꝙ he) she that hath the whip in her hand, is called Punishment: She that hath her head between her knees, is Heaviness: she that plucketh her own hear, is Sorrow. But what misshapen, lean, and naked fellow is he, that standeth by them: and also an other fowl and lean woman like unto him? The man is called (quoth he) Wailing, and she his sister is called Sluggishness, or lack of courage. And so to those persons he is delivered, and with them he liveth in continual torment. Than again from hence he is thrown into an other house of evil hap: and there he passeth forth the rest of his life in all misery and wretchedness, except Repentance come to him from Fortune. Why, what shall she do? Marry if Repentance come to him, she delivereth him from all evils: and imprinteth in him, an other opinion and desire, that should lead him to true learning, and also to that, the which is called the untrue learning. Than what is done more? If he receive (quoth he) the opinion, the which guideth him to true learning, by that he is purged: and made safe and blessed, and shall be happy all his life after, except he be again deceived by false opinion. O good lord, what an other great peril is this? But what manner of thing, quoth I, is the untrue learning? Seest thou not yonder other Compass? Very well, quoth I. Also without the circuit about the entre, there standeth a woman, the which seemeth to be very net, and pure, and to be well mannered. I see her very well. Her (quoth he) many foolish folk call learning, but she is none other in deed, than untrue learning. And when they, that are wholly made safe, will advance themself to true learning, they come hither first. Is there than none other way but this, to come to true learning? Yes, quoth he. But those folks within the circuit that go downward, what be they? Those be, quoth he, the lovers of untrue learning, men deceived, and weening that they be very familiar with true learning. What be they called? Some poets, quoth he, some orators, some Logiciens, some Musiciens, some Arithmetriciens, some Geometriciens, some Astronomers, some of Epicures sect, some of the Peripatetic sect, some of the sect Critike, and all other such like. The women, the which seem to run about, like to those we saw first, among whom thou didst say, there was Incontinence, and other with than, what be they? The self same, quoth he. Why come they in hither then? yea by jupiter even hither: but that is seldom, and not as they do in the first compass. And what, be not those opinions likewise? yes, quoth he. Moreover there remaineth in these folk the draught that they drank of Deceit both Ignorance, and with her also foolishness: And they shall never be delivered of opinion, nor of other malice, till such time as they have forgotten the untrue learning, and be entered into the true way, and drink there a purging virtue, and cast away all the evils they had before, both opinions, Ignorance, and all other ungraciousness. Than under this fashion they shall be made whole. But these, the which remain still with false learning, shall never be quit of their naughtiness: nor they shall never be without some evil, for these study's sake. But which is this way, that leadeth a man to true learning? Seest thou, quoth he, yonder above, a place, in the which no body dwelleth, but it seemeth to be desert? I see it. Moreover there is a little gate, and a way before the gate, the which is not very much haunted, very few folk use it, for because it seemeth hard to climb to it: and it is both rough and stony? I see it very well, quoth I. There appeareth also a little high hill, and the ascending up is very straight, and hath deep pitchlinges here and there, where one may lightly fall down headlong. I see it. This is the way, quoth he, that leadeth unto true learning: and truly to look to, it seemeth an uneasy way. Seest thou not also above about the hill top a great high stone, very steep up on every side? I see it, quoth I. Seest thou also two goodly women standing upon the stone with good proportion of body, and how they put forth their hands ready and gladly? I see them, but how, quoth I, be they called? The one, quoth he is called Continence, the other Sufferance, they be sisters. Why put they out their hands so gladly? They do, quoth he, exhort the comers toward that place to trust, and not to fear, telling them they must take a little patience and suffer a little while more, and than they shall come into the good way. Tell me this, when they come to the stone, how get they up thereon, for I see no way, that bringeth them up? These women come down from the steep cliffs, and draw them up: and there they bid them rest: and within a while after they give them strength, courage, and boldness: and they promise to establish them in true learning: and they show them the way, how fair, plain, and passable it is, and pure and clean from all lets or stops, as thou seest. They show them in deed. Seest thou not also, quoth he, before this same wood a certain place, the which seemeth to be very fair, somewhat like a meadow, and shining with much light and brightness? Very well doest thou also take heed in the mids of the meadow of an other compass, and an other gate? It is so, but what is this place called? The habitation of blessed folk (quoth he.) For here dwell all virtues and felicity. It must needs than be a fair place, quoth I Than thou seest at the gate a certain woman, the which is very fair, and of a constant face and behaviour, in her middle and lusly age, and having her apparel and garments simple: She standeth not upon a round stone, but on a square, surely set and fixed: and with her there be two other, they seem to be her daughters? It appeareth so. Of these, the myddelmoste is Learning, the other Troth, the other persuasion. But why standeth this woman upon a square stone? It is a token, quoth he, that the way, that leadeth folk to her, is to them both firm and sure: and the gift of those things, that she giveth, is to the receivers sure and stable. And what things be they, that she giveth? Boldness and assuredness without fear, quoth he. what be they? Knowledge, quoth he, to suffer nothing grievously in this life. By God, quoth I, these be goodly gifts: But why standeth she so without the compass? To the intent, quoth he, she may heal those, the which come thither, and maketh them to drink a pourgation. When they be purged, from thence she bringeth them into the virtues. How is this, quoth I? I understand it not well yet. But thou shalt understand it, quoth he. In likewise as if a man, the which is very sick, cometh to a physician, the physician doth first by purgation expel all those things, that caused the sickness: And so after restoreth the patient to his recovery and health again. If the patient do not obey to those things, the which the physician commandeth he should, not without a cause he is cast up of the physician, and undone by the sickness. This I understand (quoth I.) Even in the same manner, quoth he, it is, when a man cometh to Learning, she cureth him, and maketh him drink her virtue, first to purge him, and to cast away all the evils, the which he had, when he came to her. What be those? Ignorance and Error, the which he drank of Deceit, and pride also and arrogance, concupiscence, intemperance, fury, covetousness, and all other, with which he was replenished in the first compass. Then when he is purged, whither doth she send him? In (quoth he) to knowledge, and to other virtues. To what virtues? doest thou not see (quoth he) within the gate, a company of women, the which seem to be of good disposition and well ordered, having their apparel not gay, but simple, nor they be not so trim, nor so pickedly attired, as the other be? I see them (quoth I) but what be they called? The first (quoth he) is called Knowledge, the other be her sisters, Strength of mind, justice, Goodness, Temperance, So bernesse, liberality, Continence, and meekness. O these be marvelous goodly, quoth I, In how great an hope be we now? yea if ye understand, quoth he, and will root in you by practise those things, the which you hear. we shall assay as diligently as we can, quoth I Than you shall be safe, quoth he.  
When these women have received one, whither do they bring him? To their mother, quoth he. Who is she? felicity, quoth he. Who is that? Thou seest the way, that goeth up to that high place, the which is the top of all the other compasses. I see it. There is also in the porch a woman of a good grace and favour, and sitteth in an high throne, dressed gentle womanlike, and not to trim, coroned with a very fair and flourishing garland? She seemeth to be so. The same is felicity, quoth he. When one cometh thither, what doth he there? felicity, quoth he, with her power crowneth him, and so do all the other virtues likewise, as a man the which hath overcome marvelous great battles. What battles hath he overcome, quoth I? Very great, quoth he, and great wild beasts, the which afore did devour and vex him, and made him their slave, all these hath he overcome, and expelled from him: and now he is lord over himself. Wherefore now they serve him: as he did them before. I would gladly know, which be those wild beasts thou speakest of? First, quoth he, Ignorance and Deceit, do not these seem to thee wild beasts? ye and very ill wild beasts (quoth I.) Secondly, Sorrow, wailing, covetousness, Intemperance, and all other mischief: all those he doth now rule, and is not governed nor commanded by them, as he was before. O (quoth I) these be goodly acts and deeds, and a victory most goodly: but tell me this, what is the power and virtue of the corone, with the which she coroneth him? It is, young man, a virtue and a might, that maketh a man welfull. For he that is coroned with this power and virtue, is made thereby happy and welfull, and hath not the trust nor hope of his felicity in other things, than in himself. O what a goodly victory tellest thou. But when he is coroned, what doth he, or whither goeth he? The virtues take him, and lead him thither, whence he came before, and show him how evil and how wretchedly they live, the which dwell still there, and in what great danger and peril they live, and how they err and wander, and are led, as it were by their enemies: Some by Intemperance, some by Pride, some by covetousness, some by vainglory, and some by other evils, from the which mischiefs, to whom they were bound, they can not unlose themself, to come hither to be made whole: but live in trouble all their life: This they suffer, because they can not find the way, that would bring them hither. For they have forgotten that that was commanded them by Genius.  
Me seemeth thou sayest troth, but yet in this I doubt again. Why do the virtues show him the place, from whence he came first? He did not thoroughly know (quoth he) nor understood any of those things, that were there, but he was in doubt. And through Ignorance and Error, that he drank, he esteemed those things to be good, which were not good: and those things, to be evil, which be not evil: And therefore he himself lived naughtily, as the other do, that there dwell and abide. Now he hath attained knowledge of all profitable things, he himself liveth well, and doth behold other, the which live evil. When he hath looked over all, what doth he, or whither goeth he? Whither so ever he will (quoth he.) For every where he is in surety, as he that dwelleth in the den of Corycus. And whither so ever he goeth, in all things he shall live well, with all surety. And every body shall receive him gladly, as the sick folks do the physician. But doth not he yet fear those women, the which thou didst call beasts, lest he should suffer somewhat of them? Nothing at all. He nothing shall be troubled with Sorrow, nor with Heaviness, nor with Intemperance, nor with Covetise, nor with poverty, nor with any other evil. For he shall be lord over them all: and be safe from all those things, the which before did hurt or trouble him, as they be, that are bitten with a serpent called Vipera. For without doubt wild beasts, the which hurt all other folk to the death, will not hurt nor trouble them, for because they have by this biting a remedy to resist all other: So in like wise nothing troubleth this man, because he hath a remedy present. Me seemeth thou sayest very well: but yet tell me this, what be they, the which seem to come yonder from the hill? Of the which these that be crowned, seem to rejoice and be merry: and those that be uncrouned, as it were men in despair, seem to knock their heads and legs: they are also withholden by certain women. Those that be crowned be they, the which are made safe by learning, and they rejoice, that they have attained her: But those that be uncrouned are they, which because they did despair, came away from learning, made thereby evil and wretched. but yet those without fear went to Sufferance, and thence turned back again, and erred, and missed the way. But the women that follow after them, what be they? heaviness, quoth he, and Sorrows, and Vexations, and Shames, and Ignorancies. And it be, as thou sayst, all the evils in the world follow them. It is true by jupiter (quoth he) that they follow them. When these folk are come again to the first compass, to Lust and Incontinence, they do not accuse themself, but straight they speak evil both of Learning, and also of them that go to her: saying, that those are wretched, miserable, and unhappy, the which leaving the life that they have, do live evil, and have not the fruition nor use of those good things, that they have. What do they call good things? Riot and intemperance to speak shortly. For, for to eat and drink like beasts, they esteem to be the fruition of the best things in this world. But the other women, the which go thither merry and laughing, what be they called? Opinions (quoth he) the which after they have brought folk to Learning, and that they be gone into the virtues, they go their ways to fetch other, and to show, that those are made happy and welfull, the which they brought before. But do not, quoth I, those opinions come in to the virtues? No (quoth he.) For Opinion may not come in to knowledge: but Opinions deliver them that come unto Learning. And when Learning hath once received them, then do these opinions go back again to fetch other, like as ships that are discharged of their frought go again and are filled with other stuff. These things me seemeth (quoth I) thou hast very well exponed: but yet thou haste not declared unto us, what Genius doth command thentrers into life to do. To trust well and have good courage (quoth he) and therefore have ye good courage. For I will expone all, and leave nothing. Thou sayeh well (quoth I.)  
¶ Then he put forth his hand again. Ye see (quoth he) the woman, which seemeth to be blind, and to stand upon a round stone, The which I told you even now, is called Fortune? We see her. Genius commandeth, quoth he, that folk should not trust this woman, nor believe that any thing, that a body doth receive of her, is either firm and stable, or may have and keep it sure and safely: nor to esteem it as his own. For nothing can let her to take away those things again, and to deliver them to some other body: And she is wont often so to do. And for this cause Genius doth command, that her gifts should be little set by: And neither to rejoice, when she giveth them: nor to be sorry, when she taketh them away: and neither to dispraise nor to praise her. For she doth nothing by reason, but all things rashly without advisement, and as it happeneth, as I have told you before. For these considerations he commandeth, that folk should not esteem, nor have in admiration that, the which she doth. Nor to be like the evil merchants bankers. For they, when they have received money of a man, do rejoice, and think it is their own: but when it is asked them again, they are miscontent, and think they be evil handled, and do not remember, that they did receive, that that was trust in their hands, for this intent, that when so ever the owner list, there should be none obstacle, but that he might take it away again. Under such manner Genius commandeth folk not to be affectionate to Fortune's geftes, and to remember, that she hath such a nature to take away and to transfer those things she gave, and by and by again to give manifold things. Sometime also she doth not only take away those things she gave alone, but also those things that were had before. Therefore Genius commandeth to take of those things she giveth, and he that hath them to go his way shortly to the farm and sure gefte. What gefte is that, (quoth I?) The gefte that folk take of Learning, if they be made whole there. Yea and what is that? The true knowledge (quoth he) of profitable things, both a sure, and a stable, and an immutable gefte. Moreover he commandeth to flee fast toward this knowledge. And when they come to those women, the which as I said before, are called Incontinence and pleasure, he commandeth them not to trust those women in any wise, nor to tarry till they come to untrue Learning: There he commandeth them to tarry a while and abide, and to take what so ever they will of her, as a help or aid to a further journey. Than from thence to go anon to true Learning. These be the things, that Genius commandeth. Who so ever beside these things, either doth any thing, or misheareth any thing, doth nought like himself perish naughtily.  
¶ So now friends the story, that is in the table, is such as I have told you. Yet if ye list to inquire of any of these things particularly, without disdain I shall tell it to you.  
Thou sayest well, quoth I. But what doth Genius command them to take of untrue Learning? Those things that are worthy & meet to be used and occupied. What be those? Letters (quoth he) and other sciences, the which, Plato saith, are to young folk in steed of a Bridle, to rain them from turning, to other things. But whether is it necessary for a body, if he will go to true Learning, to take those things or no? Necessity truly, quoth he, there is none. Yet nevertheless they be profitable, but to make folk the better, thereto can they nothing help. Thou sayest than, that these things be not so profitable, that by them men may be made better, for without them a body may come to goodness: Yet never the less they be not unprofitable. If I have perceived you well, ye mean this, that without the knowledge of those liberal sciences, men may attain to virtue and goodness: in like manner as we may understand a thing spoken in a strange language, without the knowledge of that same tongue, by a spokesman, that can interpret it unto us. Yet never the less, it were not unprofitable for us, to understand ourself the language, in the which it was first spoken in. Have not men learned in these sciences, pre-eminence to be better than other men? How can they excel or have pre-eminence, when men may see them deceived in the opinion of good and evil, as other folk be: and also bound and tangled with all ungraciousness? For knowledge of letters, nor understanding of other sciences, do nothing let, but that a body may be also drunk, intemperate, covetous, unjust, a traitor, and finally a fool. Forsooth a man may see many such. Than how (quoth he) have they pre-eminence, by reason of those sciences, to be made the better men? it seemeth not by this reason. But what (quoth I) is the cause? Because (quoth he) they dwell still in the second Compass, as it were men approaching toward true Learning. And what helpeth that (ꝙ I,) when we may see many times, they come out of the first compass from Incontinence and other ungraciousness, to the third compass, to true Learning, the which do pass by these learned men. And how can men learned only in these liberal sciences excel other, when they be more obstinate, and more unable to be taught, than other folk be? How is that (quoth I?) For (quoth he) in the second compass that thing that they know not, they do feign themself to know. If there were none other thing but this, as long as they have this opinion, they must needs be unable to be steered to come to true Learning. Moreover, seest thou not an other thing, that the opinions out of the first compass, come also into them? Wherefore these be no whit better, than those of the first compass: except they do repent, and be persuaded that they have not the true knowledge, but the untrue Learning, by whom they be deceived. And think, that as long as they remain in the contrary opinion, that they can never be made safe and whole. Nor you neither friends, except you so do, and that these sayings remain steadfastly in your remembrance, till such time as ye have engendered in you by practise, an habit or custom. Wherefore ye must consider these sayings continually, and not by starts, and think all other things pertain nothing to your purpose. If ye do not so, of these things, that ye have now hard, ye shall have no profit. We shall do, as ye teach us: But expone this unto us; Why be not those things, the which folk do receive of Fortune, good things? as to live, to be whole, to be rich, to have glory, to have children, to conquer and overcome, and all other things like these? Or again, why be not their contraries evil? For thy saying seemeth to us incredible, and very far from our opinion. Come of (quoth he than) and endeavour yourself to answer as ye think best, to those things, the which I shall ask you. That shall I do (quoth I.) Than (quoth he) if a body live evil, is it good to him to live? I think no, but rather evil (quoth I.) For how (ꝙ he) can it be good to live, when it is to the liver evil? Certainly (quoth I) to them, the which live nought, me thinketh life is an evil thing: but to them, the which live well, life is a good thing. Than (quoth he) thou sayest, that life is both a good thing, and an evil. Ye truly. Speak not so incredibly and so far out of the way: For it is impossible, one thing to be both good and evil. For so the self same thing should be both profitable and noisome. And one self thing always to be worthy to be elected, and at the same one time also to be eschewed: me thinketh this far from reason. But how followeth it, that though that evil be in him that liveth evil, that therefore life self should be an evil thing? But (quoth he) it is not all one, to live, and to live evil. Doth it not seem also so to thee? Yes. For I do not think them both one. Then life self (quoth he) is not an evil thing: for if it were an evil thing, than they, the which do live well, had in them an evil thing. For they have in them life, the which were an evil thing. Me seemeth ye say troth: for because that life happeneth to both, as well to the livers well, as to the livers evil. Therefore life can neither be a good thing, nor an evil. No more than cutting or sering is in them, which are diseased, either a sick thing or a whole. Consider than this, whether had ye leaver to live evil, or to die well and nobly? I had rather (quoth I) to die well. Than, to die it is none evil thing, seeing that many times death is rather to be chosen than life. It is so. The self same reason may be made of health and sickness. For often times is not profitable to be in health, but the contrary is to be preferred. Such circumstances there may be, thou sayest troth. Come of now than let us considre in like manner of riches. May we not see (as it chanceth often to see) a man to have much riches, and yet to live nought and wretchedly? yea very many of that sort. Than riches helpeth nothing these men to live well? It seemeth so: For they themself be nought. Than richesse causeth not men to be good, but that doth high and perfect knowledge. Your saying seemeth true. Than by this reason how can richesses be a good thing, when it helpeth not to make his possessors to be better. Me seemeth ye say troth. And to some folk also it is not profitable to be rich, if they know not how to use richesse. It is true. How can that thing be judged good of any man, the which it is no profit to have? It can not.  
Therefore if a man know how to use richesse well, and as it should be, he shall live well: If he can not, he shall live naughtily. There can nothing be truer than this. And for a final conclusion, to repute and esteem these things, as though they were good things, or else reject or despise the same, as evil things, is the cause, that vexeth or troubleth the most part of people: when they honour these foresaid things, and think by them only to obtain felicity and welfulness. For, for to get them, they leave nothing undone, be it never so ungracious. All these things they do only because they know not, what is the true goodness.  
¶ Thus endeth the table of Cebes.   

¶ How one may take profit of his enemies.  
I perceive my friend, that thou haste choasen a right pleasant kind of living, void of businesses of the common wealth, wherein nevertheless thou dost to the common wealth much profit: being unto all them that come unto thee, and eke to them that keep thee company, both companable and pleasant.  
¶ But sense it is so, that we may find some country, that wanteth wild and hurtful beasts, as it is said by Creta: But yet no common wealth hath been found, that hath not nourished within itself, envy, disdain, and strife: of which most commonly enmitees do grow, ye and if there were nothing else, friendship itself turneth us to enmity, which the wise man Chion perceiving, asked one that vaunted himself to have none enemy, if he had also no friend. Me thinketh than it were meet for a man of authority, and that meddleth in the rule of the common wealth, that among other business he should have also consideration of his enemies, and to take good heed, that this was not spoken for nought of Xenophon: It is a substantial wise man's part, to take profit of his enemies. Therefore I have gathered together those things that came in my mind now of late, as I reasoned on this matter. And I have written them unto thee, in as few words, taking heed, as near as I could, that I touch nothing of those that I wrote afore, in the precepts of good manner, for I see that book oft in thy hand.  
¶ Too men of the old world it sufficed, if they took no hurt of divers beasts, and in that time they fought with hurtful beasts only for that purpose. But they that are of later time, finding the way how to use wild beasts, are not only not hurt, but also they take profit of them, feeding them with their flesh, clothing them with their flecis, making of their milk and galls, medicines for diseases, and arming them and defending them with their skins: in so much that now it is to be doubted, that if beasts wanted unto man, man's life should be but beastly, wild, and needy. So likewise sense it sufficeth unto other, to take no hurt of their enemies: and that Xenophon saith, profit may be taken of enemies. belief is not to be taken from such an author, but rather the manner and way must be sought, whereby this profit may be gotten by them, that may not live without enmitees.  
¶ The husband man can not take from every tree the wild nature: nor the hunter can not make every wild beast gentle and tame: so that the way hath been found, that for other uses, both unfruitful trees and wild beasts have been profitable.  
¶ The Sea water is unmeet to drink, and unpleasant, but it nourisheth fishes, it carrieth us from place to place, and it serveth in bringing in and bearing out wares.  
¶ But Satyrus the first time that he saw fire, when he would have taken it and kissed it: Ho, quoth Promotheus, thou rough knave, if thou take not heed, it will make thy lips smart: for it burneth, if it be touched, it serveth not for that purpose: but it giveth light and heat, and is the instrument of all crafts, if one can use it.  
¶ It must be seen therefore, if also an enemy, that else were hurtful and dangerous, may be touched any other way, and give some particular use of himself, and do us very great profit. For there are many things hateful and grievous unto them, to whom they happen: out of the which nevertheless some use may be taken. For thou seest many use some disease of the body, for occasion of quiet and rest. Again, labours and travails, that have comen by chance, have made many man's health more perfect by exercise. Besides this, there hath been many, to whom outlawry and loss of money hath been forderaunce to study and learning, as to Diogenes and Crates. And zenon when he heard that his ship was drowned: Thou dost very well Fortune (quoth he) in driving me to my studying mantle.  
¶ For like as some love things, that are good in digesting, and helefull for the body, if they eat serpents and scorpions, they digest them: yea and there are some, they are nourished with stones and shells, by reason of the force and heat of the spirits, that turn these things into nourishment: where as these, that been tender and sickly, can not away with bred and wine. So fools mar and also lose friendships, but they that are wise, can profitably use enmitees.  
¶ First therefore that that in enmity is most hurtful, seemeth unto me to do great profit, if one take heed to it. What is that sayst thou? Truly an enemy alway watching, marketh what thou dost, and in seeking occasion of slander, prieth and pereth always on thy living, piercing with his sight like a Lynx, not only the timber, the covering, and the walls of thy house, but also thy friend, thy servant, and whom so ever keepeth thee company, that as near as he may, he will know what thou doest, piercing and trying all thy secrets. Where as our friends by our delay and negligence, oft times are both sick, and die without our knowledge. And of our enemies well near we mark their dreams. So that the diseases, the debts, the scoldings with their wives, shall rather be unknown of them, whose they are, then of their enemies. So chief doth be mark faults, and above all thing, them he seeketh. Even like as these Gripes, that Priam and his children might be glad to have had such enemies, whereby they took heed to themselves, and were renowned: truly it shall withdraw, restrain, and lead them from such things, that should be pleasure and laughter for their enemies.  
¶ We see also these musiciens oft-times slake & not very heedful, as oft as they sing in audience alone: But if there happen any dysdeigne, and strife with other: than they do not only apply their minds better, but dress their instruments more diligently, chose theirstringes, tune them more precisely, in assaying often their accord: So who that perceiveth, that he hath a disdeigner, both of his name and of his living, taketh better heed to himself, he examineth all his deeds, and redresseth all his life. For of truth naughtiness hath this property, that in offending, it feareth more enemies than friends. Therefore Scipio, when some thought Rome to be in a surety, because Carthage was destroyed, and the Greeks overcome: ye but now (quoth he) we are in greatest peril, sense now we have none, whom we dread or fear.  
¶ Take with this the answer of Diogenes very excellent and meet for a philosopher: To one that asked him, which way he might be revenged on his enemy: If thou make (quoth he) thyself an honest and a good man.  
¶ Most part of men are sorry, when they see the fair horse, or well praised doggis of their enemies: And again they are sorry, if they see their land well housebanded, or their garden fair and goodly. What trowest thou than they will do, if thou show thyself an upright man, wise, good, and thrifty, excellent in well saying, pure and uncorrupt in matters of charge: In temperance of thy living, sober and measurable, using to blow a deep forow in a wise breast, whence out do spring goodly and fair counsels?  
¶ They that are over come, saith Pyndarus, have their tongue teyed, that they dare not once hysce. But that is not apliable properly in every one, that is overcomen of their enemies. But in them only, that see themself overcomen of their enemies, in diligence, in wisdom, in greatness of the mind, in gentleness, and liberality. These things do fold up a tongue, as saith Demonsthenes, these do shut and close up the mouth, these do stop the throat, these cause silence, these cause thee, that, as saith Pyndarus, thou dar'st not once hysce. Therefore endeavour thou thyself, sense thou mayest, to seem better than they that be nought. ¶ Therefore if thou desire to grieve thine enemy, do it not this way, to call him lewd, or dronckerd, knave, or niggard, or sluttish or sloven, but rather endeavour thou thyself to be an honest man, endeavour thyself to be sober, and measurable, to be true, and to entreat them gently and indifferently, that keep company and meddle with thee. But if it so happen, that thou fall to chiding and reviling, take heed, that thou be clean without those faults, for which thou rebukest an other. Return thyself into thine own breast, look into thine own bosom, and mark well, if there be any thing filthy or subject to vice: Lest peradventure some ill tongue have occasion to cast this in thy teeth: He ●alueth other, and is himself full of botches.  
¶ But if he call the unlearned, apply thou thyself to study, and quicken thy endeavour: if he call the coward, steer thy courage, and the readiness of thy mind: if he call the unchaste and vicious, chase out of thy mind the desire of lust, if any such print, unware to thee, stick in thee. For there is nothing fouler than such rebuke, that reboundeth to the rebuker. And there is nothing more grievous or sharper. For like as the reflection of light doth most hurt to sore eyes, so do ill words, which truth returneth thither as they came fro.  
¶ Truly like as the Northe●● wind draweth clouds toward it, so doth ill living draw ill speaking unto it. Therefore Plato, as oft as he saw any do uncomely, to himself was wont to say: Am I such in any case?  
¶ Furthermore, he that hath skolded with an other, if he forthwith behold his owne-life, and redress it, changing it in to the contrary, and correcting it: truly he shall take great profit by scolding, and otherwise it is both taken, and also is a very foolish thing. For so commonly men are wont to laugh at him, that is bald or crooked, and blameth an other for the same vices. But it is most of all to be laughed at, one to cast a rebuke to another, which may have some rebuke turned to himself. As Leo of Byzantia, when a foul crooked fellow cast unto him the soreness of his eyes: It is natural (quoth he.) But thou doest carry thine own rebuke upon thy back.  
¶ Therefore beware that thou cast not adultery in ones teeth, if thou use a more filthy fleshly lust: nor attwyte not one of waste, if thou be a niggard.  
¶ Alcmeon laid it to Adrastus, that he was cousin to a woman, that slew her mother. But what said he again? He tayed to him again not an others fault, but his own, saying: Thou slewest thy mother thine own hands.  
¶ Domitius jested with Crassus on this wise: Didst thou not weep, when thy Lampraie was dead, which thou hadst kept in thy stew? But Crassus returned the check on this fashion: Didst thou weep at all, when thou buriedst iii wives?  
¶ He that should check an other, may not be a jester, or a skolder, or a fool: But he must be such one, on whom no check nor fault may cleave. For it seemeth that god commanded this. (Know thyself) to no man more than to him, that should blame and check an other: Lest, if they say what they will, they here that that they would not. For it is wont to be as Sophocles saith: When thou haste powered out words foolishly, and said them with thy good will, again thou shalt here the same against thy will.  
¶ And that is the profit and commodity, that may be taken of chiding with enemies: and no less profit cometh of the t'other, that is, if one be ill spoken of, and rebuked of his enemies. whereupon it was well and truly spoken of Antisthenes: It behoveth a man for the safeguard of his wealth and prosperity, either to have sure trusty friends, or sharp enemies, because they in warning, other in rebuking, refreigne him from vices.  
¶ But truly because that now a days friendship hath lost her speech to speak freely, and flattery hath tongue enough, warning is dumb: it remaineth therefore, that we must here the truth of our enemies. For like as Telephus could not be healed of his wound by no surgeon of his own fellows, and was healed by an other wound that Achilles his enemy gave him in the same place: so they that have no friendly warner, must suffer the words of an ill willing enemy, whereby they may correct and amend their faults. In which time the thing itself ought to be considered, and not the mind of the ill speaker. For like as he that thought to have slain Promotheus of Thessaly, by chance struck so a wen that he had, that he saved the man, and by breaking the wen rid him of the peril: so it is not seldom seen, that a rebuke cast out by enmity and hatred, healeth a sore of the mind, that was peradventure unknown, or else unregarded.  
¶ But many that are touched with a rebuke, do not consider this, whether they be guilty of the shame that is laid to them, but they look rather, if he that laid it, have any thing in him, that may be cast against him, And like as wrastelers in the wrestling place, do not brusshe away the dust, but one arrayeth an other: so with rebukes when they meet together, one of them shameth an other. But it were more according, that he that hath had a check of his enemy, shall take that away, that is laid against him, rather than a spot that one showeth him in his gown.  
¶ Ye and also if one lay to thy charge a fault, that thou art not guilty in, yet it is to be sought, upon what causes that ill speaking did grow: and than it ought to be taken heed of and feared, lest that unware we do any thing like that, that is laid against us. As Lacides king of Argive, for his trim bush, and a little more piked apparel, was sklaundered among the common sort, as tender and womanish.  
¶ The same happened to Pompeie, because he skratched his head with one finger, although he was far enough from tenderness and wantonness.  
¶ So also it did happen unto Crassus, which to by a proper ferme, oft times resorted to a woman of religion, for to win her good will.  
¶ Truly Posthumia, by reason of her liberal laughing and talking with men, was so slandered, that she was accused of adultery, although it was found, that the fault was not true: Yet the bishop Spurius Minutius at her departing warned her, that she should talk with as great dread of shame, as she did live.  
¶ And Themistocles when he offended nothing, yet he got by Pausanias to be suspect of treason, because he used him so familiarly, and sent him daily letters and messengers. Therefore when there is any thing said against thee, that is not true, thou oughtest not therefore, because it is false, to let it pass. But try with thyself, if thou have said or done any thing, or assayed any thing, or if among thy familiars there hath any thing been, that hath given him provable occasion: and if thou find it, take heed and avoid it.  
¶ Truly if hard hap, that cometh by chance teacheth some, what is best to do, as Metopa speaketh in a play: Fortune in taking away that, that was most dear unto me, hath made me wise to my cost. Why should we not as well use our enemy for a teacher less costly, that may profit us, and teacheth us some thing, that we knew not afore? For truly many things an enemy perceiveth better than a friend, because that love blindeth in the thing that is loved, as saith Plato. But unto hate is joined both busy search and babbling.  
¶ When Hieron had his stinking breath cast against him of his enemy, he came home and chode his wife, saying: Why didst not thou show me this fault? But she that was chaste and simple, answered: I had went (quoth she) that all men had savoured on the same fashion. So that, which may be sensiblely perceived, and those things that be in the body seen of every man, thou shalt sooner know them of thine enemies, than of thy friends or fellows.  
¶ Put to this, that where it is no small part of virtue to have a sober tongue, always obedient to reason: that thou canst not have, without thou by much exercise, heed, and study, subdue the ill motions of thy mind, of which sort anger is one. For as from fools words do scape out, and as Homer saith: The fleeing voice forsaketh the cloasure of the mouth. So it is most wont to happen to unexercised minds, that slip and slide, by unmoderate anger, by untemperateness of mind, and by small heed of living.  
Moreover, as saith the godly Plato, the lightest thing that is, both god and man punish with greatest pain. But a other side, silence, where as it is alway guiltless, and not only not hurtful, it hath besides in chiding, a savour of Socrates constance, or of Hercules force rather, for he also took less heed of grievous words, than he did of flies.  
Surely where as there is nothing more grave or fairer, than when thy enemy chideth, to hold thy peace, as one that saileth by a great rock, so also doth such an exercise spread further. For if thou use to suffer thine enemies chiding, holding thy peace, thou shalt very easily suffer thy wives scolding, when she is angry, and bear without trouble the crying of thy friend, and the cumber of thy brother. For of thy father and thy mother thou wilt suffer knocks and strokes, and be not moved with anger.  
¶ And Socrates did suffer Xantippa his wife at home to chide and cumber him, the more easily to keep company with other, if he used to forbear her. But it is much better in being exercised with checks, rebukes, and hatreds of enemies, to use to subdue anger, & not to chafe when thou art ill spoken to.  
Therefore on this wise one ought to use soberness and sufferance in enmitees. But simpleness, great mind, and gentleness is more according in friendships. For it is not so honest to deserve well of a friend, as it is shame not to do it, as oft as need requireth. But yet it is taken for gentleness, when chance giveth occasion, to let pass and not to be revenged on thine enemy.  
¶ But he that receiveth not his good will, and praiseth not his gentleness, that sorroweth the offence of his enemy, and helpeth him, if he desire it, and taketh some heed to his children, or to his house, that is in peril, truly he hath an heart of a diamant, or else of iron.  
¶ When Cesar had commanded the images of Pompey, that were cast down, to be set up again: Thou hast (quoth M. Tullius) set up Pompey's images, and established thine own. Wherefore an enemy is not to be dispraised, nor to be deceived of his honour, which is to be praised, and worthy, for because a greater praise thereon cometh unto them that so do praise. Beside that, he that preiseth one, that deserveth it, is better believed, when he blameth, as one that hateth not the man, but that alloweth not his deed.  
¶ And that that is most godly of all, and most profitable, he shall in no wise envy his fortunate friends, nor his familiars, when they do any thing praise worthy, who so ever useth to praise his enemies, and not to gnaw nor bite at their good fortunes. Is there any thing that breedeth such profit in us, or that engendereth in our minds a better use, than that that taketh from us dysdeigne and envy? For as in a common wealth there are many things necessary and yet nought, which sense they be comen in custom, and gotten the strengths of a law, yet shall they, to whom they be hurtful or grievous, not lightly do them away: So enmity bringeth with it many vices, as anger, suspection, rejoicing of others harm, remembrance of wrongs, and leaveth the prints of these in the mind.  
¶ Besides that many things, which if thou do them to thine enemy, seem neither ill nor wrongful, so remain they in us, that scant they can be put away, as is craftiness, deceit, and subtleties. Whereby oft times by the custom, we shall use them to our friends, if we be not aware how to use them to our enemies. Therefore Pythagoras commanded very well, when he moved men from taking of fowl, and of fish, and forbade the killing of all gentle beasts, to the end that in beasts we should use to temper ourselves from cruelty and ravening. But it is much more goodly, in being a gentle, a just, and simple enemy, in debates and strifes against men, to chastise the foul and deceitful affections of the mind, and to subdue them, to the end that in meddling with friends men may utterly forbear them.  
¶ Scaurus was at debate with Domitius, and sewed him: so a servant of Domitius, afore the matter was pleaded, came unto Scaurus, and advertised him, that he had a secret thing to tell him: but he would not suffer the fellow to speak, but took him and sent him to his master.  
¶ Cato, when Murena did sew him, and sought together arguments of the accusation, there followed him (as was the custom) they that awaited, what should be done, and thee oft times would ask him, if that day he would do any thing, that might pertain to his accusing: and if he denied it, they believed him and went their way. And truly that was a great token, that they had a good opinion of Cato.  
¶ But this is the fairest of all, that once when we are accustomed to do uprightly and justly with our enemies, we shall never meddle deceitfully or falsely with our friends and familiars. But because it must needs be, that every kocke have his comb, and every mind of man of himself breedeth strife, suspect, and envy: it were not unprofitable, among friends that have but hollow minds, as saith Pyndarus, if a man pour out the purging of such faults upon his enemies, and to let it run as into a sink, far of from his friends or familiars. Which me thinketh Onomademus an honest man perceived, which was in Chio, when there was a mutening there, on that part that had the better, and warned them of his side, not to chase them all out, that were of the contrary side, lest (quoth he) that we begin to fall out with our friends, if we want enemies. And if those vices on this wise should be consumed on enemies, they shall the less grieve friends.  
¶ For truly the potter should not envy the potter, nor the singer the singer, as Hesiodus saith: and it is not meet, that a man should disdain his neighbour, or his cousin, or his brother, if he wax rich, and have good fortune. But if there be none other way to rid thyself from strife, envy and disdain, than use thyself to be sorry for thine enemies good fortune, and sharpen the edge of anger against them. For as these cunning gardiner's think to make roses and violets the better, if they sow onions and garlic near by them, that what so ever sour savour be in them, it may be purged in to the t'other: so an enemy receiving into him, our envy and waie-wardnes, shall make us better and less grievous to our friends, that have good fortune.  
Wherefore against them must be exercised the strife of glory, of rule, and of good gaining, but not so much, that we should torment ourself, though they have more than we: But to mark all things by what means they pass us, and let us endeavour us to pass them in diligence, endeavour, soberness, and wareness: As Themistocles was wont to say, that he could not sleep for Myltiades victory at Maratho.  
¶ For he that is brought to so low mind, and fainting for envy, because he thinketh himself passed of his enemy, in governance, or in obteigning of causes, or in favour, or authority with friends, or with noble men, and not rather endeavoureth and assayeth something in despite of him, truly he is holden with a foolish and a vain envy. But he whom hate blindeth not so, but that he may judge him, whom he hateth, and also may look with indifferent eyes, both upon his life, and his manners, his words, and his deeds: of a surety he shall perceive many of those things, that he envieth, to come unto the t'other by diligence, provision, and of deeds well done. And therewithal by exercise sharping the taking heed of passing him, and the study of honour, he shall shake of all idilnesse and false heart. So that if we see that they have gotten in the court or in the commonwealth, any unhonest or undeserved power, either by flattery, or by deceit, or by false judgement, or by meed, it shall not be grievous unto us, but rather pleasure, in laying together our upright living with their naughtiness. For truly all the gold that is either above the earth or under the earth, is not to be compared with virtue, as saith Plato. It is meet also to have alway in remembrance that word of Solon: We will not saith he, change the richesse of virtue, neither for the largesse that is cried by a great number, hired for meat, nor for honours, nor for the chief place among the wives and concubines of dukes and princes. For there is nothing to be wondered at, or notable, that groweth of dishonesty. But the lover is blind in that that he loveth, as saith Plato, and better we perceive if our enemies do any thing uncomely. Yet may we not, though they do naughtily take an unprofitable gladness, or and if they do well, be moved with an idle grief, but in each of this is to be thought, that in being ware of the tone we may be letter then they, and following the t'other, that we be no worse.  
¶ Thus endeth plutarch to take profit of enemies.   

❧ The manner to choose and cherish a friend.  
TO fill up the padges, that else would have been void, I thought it should neither hurt nor displease, to add hereunto a few sayings, how a man should choose and cherish a friend. Cicero saith, that Scipio complained greatly, that men were more diligent in all things, than in friendship: every man knoweth how many goats and sheep he hath, but no man can tell how many friends he hath: And in the getting of other things, men use great care and diligence, but in choosing of friends they be very negligent, nor they have not as it were marks and tokens, by the which they may dame those that are feet to be received into freendeship. The book saith, have not friendship with an ire full man, nor with a fool: but as Cicero saith, men firm, and stable, and constant, should be taken into freendeship. Of the which sort is great scarcity and lack, and to judge which they be, is a very hard thing, except we make a proof, and we can not make a proof thereof till we be entered into friendship. So, friendship goeth before judgement.  
¶ Some there be, that a small sum of money shall show how sure friends they be. Some there are, which a little thing can not remove, and yet they be known in a great need.  
¶ And if we hap to find a friend, that deemeth it a foul and a shameful thing to set more by money than by friendship, yet where shall we find them, that will not more esteem honours, rooms, lordships, powers, and abundance of richesse, than friendship? But as the same Cicero saith, neither profits, honours, riches, pleasures, nor none other such like things, should be more set by than friendship. But yet he that is a good man, shall do nothing for his friends sake, that is either against the common wealth, or else against his oath or fidelity. For the offence is not excusable, to say, thou didst it for thy friends sake. And yet the same Cicero, as Gellius doth recite his words, saith, that where our friend standeth in jeopardy, either of his life or of his good renown, we may somewhat serve aside out of the way. But in other places he expoundeth himself showing plainly, that we should require nothing of our friend, but that that is honest.  
¶ And now concerning the trust that we ought to have the our friend, Seneca saith: He that esteemeth any man his friend, the which he can not trust so much as himself, doth deceive himself. And he that maketh and proveth his friend with feasting at the table, doth fail. It is virtue, saith Cicero, the which both winneth and entertaineth friends. A man should reason and debate all things with his friend, but first he should debate and reason with him, whether he be a friend or no. No man needeth to mistrust friendship, but first lear him examine and deem, whether it be friendship or not. ¶ They do against the precepts of Theophrast, the which love before they judge, and not after they have deemed▪ thou shouldest a long time consider, whether thou shouldest take any into thy friendship: and when it liketh the so to do, than receive him with all thy very heart, & talk as boldly with him, as though thou were alone. But yet live thou after such fashion, that thou commit nothing to him, but that thou wouldest commit to an enemy. But for because there be certain businesses, the which custom maketh secret, make thy friend privy to all thy cares and thoughts. Thou shalt do thus if thou suppose him to be sure & faithful. For many show the manner & way to deceive, while they fear to be deceived. And some tell them that they meet by the way, and blow in every man's ear, it that should only be opened and showed to friends. Again, some also dread so much the conscience of their most dear friends, that if they may, they will keep close within them all their secrets, because they will not put them in trust therewith. None of these two ways is to be taken, for each of them both is nought, to trust every body, and to trust no man. Of which two faults the first is the more honest, and the other the more sure. And though the wise man be content with himself, yet will he have a friend, and it be for none other cause, but to exercise friendship, lest so great a virtue should lie aside. Not for that that Epicure saith, that he may have one to tend him when he is sick, or else that may secure him, if he be cast in prison, or be poor and needy, but that he may have one, whom sick and diseased he may tend upon, and whom he may deliver out of ward, if he hap to come in his enemies hands. He that regardeth himself, and for his own sake seeketh friendship, he intendeth evil: and like as he beginneth, so shall he end. He thinketh he hath got a friend to help him out of prison, which when he heareth the chains rattle, goeth his way. These freendeshyppes, as the people saith, dure for a time. He that is received into freendeship for love of profit, as long as he is profitable, he pleaseth. It is needful that the beginning and ending of friendship, should agree. He that beginneth to be a friend, because it is expedient for him, some price shall please him against friendship, if there be any price in it, that may please him above freendeshyp. Thou sayest: To what intent should I prepare a friend? I answer, that thou mayest have one, whom thou mayest accompany, when he is banished, for whom thou mayest put thyself in danger of death. For the t'other is rather a chapmanship than a friendship, which hath a respect to profit, and considereth, what avail he may get thereby. There is nothing, that so much delighteth the mind, as faithful friendship. And he is well happy, that findeth a true friend, saith the book. O how great is the goodness, when the breasts be prepared ready, into the which all secrets may surely be powered, whose conscience thou dreadest less than thine own, whose talking easeth the grief and heaviness of thy heart, the sentence giveth ready and quick counsel, the cheer dasheth the inward sorrow, and the very regard and beholding delighteth? And because the use of freendeship is variable and manifold, and there be many causes given of suspection and offence, the which is a wise man's part to eschew, to help, and to suffer. Friends must oft be monished, and rebuked, and that must be taken friendly, when it is done of good will. But for so much as Terence saith, Truth breedeth hate, which is as a poison to friendship, we must take heed, that our monition be not sour, and that the rebuke be without vile words. For vile rebukes, as the book saith, fordoth friendship.  
¶ Thus endeth the manner to choose and cherish a friend.   

A comfortable exhortation against the chances of death, made by Erasmus Roterodamus.  
How bitter & how grievous a wound pierceth your fatherly heart for the death of your most goodly child, I lightly conject by mine own sorrow. And therefore I were right much uncourtoys, if that I in so sorrowful a chance would warn you his father to make lamentation, when I that am but a stranger can not choose but weep and wail. Ye might well think me rude and untaught, if I would go about to heal your grief, when I myself had need of a physician: if I would let you his father to weep, when the tears still abundantly trykell down from mine eyen. And all be it, that the ilk stroke of fortune ought deeper to pierce your fatherly breast: yet your great wisdom was wont so to rule you (in all your deeds) that ye not only with a strong and a slout mind, but also with a glad and a merry cheer, would suffer and pass over all such chances as hap to mankind. Wherefore ye ought so to settel yourself, that if ye can not as yet put away clean the sorrow of your heart (for no man can deny but that ye have right good cause to be heavy) yet at the least wise some what suppress and moderate the same dolour. And for what cause should ye not clean forgeat it? Seeing that the space of a few days will cause ideottes so to do, me thinketh reason should persuade an excellent wise man. For what seely mother doth so extremely bewail the death of her child, but that in short space of time her sorrow somewhat asslaketh, and at length is clean forgotten? To have always a steadfast mind is a token of a perfect wise man. But for those chances, unto the which we all equally (both more and less) be subject to sorrow out of measure, me thinketh it extreme foolishness. For who is not ware (except he that mindeth nothing) that he is borne under such a condition, that when so ever god will call him: he must forth with needs departed hence? So than what other thing (I pray you) doth he, that bewaileth one's death, than lamentably complain, that he is mortal? Or why should we rather sorrow the departing hence, than the entering into this world, considering that both are equally natural? Even in like case as though one should give great thanks for to be called to a great feast or dinner, and would lament and demean great sorrow, when he should depart away thence.  
¶ If that a man, as it were from an high looking place, would advise well the condition and life of all mankind: might he not well reckon himself a nice fellow, if he among so manifold examples of privation, and among so thick burials of young and old, would be grievously vexed in his mind, as though unto him only were chanced some new and great evil: and as though he only being happy above other, would desire and look to stand without the common lot? For which consideration the excellent wise men that found and made laws in old time, to the intent that they would some what incline to the affections of parents, and to the end they would not be seen to exclude every body from that passion, being also condemned of some of the stoic philosophers: they limited unto them a certain time to mourn, the which endured not very long: Either because that they well understood and knew, that in those manner of chances, the which are both common to all folks, and also do not hap through any injury of Fortune, but are induced by the very course and ordinance of Nature, short mourning should suffice: yea unto them that were not able to moderate all affections: considering that Nature's self by little and little suppleth the wound that she made, and weareth away the scar: Or else because they diligently marked, that mourning was not only unprofitable unto them that were bemoaned, but also hurtful to them that made such moan, and grievous and unquiette to their friends, acquaintance, and company.  
¶ But now if a man would consider the matter a right, doth it not seem a point of madness, willingly of one harm to make twain, and when ye can not by no manner reason recover your predestinate loss, yet wilfully to annoy and hurt your own self? In like manner as though a man that his enemies hath spoiled of part of his goods, would in his anger throw all that ever remained into the see: and than would say, how he by that mean did bewail his loss.  
¶ If we will regard the noble Mimus, whose saying may beseem any Phylosophier to speak: Thou must patiently suffer, and grudge not at it that can not be amended: Let us call to mind the much goodly example of the right excellent king David, the which so soon as tidings was brought him, that his son, that he so tenderly loved, was dead: he forthwith rose up from the ground, and shaked and brusshed of the dust, he threw away his shirt of hear, and so when he had washed and anointed, with a glad countenance and a merry cheer he went to dinner. And because his friends marveled thereat, he said to them: For what intent should I kill myself with woe and sorrow? For unto this time some hope I had, that god being moved with my lamentation, would have saved my child alive: but now all our weeping tears can not restore him again to us alive: we shall shortly speed us hence after him. Who is so fond to crouch and pray him, whom he knoweth well, will incline to no prayers? There in nothing more untreatable than death, nothing is more deaf, nor nothing more rigorous. By crafty handling the savage beasts, yea the most wild of them all, are made tame: There is a way to break the hard Marbull stone: and a mean to mollify the diamante: but there is nothing, wherewith death will be appeased or overcome. It neither spareth beauty, riches, age, nor dignity. And therefore it ought to grieve us much the less, either because it can not be eschewed, or else because it is equally commune to us all.  
¶ What needeth me to go about to rehearse to you here the manifold examples of the gentiles, the which with a noble and a constant courage took well in worth the death of their dear friends? In which constauntnes of mind, is it not a great rebuke for us that be Christians, to be of them over comen? Call now to your remembrance thilk saying (well worthy to be enroled in writing) of Telamonius and Anaxagoras: I witted well I begot a mortal creature.  
¶ Think upon Pericles the Duke of Athenes, the which is no less renowned for his eloquence, than he is for his force and manliness: all be it that he within four days space lost his two. sons, that were endued with right noble qualities, he not only never changed his cheer, but also he, being crowned (as was the guise than) spoke and reasoned among the people of matters concerning their common wealth.  
¶ Have in mind also Xenophon the worthy scholar of Socrates: to whom tidings was brought as he was doing sacrifice, that his son was dead: he made no more to do but put of his crown, and forthwith did put it on again, as soon as he understood that his son was manly slain in battle. ¶ Remember Dion of Syracuse, the which on a time (as he was secretly talking with his friends) suddenly heard a great noise and rumbling in his house: And when he had inquired what the matter meant, and was informed that his son had fallen from on high, and was dead: he being therewith nothing amoved, commanded the corpse (as the manner was) to be delivered to women to bury. For he said, he would not leave of his pretenced purpose for that matter.  
¶ Whom Demosthenes following, the vii day after the death of his only and most entirely beloved daughter, being crowned and arrayed in a fair white garment, he came forth abroad among the people. Of which deed the accusation of his foe Aeschynes, both confirmeth the troth, & setteth out the glory. ¶ Think also upon the king Antigonus, the which when he heard tidings, that his own son was slain in a disordered skyrmisshe: pausing a little, and beholding them well that brought him the tidings, with a stout and a constant mind he said: O Alcynonen (that was his son's name) all to late thou perishest, that wouldst so foolishly cast thyself away among thy foes, nothing regarding thine own health nor my monitions and words.  
¶ If ye delight more to hear the examples of Romans, behold Puluillus Horace, to whom (as he was dedicating the capitol) tidings was brought, that his son was dead: he neither drew away his hand from the post, nor turned not his cheer from religion to private sorrow. ¶ consider how Paulus Aemilius, when he had within the space of vii days lost his ii sons, he came forth abroad among the people of Rome, and there showed them, that he was very glad, that by the lamentation of his household (which was but a private sorrow) he had redeemed the envy of Fortune bend toward them al. ¶ Think also how Q. Fabius Maximus (when he was consul) and had lost his son, that was than a man in high room and dignity, and greatly renowned for his noble acts he came forth abroad among the people gathered together, and there to them he recited the commendation of his son.  
¶ Think on also when Cato Censorius his eldest son died, the which was a young man of singular wit and high prowess, and thereto elect and chosen to be Mayer: yet was he nothing so amoved with that chance, that he would in any thing more slackly endeavour himself about the needs and business of the common wealth. ¶ Ye should remember Marcius, whose surname wasking, when his son of right noble disposition, and that stood highly in the favour and good opinion of the people, and thereto being his only son, was dead, he took the loss of him with so constant a mind, that forthwith even from the burial of him he caused the Senators to assemble together to ordain laws concerning their common wealth.  
¶ Ye should not forget Lucius Sylla, whose valiant and most fierce courage toward his enemies, the death of his son could nothing abate, nor cause that he should seem falsely to have usurped or taken upon him to be called by this surname felix, that is to say, lucky or wealthy. ¶ When Caius Caesar (that was Sylla his fellow in roomth) had invaded Britain, and had tidings that his daughter was dead: yet ere three days were fully ended, he went about his empery all business. ¶ When Marcus Crassus (in the war that he made against the parthians) beheld his sons head, the which his enemies in scorn and derision had set upon a morispykes end, and the more to exasperate and augment his calamity, they approached near to his army, and with words of reproach and blame, they showed it up: he took in worth all that doing with so constant a mind, that suddenly he road forbye all his battles, and said to them with a loud voice, that that was his own private harm, but the health and salvation of the common weal stood in the safeguard of them his men of war. ¶ But now to overpass the manifold examples of Galba, Pyso, Scaevola, Metellus, Scaurus, Marcellus, and Aufidius: remember when Claudius Caesar had lost him, whom he both begot, and most entirely loved: yet for all that he (his own self) in the common pulpit lauded and praised his son, the corpse being present, all only covered with a little veil: and when all the people of Rome wept and bewailed his sons death, he his father wept not a tear.  
¶ And surely like as it is a right goodly thing to follow and do as these men did: even so were it a right shameful thing, if men should not be found as steadfast and as stoutly minded as women have been in such case.  
¶ Cornelia saw and hehelde her two sons (Titus Graccus, and Caius Graccus) slain and unburied: and when her friends comforted her and said, she had a wretched chance: I will never say (quoth she) that I am unlucky or unfortunate, that have borne such two children. ¶ But whereto do we now repeat these examples out of ancient chronicles: as though we saw not daily before our face sufficient examples? Behold your neighbours, behold your kinsfolk and allies: how many, yea silly women, shall ye find, the which very moderately take in good worth the death of their children? This matter is so plain, that there needeth no great help of philosophy thereto. For he that would consider well in his mind, how wretched on all sides this our life is, to how many perils, to how many sicknesses, to how many chances, to how many cares, to how many incommoditees, to how many vices, and to how many injuries it is endangered: how little and how small a portion thereof we pass forth (I will not say in pleasure) that is not attached with some manner grief and displeasure? and than further to consider how swiftly it vanisheth and rolleth away, that we may in manner rejoice and be glad of them that been departed out of this world in their youth.  
¶ The shortness of our life Euripides sadly expresseth, which calleth the life of mortal creatures one little day. But Phalereus Demetrius doth better, which correcting the saying of Euripides saith, that the life of man should rather be called the Minute of an hour. But Pyndarus sayeth best of all, which calleth the life of man the dream of a shadow. He joineth two special things of nothing together, to the intent that he would declare how vain a thing this life is.  
Now how wretched and miserable the same life is on every behalf, the ancient poets seemed to perceive it passing well: the which deemed, that a man could not more truly nor more better name mortal creatures, than surname them very miserable wretches. For the first age or foremost part of man's life (the which is reckoned the best) is ignorant: The middle part of the life is assailed with trouble and care of manifold businesses: and yet all this while I speak but of them that be most lucky and fortunate.  
Therefore who is he, which of very right will not approve the saying of Silenus: the best is never to be borne, the next is most swiftly to be clean extinct. ¶ Who will not allow the ordinance of the Thraciens, the which customably use to receive them that be borne in to this world, with lamentation and mourning: and again when they depart hence, they be very glad and demean great joy? And he that by himself considereth inwardly those things, that Hegesias was wont to declare to his hearers, he would rather desire his own death than abhor it: and would far more indifferently take inworth the death of his friends. But now your fatherly sorrow cometh forth and saith: He died ere his day, he died in his childhood, he died so passing a good child, ye and so towardly disposed unto virtue, that he was worthy to have lived many years: your fatherly sorrow complaineth, that the course of nature is subverted, seeing that you his father an old man, should over live your son a young man. But I pray you for the love of god tell me, what ye call before his day: as though every day of a man's life could not be his last day? One before he come into this world, and when uneath it hath any shape of a creature reasonable, is strangled and dieth, even under the hands of nature, working and forming of it. An other dieth in the birth. An other crying in the cradle is snatched away by death. An other in the flowering youth dieth, when scarcely as yet it hath any taste of the life: Of so many thousands of people, to how few is it given (as Horace nameth it) to step upon the gryce of old age? Without doubt god hath under such a law constituted the soul in the garrison of this little body, that what so ever moment he will command it to departed thence, it must by and by needs go. Nor there is none that can of right think himself to be called forth before his day, considering that there is no man that hath a day certain to him appointed: but that only is his lawful day, which so ever he our sovereign captain would should be his last day. If we will work wisely, we should so abide every day, as it were our very last. I pray you, what maketh it matter, seeing the life is so short and fugitive, whether we die betimes, or tarry somewhat longer. For it skilleth no more than it doth, when many be brought to execution, which of them should be first heeded or hanged: It is all one, which is the first, the third, or the eight.  
And what other thing else is the life itself, but a certain perpetual course unto death? Saving that their chance is more commodious, the which from so laborious an exercise of the life are dispatched betimes, But as it is a touch of a brainless fellow to departed away from the army and break the array, without the Captains commandment: So it is a foolish point and great ingratitude, when leave is quickly given of the captain, not gladly to take it: And most specially, if he that hath now licence to go, may depart his way home with laud and praise, and to him no rebuke nor shame. Nor it is not convenient, that one should sit and reckon how many years he hath lived. The age should be esteemed according to the noble deeds: And he (as Homer saith) is not reputed to have lived, that hath poystered the earth, and made a numbered: but he the which sad and soberly passing forth his life, leaveth behind him an honest remembrance to them that come after.  
¶ Do ye complain, that god sent you forthwith such a child, as ye would desire to have had many years to come? What, pardie your son died not so soon, he was now come to the age of twenty years: at the which age (after mine opinion) it is best for to die, for so much as than life is most sweet. Now was he to his country very bountiful, now was he to his father very lowly and gentle, now was he among his fellows a very merry companion, and now had he a good and a perfect mind to godward. He deceased ignorant of vices, and when he had not tasted but little of the calamities and miseries of this world. But what he should have known and have felt if he had lived longer, it is uncertain. No doubt we see very often times, that the latter age doth both infect the clean conversation of young age with more grievous vices, and spotteth, and defileth the felicity of youth with manifold miserable griefs. From all these evils and perils, death quickly withdrew him. Now may you safe and surely rejoice and be glad, that you have had so good and so virtuous a son, ye or rather have. But be it, as you do suppose, that you had him, and that now ye be deprived and have lost him. Whether of very right ought you rather to torment and vex yourself for that ye have foregone him: or else rejoice and be glad that ye had such a son? Take you heed that it be not a point of unkindness, that ye should remember the request of the gefte to be restored again, and nothing to mind the geft. No doubt a child of a good disposition is a great geft: but yet he is so given, that ye should take and have pleasure with him for a time, and not that he should be yours for ever. You that be a perfect wise man, consider this by yourself, yea let us both together consider on this wise.  
¶ If a great prince should lend us a table of an exceeding great price, and of an excellent workmanship, to pass our time with: whether ought we, when so ever pleaseth him to demand or call for it, with a glad cheer, ye and moreover gently thanking him, to deliver it again, or else with heavy and sorrowful countenance shall we complain to him on this wise? O cruel prince, of how precious a gefte haste thou spoiled us? How great a pleasure hast thou bereft and taken from us? How soon hast thou taken from us, contrary to our opinion this so excellent a thing? Might not he of very right to our so unkind complaints answer on this wise? Have I this reward for my gentle and courteyse deed? Remember ye nothing, save only that, that ye have foregone the most fair table? Have ye forgot, that I of mine own good will and freely lent it you? And that ye have now so long while, of my gentleness and sufferance fed your eyes and delighted your mind. It was of my liberality and freedom that I lente it you: and now when I require it again, I do but right: pardie ye have had by me some advantage, ye lost nothing, save that through your folly, ye feigned that thing to be your own, that was but lent you. And so ye esteem it to be lost, that is restored to the owner again. But the more precious and delectable that the thing was that I lent and let you have at your pleasure, the more a great deal ye ought to have thanked me. Nor ye ought not to think it to be to soon required again, the which with out any injury or wrong might have been kept from you.  
¶ If this reason can not be proved false by no mean of argumentation: then think how much more justly Nature, with such manner words, might reprove both our lamentation and sorrowful complainynges. And undoubted by these manner of reasons our sorrow ought to be suaged, yea if it were so, that a man were utterly extinct by death, and there remained nothing of us after the burial.  
¶ Now if we at the least give credence to it, whereof Socrates in Plato, doubted nothing at all, that is to wit: the very man to be the soul, and this body to be nothing else but the pipe or little house of the soul: Or else to say troth, it may be called the burial or prison of the soul: and when it escapeth out thereof, than at the last it cometh to liberty to live much more wealthily than it did before. Wherefore than should we sorrowfully blame death, seeing that he that dieth, doth not perish, but than he seemeth rather to be borne. And we ought to rejoice in the soul (which we can not with our eyes decern) as much and none otherwise, than we be wont to rejoice and take pleasure in our friends that been absent. And I doubt whether is more delectable and rejoicing to us, when they been present, or else when they been absent: for so much as the corporal living together is wont to minister to us matter of displeasure, and the much being in company together doth somewhat abate the joyfulness of friendship. If ye desire an example of this thing, be not the apostles a sufficient argument, the which than began to take very fruition in Christ, and truly to love him, after the corporal presence was taken from them? On the same wise is the friendship of them that be good, the which steadfastly persevere in coupling and knitting together of the minds, and not of the bodies. And there is no violence, no space of time, nor no distance of places, that can sever or divide the coupling of minds. So that me think it a very childish point, to think that a friend were clean lost and gone, so soon as he were out of sight. You may (as oft as ye will) have your son present, both in your thought and in your words: And he (on the other side) remembreth you, and perceiveth the tender affections of your mind, ye and other while in your sleep both your souls embrace each other, and talk together of some secret things. What thing letteth, that ye may not even very now imagine to live with him, with whom soon after ye are in point to live? I pray you, how brief and short is all the whole time that we live here?  
¶ Hitherto have I used the remedies, the which I might well use, if I had to do with a painyme. Now let us briefly consider, what godliness and christian faith aught to require of us.  
¶ First and foremost, if it were so, that death were a thing most miserable: yet it behoveth us to take it in good worth, seeing that there is none other remedy. And more over, if death should clean extinguish man, that nothing after should remain: yet we should therewith be content, for as much as it maketh an end of many calamities and griefs, which we suffer in this life. But seeing that death delivereth the soul (being of aetherial beginning) out of the dungeon of the ponderous and heavy body: in a manner we ought to rejoice and be glad of them that be departed hence out of this wretched world: and that they be returned home again to that wealthy liberty, from whence they came. Now than considering that death (without any doubt) conveyeth the good devout souls out of the storms of this troublous life unto the port or haven of life perdurable, and that not so much as a hear of a man's head shall perish (for the bodies also at length shall be called to enjoy the same life everlasting.) I pray you, whether ought we to mourn and weep, or else to be glad and rejoice in him, whom death in due time taketh out of this most troublous sea of the life, and carrieth him into that quiet and sure resting place of everlasting life? Go to now a little while, and lay together the foul enormitees, the painful labours, and the perils and dangers of this life, if it may be called a life. And on the other side, reckon and cast what commodities and pleasures, (of that other life) are already prepared for the godly creatures that be plucked hence away: And than ye shall soon perceive, that no man can do more unrighteously than he, the which lamentably bewaileth that high goodness, unto the which only we be both borne and ordained, even as though it were a right great and grievous harm. Ye cry out, because ye be left comfortless alone without children, when ye have begot a son to inhabit heaven: the holy remembrance of whom, as it were of a divine thing, ye may reverence, the which above in heaven being careful for you, may greatly further the prosperous success of your business here. For he is neither ignorant of mortal folks business, nor hath not foregone with the body the lowly reverence and tender love, which he was wont to bear to you his father. No doubt he liveth, believe me he liveth, and peradventure is present with us, and heareth, and perceiveth this our communication, and laugheth and damneth this our lamentation. And if the grossness of our bodies letted not, perchance we should hear him blaming us for our weeping with those manner of words. What do ye? will ye abridge your days, and finish your old age with this unprofitable, ye I may well say pinyshe lamentation? Wherefore do you with so unjust complaints accuse and blame destiny, Fortune and death? Have you envy at me because I am delivered from the evils of that life, and am brought to this felicity that I am in? But be it, that your fatherly goodness and pure amity doth not envy me. Yet what other thing meaneth this sorrowful complaining?  
Think you this worthy to be lamented, that I am deduct and brought from thraldom to liberty, from pain and care to pleasure and felicity, from darkness unto light, from peril and danger unto sure safety, from death unto life, from sicknesses and diseases unto immortality, from so many evils to so high goodness, from things caduke and transitory to the everlasting, from things earthly to celestial, and finally from the corrupt and unclean company of all people to the fellowship of angels? Tell me, I pray you, for the great love and kindness that ye bear me, If it lay in your power to relieve me again, would ye relieve me? Than what offence have I done, to deserve so great hatred of you? If ye would not relieve me again, than for what purpose serven all these lamentations, the which, as I have said, are not only unprofitable, but also ungodly? But ne were it so, that immortality had a while agone clean deprived me of all sorrow, I would likewise with weeping tears bewail your sorrowful mourning, and sore have rued upon thilk gross & dark cloudiness of your mind. But ye say, that you on your part weep and make lamentation. For soothe therein ye do not like lovers: but like unto them that have a respect to themself ward, and that will, to others discommodity, see to their own business. Now go to, tell me, what loss is it, that ye sustain by my death? Is it, because ye can not have me in your sight? pardy ye may never the less, at your own pleasure remember me the mean time, ye and so much the more wealthily, in how much I am in sure safety. For look that ye esteem me now delivered from all the evils, what so ever they be that may bechance a mortal man in his life: if which your long and robustous life, for a great part, hath experience. And though that I be not with you, with lowly obeisance to do you service, yet may I be a sure and an effectual advocate for you before the high majesty of god. And finally, how small a thing is it, that divideth our conversation and familiarity? Now look that you so endeavour yourself, that when ye have well and virtuously passed the course of your life, that ye may than at the hour of death be found worthy to be conveyed hither.  
If that your son, I say, should say these words to us: might we not well be ashamed thus to lament and mourn as we do? ¶ With these manner of reasons I am wont to ease the grief of mine own mind: of the which I would that you should be part taker, not all only that ye have any great need of those remedies: but I deemed it agreeable, that ye should be partaker of my consolation, of whose sorrow, I was partner. But briefly to conclude, all that hath been at length reasoned: by this manner mean, ye shall assuage the smarting sorrow of your mind.  
¶ My son is dead, ye begot a mortal creature. I have lost a great jewel: ye have yielded it again to him that freely gave it you. It is a right grievous thing to be thus destitude: It should be the lighter born, that may be redressed by some mean. He hath left me his father alone comfort less. What doth it avail to weep and wail for that that can not be remedied? Or why mourn you for that, the which chanceth to so many thousands as well as to you? Alas I can not choose but weep for the death of my son: ye but he that dieth well, doth in no wise perish. But he died to soon: He that dieth well, dieth not to soon. He died long before his day was come: there is no man that hath a day certain appointed unto him. He deceased in his flowering youth: It is than best to die when to live it is most sweet. He died a very young man: so is he withdrawn from the more evils & troubles of this life. I have lost the best child that any man could have: Be glad that ye had such one. He departed out of this world an innocent: No death should be more desired and less bewailed. Ye but it is not leeful for me the mean while to have fruition