A MISCELLANY OF DIVERS Problems.  
Containing ingenuous Solutions of sundry Questions, partly Moral, partly of other subjects.  
Translated out of French by HENRY SOME, M. A. late Fellow of the King's College in Cambridge.  
LONDON, Printed for Charles adam's, and are to be sold at his shop at the sign of the Talbot, near St. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet, Anno Dom. 1662.   

To the virtuous Ladies, Mris Elizabeth Chase, Mris Frances Heywood, and Mris Laetitia Briggs, the three sisters of his dear friend Mr. H. Some.  
Virtuous Ladies,  
WHereas common and low spirits, might suspect this action, as a design to renew a past sorrow, seeing me, after a year of mourning, recall the memory of so sad a loss: I know, your more generous souls, will rather interpret my intent, an endeavour to allay your too long grief, when I revive the memory of a dear dead Brother: Since your reason, being so near of kind to his, cannot but judge it a weakness, to prefer the passion of an useless sorrow, above the merit of a pious gratitude.  
And yet considering, that others will be so partial, as to blame, whatever their fancies do not approve: I must forbear to heighten the cause of sadness, by recounting the particulars of your loss; only I would fain beg your leaves, to acquaint the world, that in this they and you are partners. But how shall I effect that? since experience hath now taught the vulgar, what was formerly reserved to the knowledge of the more prudent; That the commendation of our friend is frequently but the cloak of a selfconceited folly: And the world having been of late so much abused by hypocrisy, is now become suspicious even of virtue, if once recommended; especially by a person, whose obscurity leaves him liable to their censure. However the love of goodness, the obligation of friendship, and consciousness of truth, shall prevail with me to the hazard of repute  
I should indeed, both betray an high folly in myself, and injure the worth of my Friend, should I, considering my own disability, undertake to discourse at large of all his merits; and yet thus much I cannot but say, his ingenuous discourse, his modest deportment, his humility and candour, gained a more than ordinary respect from all that ever he conversed with, and this they shall witness for me: They that had the happy opportunity of knowing him more throughly, found his Learning so great, and communicated with that freeness; his piety so true, and practised with that innocence, that they could not but love him with admiration, which also increased in those that had a more special and constant intimacy with him; for such knew him so passionate a Lover of all ingenuous Learning, that he ever counted that hour lost, which was not employed in some kind or other of it. He hated naught so much as idleness, or doing nothing, and that made his very recreations, as serious as others studies. And this gave him the advantage of being skilled in modern languages: which although he attained unto, by a sagacity proper to his disposition, and his own industry, yet his courtesy would afterwards entertain discourse with the common Tutors and professed Teachers of them upon all emergent occasions. This his true love to Learning, gave our Nation the opportunity of knowing the Nature and Constitution of the new Famous French Academy, by his translation of their History, written by Monsieur P. Pellison, which was a thing so acceptable to the Author, that he was pleased to write him a particular acknowledgement, and communicate to him also this present Treatise, which likewise at times of divertisement he taught to speak English: In the perusal of which, I doubt not but the more ingenuous will reap satisfaction, and find sufficient cause to love the Translators memory, if they consider that it is not offered as a part of his more solid labours, but as a valuable Essay of wit, and to be used as it was made, only in a Diversion.  
That which I offer to you, worthy Ladies, I give not as a Present, but repay as a due, which without injustice I cannot detain; a greater reason, then that which engageth me to a publication, entituling you to the right of Patronage: For the memory of a dear friendship cannot herein challenge any thing from me, but what the interest of a nearer relation makes entirely yours, and together with it, the Devoirs of  
Your most humble servant, Samuel Thoms. Cambridge, Jan. 10. 1661.   

TO THE READER.  
Reader,  
I Conceive it would be rather presumption in me than humility, if before you come to read what I here present you, I should not give an account of some things that respect my design, and the manner of these Problems, which may occasion you either to bear with their faults, or to condemn them with the more reason and justice. In the first place, seeing me allege commonly many several reasons of the Questions I handle, you may possibly desire to know, Whether I propound part of them to exercise my wit, and to beautify my work, like an Orator, that says not only all he believes to be true, or like truth, but also all that he thinks advantageous to his cause. To this, Reader, let me tell you, that in some places indeed, the obscurity of my matter hath given me licence to make bold conjectures, and such as seemed to me more likely to add Beauty than Light to my work: But that these places are very rare, and that everywhere else I have laboured to give only solid reasons, and have alleged many of them, because having considered my matter many ways, and at several distances, I thought they might be all true. Some indeed may here say, that it is not very likely that one and the same effect should have such different causes, for commonly when we think we have found one solid cause of an effect, this makes us despise all others, and we are apt for this reason to esteem them vain and frivolous. But, Reader, I am not of this judgement, nay on the contrary do think, that when we discourse upon an effect, we should scarce ever content ourselves with one good and true cause of it alone, because every considerable effect hath many causes which contribute to its grandeur, as all Rivers are form by the uniting of several brooks, and many petty rivuletts. This is very evident of its self in some kind of things; as for example, That which casts a man into a disease, cannot be always one sole cause, but many causes united; so when the Question is to discourse of the ruin of a State, it is clear, that it will never be sufficient to think of finding one solid reason only, because it always hath many. But though I see myself confined within the bounds of a Preface, which I am afraid to exceed too much: yet I will in some sort show you, as much as the brevity which I study will suffer me, that this is no less true in regard of our Passions, Actions and Humours, which are the matters the greatest part of this book is composed of. First, for our Actions, and the particular and ordinary motions of our mind, I may say that all our Passions do there appear together always, and act their parts there, though it be not always after the same fashion: just as in each Comedy that is acted, they are the same Actors that appear upon the Stage, though they do not there represent the same persons. And as they say that no Element ever appears to us in its purity, that is entirely separated from others, and void of all mixtures; I conceive also that after the very same manner, not one of our ordinary Passions, which are as it were the Principles and Elements of our manners, doth ever appear in its purity, and without some mixture of the others: so that by this means it scarce ever happens, that it is only one spring which moves and actuates our spirits. It would be as long as it is easy to prove this by abundance of examples; but I shall content myself to allege some of them. If it be demanded, Why we desire glory? It is, without question, (to give one solid reason of it) because we look upon it as a second Life, and that we think our Being is amplified and extended according as our renown spreads very far, and as we are known to many men; but for all this, if there be not another cause given, we shall not very well satisfy this demand: For it is very evident, that we desire it also, because the good opinion that others have of our excellency, fortifies and upholds the opinion which we have of it ourselves. Besides, we do without doubt desire to gain Esteem, because it is a way to make us be beloved, and that we desire to be beloved; nay farther we wish it, both for its own sake (because there is a natural sweetness in being beloved, and that none of the least) and for the conveniences that come by it. Even so too, if a man inquires, Why we revenge ourselves? he will presently find that we do it for divers several causes, which come from different respects. For it is partly because pretending that the injury received hath cast us down, we labour to raise ourselves up again, by making him repent that did it. And partly, we do not desire only to make him repent, but we think also that we discharge ourselves in some sort of the hurt we received from him, in making him suffer as much. As we see that children think to free themselves of a kiss which one hath given them by force, in re-kissing him from whom they have received it, and say they will give it back to be rid of it themselves. Partly also, (without having any regard to the thing in its self) we revenge ourselves for the opinion of others, and for fear one should come to think that we had not power or credit enough to do it: Besides this, we do it out of Fear for the future, and to the end that he which hath offended us, may not presume to do so any more; (For though this be not formally the desire of Revenge, certain it is that it always contributes thereunto:) And last, we revenge ourselves, because that, as the shaking of Fear ceases not so soon as the danger is over; so the hurt we received, hath left in us a blind impression of hatred which lasts still after that is past, and hath only its self for the reason of its self. If we should now examine the motion of the soul in Love, we should find in it a stranger mixture of all sorts of Causes, Natural and Moral, Corporal and Spiritual. In a word, we should as easily find that it is the same with all the other ordinary and extraordinary humours of our minds; I mean, that there is not any of them that hath one only source, and that they have always many roots, some whereof look backward, and some forward, some to the right hand, others to the left; nay we should find they have almost always quite contrary causes, since that most commonly they come to us partly from strength and partly from weakness, partly from reason and partly from blindness; and that they almost always show both some perfection and some imperfection both at once.  
Behold, Reader, the first thing I was to speak to you of, upon which I have, it may be, insisted too long. Pass we now to that which remains with all possible brevity. Some of my friends, whose least advice weighs much with me, counselled me not to forget in several places of this Book, some reasons that are commonly given upon the Questions I here handle, for fear lest I seem to be ignorant of them. But I told them that this might breed in you a great dislike; and that besides, though those causes which are vulgarly given of divers Questions, are many times very good, yet are they more often superficial, or at least not the principal; and this in my opinion proceeds from hence, that the vulgar hath the common sense much better than its understanding; and that by this means it sees indeed well enough with a single eye the things that touch the common sense, but is much less able to give the reasons of them, or discovers ordinarily only the shallowest. This I told them for mine own justification; and after they had heard me, they believed it was sufficient that I allege these vulgar reasons, when it is altogether necessary to do so, and that I should here acquaint you, that I have slighted many others, or for fear of rendering myself tedious, I would not allege them all.  
Moreover, I have form the most part of these Problems in a very concise and succinct manner, and by way of Question, in imitation of several ancient Philosophers, and that I might comprehend the more things in fewer words. But because a concise and succinct reason, which str●kes the mind suddenly, seems at first to be more acute and gentle, than solid and profound; and because I know that people judge often enough of things, as of men, by their countenance and habit: I was not willing to tie myself always to this method, and have many times vented my reasons after a more Dogmatical and positive manner, and made my discourse a little more diffuse. Nevertheless, I hope that in judging the whole work in gross, you will acknowledge to me that I could not have allowed less room to these meditations which I here offer you, and that I had not a design to make you lose in the reading of my book any considerable part of your time, which you ought to employ better otherwise.  
These are the three things, Reader, which I desired to speak to you of; However I do not pretend, by telling you what I have endeavoured to do, to prejudice you in favour of me; I say only that I have endeavoured, and not that I have performed any thing: and on the contrary, to take from you all preoccupation, and to leave your judgement the more free, let me tell you, in putting a period to this discourse, that I myself am not satisfied, whether I have conceived my reasons with sufficient strength, whether I have explained them with grace and clearness enough; whether my stile be hard or pleasant; and that I demand your judgement: Nay I declare unto you, that I doubt not but there are many faults in this my book; and that those that shall think so, will be of my opinion. And if still others say, that there are more faults than perfections in it, and that I have done nothing which deserves that you should read and approve it: I shall not reply any thing more harsh and sharp, then that this may very easily be, since that my spirit is so imperfect, and that I am not certain they are in the wrong.  
And if you demand, what it is that hath given me the confidence to expose to your view this work which I present, notwithstanding the diffidence I have of my own abilities; I shall answer, that it is on the one side a certain Goodness and Complacency which some persons Illustrious for their worth, and such as I am sure you know and reverence, have had for it; and on the other side, the extreme desire which I had to do somewhat that might be profitable to you; for it is certainly, Reader, this desire, more than love of glory, or any hope that I could have conceived to see any success proceed from my labours that might be advantageous to me, that hath sweetened whatsoever it could have of pains or trouble in it; and I hope, that if you make any reckoning of these Philosophical reflections, wherein I have mingled light matters with important, I may perhaps one day offer you some others upon higher subjects, from whence you may receive much more profit.   

On the judicious Translator Master Henry Some late of Ks. College Fellow, my dear and deceased Friend.  

WHat Problems Aristotle never told,  
Nor Plutarch, nor this Oedipus unfold,   

Resolve who can: wherefore impartial Fate  
Of useful men's short life contracts the date?   

Whence your small Pox more unrelenting are  
Towards the High, the Learned and the Fair?   

Why fell such loyal expectations short  
Of your so near, and so long wished for Port?   

Why should a candid, studious, peaceful mind  
Scarce through this angry Age safe passage find?   

But stay, bold Muse; None may without offence  
Fathom the Depths of State and Providence.  
Rest we content what Nature hath revealed  
To read, and leave those other volumes sealed.   

Our Joy, our Sorrow with 
(a) Prob. 4, 5.  distinguished tears;  
Our 
(b) 47.  Laughter at this Author's Bar appears;  
Who doth to solid Reason reconcile  
Every 
(c) 28.  almost in voluntary smile.  
The spring of Passions, and the quick Debate  
Of Actions seeming indeliberate,  
Are here disclosed: his Clue does guide your mind  
Herself through her own Labyrinths to wind.  
Now we discern, 
(d) 51.  Why the parched ears grow white,  
When your hot Constellations unite:   

We more than feel what 
(e) 7.  straightened East-winds blow:  

(f) 39  The Serick Insect we admire and know:   

I know too 
(g) 12.  Whence my friend who did but aim  
At doing well, hath hit the mark of Fame.   

Yet unresolved of what one Page pretends,  

(h) 6.  That men not best may make your surest friends,  
His life retracts that; and against pretence  
Of Demonstration brings full evidence.  
Like dispositions strong affections move:  
None worse than He, can challenge equal love.   
Jan. 2. 1661. Christopher Ware Master of the Free-School of Tunbridge.   

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Samuel Thoms Publisher of this work of our Deceased Friend the Translator Mr. Henry Some.  

SOme do asperse Translations, say they be  
Like reversed Arras rugged Imagery.  
If so, we're well by this example taught  
'Tis the Translators, not Translations fault.  
SOME could outdo his author, lend his story  
A borrowed, greater than its native glory;  
Not like those Scribblers, as ill taught as fed,  
Who turn books not int' other tongues, but bread.  
He knew as well to write, as to Translate;  
To lend, as borrow learning; nor ingrate  
To foreign wits, could, as well stocked as they,  
His Paris bills in Cambridge coin repay.  
Nay he was an Original of wit  
So fair, so worthy, Heaven Translated it.   

But can I name our loss, nor pay his Hearse  
The tributary duty of a Verse?  
A duty, though superfluous, since he  
Was to himself sufficient Elegy.  
Should we his Learning, Virtue, Candour scan,  
Those joint Perfections speak him more than Man.  
Dear Sir! when I recall those Attic nights  
We once enjoyed with him, those lost delights;  
When his discourse charmed our attentive ears,  
And swelled us then with joy, as now with tears,  
When we could call his learned diversions ours,  
With which he used to wing the slow-paced hours;  
Methinks stern grief doth all my sense engross,  
And the remembrance duplicates our loss.   

But Sir 'tis you alone must now retrieve  
This loss, and in his writings make him live.  
Then as (while he lies low in silent earth)  
You've given this Posthume offspring happy birth;  
So still, Lucina like, propitious be,  
And's other labours from abortion free.  
Raise him a monument lasting as Fame,  
And let as Trophies of his living Name,  
His learned relics, while his ashes burn,  
Rise like the Phoenix from their Parent's Urn.   

Then when his happy labours shall be grown  
Old in esteem, every us with your own.  
So shall your name with his enroled stand,  
And both in Honour's train walk hand in hand.   
R. S. Late Fellow of King's College.   

Upon the untimely death of his most Ingenious and Learned Friend Mr. Henry Some, the Translator of this Book.  
surely in Nature, there's some reason, Why  
The best of Spirits do the soon Dy.  
Brisk wits, it seems, are like the purest fire,  
Which brightest burns, but soon does expire.  
The overleavened sort of men, we see  
Aged and loathed like the Raven be:  
Whilst the more sprightly part, like fragrant Rose  
Loved and long-lived in death their eyelids close:  
The Learned Planet courtier to the Sun,  
As swift as Post his stated race doth run:  
Whilst his dull brother, with his leaden face,  
Ends not his course, in twice ten times the space:  
Ah me! it grieves me, that the ripest wit,  
Should fatal prove, to him that owneth it:  
This killed my Friend: from henceforth be't a shame  
To be long-lived, for years your wit will blame.  
J. Jones fellow of the King's College in Cambridge.   

A Table of the Chapters contained in this Volume.  
PROB. 1. 
WHat is the reason that the address and subtlety of wit which appears in the execution of an evil action, makes us think it sometimes more ugly, and sometimes less? pag. 1  PROB. 2. 
Whence comes the custom of making fireworks and shooting off Guns, either when a Peace is made, or after a Victory, or at the entrance of Princes into some City, or upon other the like occasions? 4  PROB. 3. 
Whence is it that the Choler of him that hath no cause to be afraid of us, and hath our necks under his foot, is sometimes sooner appeased by bravadoes and boldness, then by humility and entreaties? 9  PROB. 4. 
Whence comes it that Fears are a comfort to sadness, and how they are form? 13  PROB. 5. 
What is the reason there are Tears of Joy? 16  PROB. 6. 
Whence comes it that many very wicked men are often times the best friends? 20  PROB. 7. 
What is the reason that the Wind which comes in at a window, or a little hole, is more dangerous than that which we feel abroad in the open field? 25  PROB. 8. 
Whence comes it that Evil is more active than good? 28  PROB. 9 
What is the reason that Water-drinkers are greater lovers of fruit than others? 31  PROB. 10. 
What is the reason that there is no such enmity as that which succeeds amity? 33  PROB. 11. 
Why hath extreme affliction no Tears? 36  PROB. 12. 
What is the reason that some things are gotten best by neglecting them? 41  PROB. 13. 
What is the reason that those things which we are accustomed to, are not prejudicial to our health? 44  PROB. 14. 
Whence comes it, that (as it is the saying of some body) a great service is not so proper to gain our affections, as many petty services done in a continued series, and on all occasions? 49  PROB. 15. 
What is the reason that a great Joy makes us facile to pardon injuries? 53  PROB. 16. 
What is the reason there is so much false news spread abroad, and that many delight to make others believe strange things? 60  PROB. 17. 
What is the reason that having been long on horseback, a man doth better refresh himself by walking a little on foot, then by sitting still? 63  PROB. 18. 
What is the reason that when we come to rest ourselves after much walking, we find ourselves more weary a while after? 64  PROB. 19 
Why is it good not to let a wicked man, that hath power to do what mischief he please, perceive that we are jealous of him? 66  PROB. 20. 
Whence comes it that Beasts do know naturally how to swim, and that Man hath need to learn? 74  PROB. 21. 
What is the reason that the fruits that grow at the tops of the boughs, are the best? 79  PROB. 22. 
Why do good men think they ought to speak in proper terms of other Passions and Vices, but not of things that regard Wantonness and Corporal love? 81  PROB. 23. 
Whence comes it that they say whatsoever cures us and is good for us, dislikes us, and that on the contrary, we love that which hurts us? 90  PROB. 24. 
What is the reason that children in winter, though their face and hands seem to show that they are more afflicted with cold than men grown, yet are not easily persuaded to warm themselves? 95  PROB. 25. 
Whence comes it that when we are in affliction we are better diverted by the representation of some Tragic History, or by the recital of some great misfortune, then by more merry shows or facetious tales. 97  PROB. 26. 
Why do some noises make a man sleep? 100  PROB. 27. 
What is the reason we aggravate our miseries, and love to persuade others that we are very unfortunate? 105  PROB. 28. 
Why do many men laugh to see another man fall? 113  PROB. 29. 
What is the reason that they which embrace civil and worldly affairs with too violent an ardour, are subject to lose all sense of Religion and the knowledge of a Deity? 115  PROB. 30. 
What is the reason that the lowest Spirits are commonly most persuaded of the truth of their opinions? 120  PROB. 31. 
Whence is it that in the greatest subjects of affliction, we do many times take up more readily a constant resolution, then in others that are much lighter? 122  PROB. 32. 
Wherefore are old men great talkers? 123  PROB. 33. 
Whence comes it that in all kind of things those that do but meanly in them, are most commonly more severe and rigid Judges of others, than those that excel therein, and hold the first rank? 127  PROB. 34. 
Whence comes it that it is so easy to blame and find fault, that the least able do it best, and that it is much more hard to commend? 132  PROB. 35. 
What is the reason that when the Winter hath been very cold, they commonly say, the Summer that follows will be very hot? 136  PROB. 36. 
What is the reason that Fear makes one's hair stand on end? 138  PROB. 37. 
Whence comes it that many being in a Frenzy have spoken Latin, or Greek, wit●●●t having ever learned either of these Languages? 141  PROB. 38. 
What is the reason that a too earnest entreaty makes us unwilling, instead of inciting us, to grant that which is desired of us. 146  PROB. 39 
What are the causes of the marvellous things which we observe in the Silkworm? 151  PROB. 40. 
Why are good men oftentimes subject to a light promptitude of Choler? 161  PROB. 41. 
Whence comes it that they say, the love of Grandfathers to their grandchildren is greater than that of their Fathers? 165  PROB. 42. 
Why is it that a rare and eminent virtue which shines in a Prince, raises greater motions of love in the lower sort of people then in other men? 168  PROB. 43. 
What is the reason that Shame makes a redness arise in the face? 177  PROB. 44. 
What is the reason that when we blush, it appears especially in the forehead? 185  PROB. 45. 
What is the reason that Praises make a man blush? 187  PROB. 46. 
What is the reason a man laughs more at a pleasant jest, or a merry tale, when he himself that tells it doth not laugh? 190  PROB. 47. 
Why do we laugh in seeing a thing very ill-favoured, since that which delights the mind, one would think, aught to have in it some perfection? 193  PROB. 48. 
What is the reason that Man being inclined to flatter himself, doth nevertheless aggravate his own imperfection above the truth; as for example, in saying there is nothing but folly, and injustice, and ingratitude in the world? 198  PROB. 49. 
What is the reason that according to the common saying of the Poets and of Aristotle himself in the second book of his Politics, Valiant and courageous persons are most subject to love? 208  PROB. 50. 
Whence comes that aversion to marriage of persons too near? 212  PROB. 51. 
Whence proceed the excessive Heats of the month of August, and the other effects which are attributed to the Dog-star? 221   
The End.   

PROB. 1. What's the reason that the address and subtlety of wit, which appears in the execution of an evil action, makes us think it sometimes more ugly, and sometimes less?  
THis Question having two parts, doth not the reason of the first consist in this, that he which is ingenious and employs ●his wit to do ill, seems to be more ●ngratefull towards God, in abusing the gifts which he hath received of him? Or else is it, that he which hath cunningly carried on a very malicious action, seems not to have been touched with any remorse of conscience that troubled his judgement, for which reason he is accounted more wicked and more unnatural? Or else, is it that an evil action full of wit and address, cannot have been committed by a sudden and pardonable motion; and that this address which appears in it, shows that a man hath digested it at his leisure, that he had a long time had it in his mind, and that he executed it with a full and constant will? Or else, is it because he that sins so craftily, seems to have been very violently desirous to sin, since it is certain that a violent desire whets the wit, and renders it fruitful in inventions? Or else, is it because the more ingenious a treason is, the more close and secret also it is; so that there is requisite the more impudence and dissimulation to execute it? Or lastly, is it because the rendering deceitful by a very refined treason, the common assurances which we take of things, is an undermining the foundations of public repose, and after a particular manner, the shaking of nature, which hath not given us any better means to guide ourselves in civil society, and an instructing of knaves new ways to hurt honest men, so that this is a being doubly guilty; as a thief is doubly guilty, if not content to steal the fruits of a garden, he enters into it by some place formerly inaccessible, and makes a new way for those that shall have a mind to imitate him? But if this be so, whence comes it then, that at other times the ingenuity that shines in the execution of an ill action, makes us blame it less sharply, and sweetens the hatred it ought to beget in us? Is it in this case not so odious, because the lustre of wit may in some sort repair the defect of it? Or else, because when experience teacheth us, that the beauty of the mind, and a black malice seldom lodge together, and do not willingly associate; we do then frame some excusable motives to an evil action, when we see some gentleness shine in it, and conceive that he that did it, was forced to it, either out of Gallantry, or by the strength of some sudden Passion, rather than out of an extreme Malice and ill-nature?   

PROB. 2. Whence comes the custom of making fireworks, and shooting off guns, either when a peace is made, or after a victory, or at the entrance of Princes into some City, or upon other the like occasions?  
FIrst, as to public rejoicings; Is it because joy which is a violent dilatation of our spirits, cannot be better expressed then by shows which consist only in violent dilatations of powder by fire? Or else, if there be no likelihood that men did so nicely regard such a relation, and that man's imagination out of a secret impulse, took up a thing that resembles the motion of joy to express it by? Is it rather because Light, which all these Artificial fires redouble, is naturally the Emblem of Joy, and does naturally delight the imagination more than any thing? And therefore we call sadness a dark cloudy humour, and when we speak of it, we say that it overspreads the mind as 'twere with a cloud. Or else, is it not because we finding that our own voice is too weak to represent our joy, and that it is wholly unequal to the greatness of our contentment, we borrow the mouth of Cannons, and the noises of powder to express it, and to carry the news of it speedily on every side, and make it as it were even mount up to heaven? It is manifest that Joy of all the Passions is that which desires most to be known and published, and a joyful man is equally ravished that his friends and enemies know that he is so. Or else, as it is a pleasure to see the picture of some great Dragon, which had frighted us, after that we have no more cause to fear it; is it not also delightful for the same reason to see the vain images of troubles, violences, and passed wars in the fires of joy after that a peace is begun? Or else may we take it thus, that as it is a sign a man hath fast bound a savage beast, when he can play with it without harm, and without dread, and make a pass-time of its rage and fury; so it is a sign that one hath fast chained up that cruel monster, War, when one can freely sport with the most terrible instruments of its fury, when one can make them vomit up, whatever they have most hurtful and affrighting, without any man's receiving either fear or hurt thereby; and that one makes them serve for a divertisement to Women and Children? Or else is not this secondary and innocent use which we make of them as it were a testimony that we abolish the first; and therefore also when we would speak of a profound peace, we use to say that all the instruments of War shall become instruments of Husbandry, or shall be employed to other uses?  
Now seeing that fireworks and the reports of the Canon are used to represent a public joy, is it not for the same reason that they are used at the entrance of Princes into some City, as it were to testify to them that their arrival is esteemed a public happiness? Or else was it not first instituted on this manner, out of an extreme flattery, as if they meant to say, that they judged the soul of the Prince that is thus received, so Martial, that they thought they could not better please him, than by shows that represent War?  
If any one, notwithstanding all this, shall wonder, that to receive a Prince, we do to him in like manner as we would do if we desired to drive him away, and that we express our kindness by the most proper marks of hatred and hostility: is it not on the contrary, partly for that the imagination of men is carried to it, because naturally a violent love borrows the characters of hate? Therefore we see that beasts when they make much of their little ones, they strike them little blows, and toss them up gently into the air; and that mother's caressing their children with all tenderness, give them little pats and call them rogues: and that the best friends delight to quarrel with one another seemingly and in jest: and we might questionless prove the same by wanton love, chose we not rather to pass by this proof, then to write any thing that should defile this paper. And if yet you demand of me, why a violent love borrows the characters of hatred; Is it not out of a too great desire of flying the appearances of flattery, and false amity, that it runs into this contrary extreme, which is more irrational; as if flying from an enemy, a man should cast himself down a precipice? Or rather that in this there is nothing done otherwise than aught to be, but that extreme love hath some characters like to the violence of hatred, because generally all extremes resemble one another?   

PROB. 3. Whence is it that the Choler of him that hath no cause to be afraid of us, and hath our necks under his feet, is sometimes sooner appeased by bravadoes, and boldness, than by humility and entreaties?  
IS it not for the reason that Montagne gives of it; namely that generous persons suffer themselves rather to be overcome by the generosity and greatness of the courage of him whom fortune hath laid low, than at his cries and groans, because they are more ready to reverence the image of virtue, then simply to be bend by compassion, which many times may be unreasonable? Or else, is it from some other causes, as for instance this, that it is a thing that astonishes and surprises him who can do what he please with us, to see that instead of submitting to him, we brave him, and that every astonishment is as it were an arrest and surprisal of the spirit, which consequently interrupts the motion of Choler, and gives the soul that is surprised with it, time to be better advised? To this might be added, perhaps, that in Choler the soul many times moves not, but by the violence of the first swing that is given it; and that in this case if one can stop it, it is infallibly extinct; as one deads' the motion of a body which is moved only by the violence of an impression it receives, if one stop it but one sole moment. Or else, is it because the bravadoes and boldness of those whom an extreme misfortune hath cast down, doth not show so much Constancy and Resolution, although at the first sight it seems to do so; as on the quite contrary Despair, because he that hopes nothing, doth likewise fear nothing; so that instead of raising Choler it excites Pity? Or else may we venture to say, that naturally every thing is extinguished by the same causes which made it live, when they are too abundant; and that as Love is extinguished by too free and too wanton caresses, and Fire by too great an abundance of wood cast on it, it may fall out some times after the very same manner, that the extremity and utmost excess of injuries appeases Choler instead of provoking it? Or else, is it not because the reproaches, and bravadoes of those that see themselves to be in our power, are a testimony of their freeness, and that we believe they have no worse thoughts than those that they dare thus express with so much liberty, whereas, if they beg of us with submission and humility, we suspect them of hypocrisy, and fear least this dissimulation covers some black revenge, and an implacable and furious hatred against us? Or else, is it that for a man to humble himself before us, is to furnish us with a subject of only Vulgar clemency, which as it is less fair, so it doth with less violence attract us; and that, on the contrary, to brave us, after having offended us, is to furnish us with matter for an heroic clemency, which is more beauteous in its self, and followed with more of glory? Or lastly, is it that he which doth freely reproach us, and boldly declares our injustice, cutting our soul to the very quick by this violence of his discourse, doth awaken it, makes it come to its self, forces it to be attentive to the reasons he alleges, and makes it comprehend them better, after which, though its interest oblige it to a greater revenge than before, it cannot still continue its rage, because, as Aristotle saith very well, a man is never angry injustly, that is to say, against that which he doth very clearly know to be reasonable?   

PROB. 4. Whence comes it that Tears are a comfort to sadness, and how are they form?  
IS it not that Tears do not properly unload the heart, as it is commonly said, but the brain, which being more dry after it is delivered of those humidities, serves the soul better, and is the cause that he which is afflicted having his reason more clear and strong, sees better the just grounds he hath to comfort himself? Certainly it is probable enough that the brain becomes more free, and the spirit more serene after this storm of tears, as we see the air is never more serene than after rain; and the example of children teaches us that the moistness of the brain accompanies the weakness of reason. Or is it moreover that by weeping we discharge part of the pituitous humour, or of the melancholy humour, both which cast the spirits into pensiveness, and a dull heaviness or stupidity? Truly this second reason seems not to be void of likelihood no more than the first. But (will some one say) whence proceed Tears, and what is their fountain? Certainly it is no easy question to answer; and perhaps, to resolve it exactly, would require a longer search than can be allowed a Problem. But yet methinks one might venture to say according to the appearances we see, that our inward parts compressing themselves in sadness, as it is the property of compression, there issues from them some moisture by this compression, as from a sponge squeezed: Or else that the brain continuing cold in sadness by reason of the spirits flying to the heart, it yields through its coldness some thin substance which becoming heavy, seeks its way out; Or else, as sadness generally weakens whatever is in us, that retentive faculty of him that is sad, is not strong enough to keep back, as it did before, those humidities, which we call Tears, but suffers them to run out when it relaxeth its self.   

PROB. 5. What is the reason there are Tears of joy?  
IS it that a too violent good wounds us many times as well as too strong a light? Or else that every change of condition in which one hath long continued, how happy and advantageous soever it be, hath always something of incommodious in it? Or else, that there is some bitterness, and as it were an infusion of wormwood in the greatest part of the sweets of this life? Or else, is there not some natural reason in it? and may we not say that joy excessively dilating our inward parts, doth by this means drive out some humidity; because that which is dilated cannot contain itself in the same bounds where it was before? Or else, is it not that in an affliction, we are hindered from weeping, out of a fear for the future, which makes us employ all our thoughts in consideration of means that may deliver us from that which we fear; so that after we are become more happy, we do yet many times nevertheless cry, to satisfy that desire which we had to do so? Or else, is it not credible, that we never understood our misery better, then when being delivered from it, we can compare the image of it, which is still very fresh in our memory, with a quite contrary condition: so that it is not to be wondered at, if many times this comparison which discovers to us the greatness of it, makes us weep even in the midst of our joy, through a kind of pity we have of ourselves? Or else shall I take it thus, that in the sudden motions of a great joy, the dilatation of the spirits of the heart is so great, that it is weakened thereby, and that our soul finding its own weakness, by this means is apt to be wounded by every reflection that hath never so little of trouble in it? Or lastly, do not these tears of joy proceed from hence, that learning all on a sudden, that we are delivered from some great evil, under which we have lain a long time, the news cannot presently gain an entire belief in us: and that as a body that is frozen, doth not lose its coldness at that very instant it is brought to the fire; by the same reason our soul cannot lose that impression of its passed sadness, at the very same instant that the good it was deprived of becomes present to it? See then the causes which it seems may be given of that marvellous state of man, wherein he weeps although he have a serene spirit, by an accident which we see sometimes happen in the air when it reins and shines both at once. There are are also Tears which abundant laughter brings into our eyes; but they are not of the same species with those I spoke of but now; and I conceive, they proceed only from that great and violent agitation which laughter causes within us; for there is no passion which shakes a man all over with greater violence; and it may very well be, that a motion so violent forces out of the eyes some humidity; as we see that the violent agitation of a vessel wherein there is some liquor, makes some drops of it sparkle out; and as the wind that shakes the trees after a rain, makes those drops which lay there, fall to the ground.   

PROB. 6. Whence comes it that many very wicked men, are oftentimes the best friends?  
IT is found by experience, that very bad men are often most zealous friends to them that they bear an affection to, nay sometimes more than the best of men. To inquire then the causes of this effect, is it not that there is a kind of amity which is not begotten by reason, but by a means more low, namely long acquaintance and familiarity: so that souls of the lowest rank and that have the least of reason, are not incapable of it: but on the contrary are in some sort more capable than others, because not governing themselves by judgement, they do only follow the impressions of other things; amongst which, that which length of time and use makes, is none of the least? Or else, is it not because good men are friends only add arras, that is, as far as will stand with Religion, and wicked men beyond? So that if they must only prostitute their consciences to their friends, and tread underfoot all things sacred, and despoil themselves of the fairest ornaments the soul can be adorned with, they do it very willingly. Or else, is it not that as dogs are faithful to us, and secure us against those that set upon us, partly indeed out of love, but partly also because it is their disposition to be easily provoked: so wicked men help us with great ardour against our enemies, and combat them with great animosity, not only for the affection they bear us, but partly also, for that by reason of their natural curstness and venom, of which they are full, they are more apt to be inflamed with a violent choler? Or else, is it because it is very natural for us to love with violence something without us; wicked men that love neither God, nor Justice, nor common goodness, are constrained by the force of nature to love infinitely some particular persons? Or else, is it that cultivating only that part of their duty which consists only in friendship, and keeping that only as a remainder of the beauty of the soul, which hinders them from altogether resembling savage beasts, they have the more love for that, as a mother hath the more love for her son, if he be her only one? Or lastly, is it not that the nature of things is such, that generally in every extreme there is some light mixture of the contrary extreme: For instance, we see by experience that in cold Countries there are sometimes in summer more violent heats then those of the hot Countries; and on the contrary, the subtlety of the air of the hot Countries is the reason that sometimes the cold there is more penetrating than that of the cold Countries. The Germans that pass for the least subtle people of Europe, have more of subtlety than any of the rest in all sort of mechanic inventions. The most ingenious people are commonly the most awkward and unapt in some slight things. Melancholy persons are subject to more violent joys, than those that are sanguine; covetous people, according to the vulgar opinion, are sometimes carried out to a greater excess of prodigality than prodigals. Men extraordinary valiant do often tremble more than others at the sight of a great danger. Women, whose visage is more properly than that of men the seat of Beauty, are also more susceptible than men of an extreme and horrid ugliness. Lastly, to return to the mixture of goodness and wickedness, one of the cruelest Emperors of Rome could not, as the Historian saith, be present at the acting of a Tragedy, but those feigned miseries which he there heard, raised a compassion in him which made him weep. We read as much of another Tyrant of Greece of the same nature; and when a man is arrived at the highest degree of wickedness, the last crime he commits, is to be his own murderer, and voluntarily to throw himself into everlasting pains, by the violence of the remorse of his conscience. In which there seems to be a certain air and shadow of magnanimity and heroic goodness.   

PROB. 7. What is the reason that the Wind which comes in at a window or a little hole, is more dangerous than that which we feel abroad in the open field?  
UPon this Problem some may possibly think, that as the water meeting with a very narrow channel, becomes more rapid; so the wind that comes in at a door, or a window, or a small chink, for the same reason redoubles its violence: Which is very true, but nothing to the purpose, for the clearing the difficulty of this Question: because it is certain that a very little wind gliding in at a cranny, is more apt to hurt one, than another wind much more violent, when one is in the open field. This cause then being thus rejected, is it not rather because the wind which we suffer in the open field doth presently close the pores through its coldness, and so arms us against itself: whereas the wind that comes into the house by some little hole, finds us hot all the time, and consequently doth, as long as it continues blowing, find our flesh soft, and easily penetrable. Or else, is it because the wind that cools only one part of us, such as that is which comes in at a little crack, makes the spirits, to which this coldness is an enemy, fly to the other parts, which is hurtful to this? Or else, in plain terms, as the welfare of a Commonwealth consists in a certain proportion of the Citizens one to another; so the good state of the body is a certain equal temper of all the parts: so that when any thing breaks this equality and harmony, and cools one part, while the rest continue warm, this is in itself a malady, and it were better they had been all equally cooled? Or else, is it because the wind that one suffers in the open field, is a very wide, and as it were broad motion of the air, which arriving at us, must needs break itself against our body, as it were a wave, and pass on each side without penetrating it: Whereas the wind of a little hole, being sharp, doth the better penetrate our pores, and doth us the more mischief: as we see that an arrow which does not hurt us if it be cast at us broadwise, wounds and pierces us if it hits us with the point? Or lastly, doth not that which Plutarch says, contribute to the same effect, viz. that the wind of a little hole, hurts us the more, because we take no heed of it, and that so we suffer it a great while before we put ourselves in a condition to avoid it?   

PROB. 8. What is the reason that Evil is more active than Good?  
IT is a very strange thing, and yet very true, that Evil is more active than Good. Grief, which is an evil, is more active than pleasure, and surmounts it so much in violence, that although a man be at the same time tickled with all the pleasures that can flatter the senses, a small Grief will be able to spoil all his happiness. As Grief is stronger than Pleasure; so Fear, which is a production of Evil, is a passion much more violent than Hope, which is a production of Good. Bad examples have more force to debase our minds, then good have to raise them up. Poisons are stronger than Remedies; and whereas there is not any remedy that can cure us of our maladies, unless it be applied to us, there are poisons so violent that they kill us with the very smell of them, if they do but come nigh our nostrils. Things that are the sweetest to the taste, as Honey and Sugar, are not yet so sweet, as Wormwood is bitter: and if you mingle an equal quantity of them together, the result will be bitter and not sweet, the ill favour prevailing over the good. Lastly, to omit nothing upon this subject, and to run through all kind of things by which this truth may be cleared, although amongst colours White be naturally more excellent than Black, as more approaching to the nature of Light: So it is, as Painters have observed, that it is the most feeble of all; and that, if one mixeth it in an equal quantity with black, it is always vanquished. But what then is the cause of a thing that seems so contrary to reason? I answer, that there can be no other given of it, but this, that Good here below, is not in its fountain, and that we see only some weak rays and small sparks of it; for if it were at home in its fountain, it would infallibly conquer Evil, and would be too strong for it, since that Activity being a Good, it is impossible but that it should be a property and dependence of Good rather than of Evil. But as of two Kings, he that is the strongest may be vanquished by the other, in a place where he hath not the body of his forces, and his greatest power: So it may very well be that Good may be more active than Ill, and yet that it may be vanquished by it in this world where we are, and, as I may so say, in this lower region of things, where it is not in its fountain, and in its greatest glory, and from hence may be drawn a very strong consideration to demonstrate the existence of God, as I could show more at large, and more clearly, if it were here my design.   

PROB. 9 What is the reason that Water-drinkers are greater lovers of fruit than others?  
IS it not because water hath a certain faint quality that offends the stomach, and the juice of fruit corrects that quality, and is to them as a kind of wine which they are not averse from? Or else, doth not the same reason that makes them love water, make them also love fruit, to wit, because they love all things that are moist and cooling, and that fruit as well as water is in the number of things that are most so? Or else, is it not because they which drink water only, do with more difficulty digest, and for this reason they love things that are easily digested, such as are most fruits, and prefer them before viands that give more pain to the natural heat? And if any demand, Whence it is that they say also, that on the contrary those which are great lovers of wine, do not care at all for fruit: Is it not the contrary to those reasons I now mentioned? Or else, do they not hate fruit, because by their moisture, they dull and deaden the palate, and so render it less sensible of the pleasure to which they are so much addicted? Or doth not the same reason for which they love salt and drying meats, make them also hate those that quench the thirst, amongst which it seems fruit holds the first rank?   

PROB. 10. What is the reason there is no such enmity as that which succeeds amity?  
IS it not because our mind doth ardently affect all new things, and loves change; and that when we come to hate him, whom we have a long time loved, it is a very great novelty and an extreme change, which consequently hath some particular allurement to attract our minds and engage it more violently in its design? Or else, do not great friendships leave behind them great enmities, because they could not have been destroyed but by great quarrels, and great subjects of hatred and discontent? Or else, is it because as a stranger, whom we do not know, cannot be either hated or loved: by the same reason, he that is very well known, may be hated more, and loved more than another; and that there are none so well known to us, as those whom a long friendship hath made us familiarly acquainted with. And indeed as the great knowledge we have of them makes us more lively imagine the motions of hatred they bear us, the words they will say, the thoughts they will have, and their very gestures in their anger, it is credible that this serves to inflame our wrath. Or else perhaps we may say that those, that are great lovers of one another, do only seem to hate more than other men; and perhaps they seem so, because that some relics of friendship, which they cannot chase out of their mind, rendering the injuries which they mutually do one another, more grievous, makes them complain thereof with words fuller of passion, and talk of it uncessantly. Indeed it is questionless much more grievous to be wronged by him that one loves, then by him that one hates; because this kind of wrong raises as it were a Civil war in our passions, exciting one part of our heart against the other, and hinders us not only from obtaining what we desire, but also from desiring it completely and without repugnance of a piece of ourselves; and Lovers may be good testimonies of this truth; for it is certain, as there are many waters that do not offend the sound parts of our bodies, but yet when they touch a sore place, cause there incredible pain: So this sweet wounding of their heart, makes them most sensible of injuries, which, without that, would not vex, nor move them at all. Or, lastly, those that loved very dearly, do combat one another with the cruelest acts of enmity, to learn, as I may so say, to hate one another, and to confirm themselves in that bitterness and violence, into which they are fallen, because they find, that all sorts of habits are fortified by exercise, and by the acts which they produce.   

PROB. 11. Why hath extreme affliction no tears?  
DOth it not proceed from hence, for that the soul in an extreme affliction, hath no lively apprehensions, such as those must be that raise tears, but falls into a kind of stupidity and insensibleness? Or is it not because when we are extremely afflicted, Nature, which finds that the greatness of our Affliction would make us shed too many tears, and that so great an evacuation might excessively weaken, instead of comforting us, keeps them back altogether, and resists the motion of our disordered minds, which, were it not for that, would abuse this sovereign remedy, and employ it to our own ruin? Or else, may we not upon this subject say, that he that is mightily afflicted, cannot weep as he would do, because generally every excessive passion hinders itself from arriving at its end, and becomes an obstacle to its self; and that for this reason those that are oppressed with too much Fear, desiring to fly, find that it hath nailed their feet to the ground; and that their hand shakes that are too much in Choler, and that they cannot express but by inconsequent and disjointed words, the greatness of their passion, no more than those whom a too great Love possesses, or those who are in a too great excess of Joy? Certainly it seems that this is not void of likelihood. And if it be asked, Why every excessive passion fails of arriving at its end? it may be answered, that this happens to it, because it is a malady of the soul, and a defect; and that the qualities proper to a malady are, impotence, weakness and ill success. Or else, every inordinate passion is an obstacle to its self, and is impotent, because it desires things vast and infinite, and beyond all possibility, which hinders our soul from executing those that are real and possible. For we see evidently, that he which is moved with a very great Choler, cannot express, at least in common and ordinary words, his resentment, and the indignity which raised it, because he seeks the most strong, and desires to use a more eager expression than the language of man is capable of. It is plain also, that Lovers do many times hack and hammer instead of speaking, for the same reason, namely because they would invent terms that should be as it were all flame, and have more force and energy than they can have; and that a like desire is the cause also why Joy, which is so talkative, becomes mute in being increased too much, or brings forth only sighs and inarticulate and confused sounds. And as for excessive Fear, though this be a passion to which one cannot so easily apply this reason; yet one may say possibly, that he which is too lively possessed by the image of a terrible and present danger, hinders himself, that in this perturbation and trouble wherein he is, he desires not simply to run, but to use some means more prompt and efficacious then natural and ordinary ones by which a man runs away; and that his imagination thus overslipping whatsoever is real and possible, as that of others which we spoke of but now, does not, by reason hereof, put in practice those faculties that move the parts of his body; for it is evident that it is the operation of the Fancy that must put in practice those faculties. But however it be, it is very likely that Anger, Joy, and Love, fail of expressing themselves well, for this reason; and if it be so, we may with likelihood say, that even so he which is very much afflicted, cannot weep, because that his soul disdaining the common characters of sadness, searches in that ardour wherein it is, so great ones that they are impossible. Or else, we may say that it doth not search for such, but as that ancient Painter, that chose rather to cover with a veil the face of Agamemnon, then venture to represent his grief: it also chooseth rather to refrain tears, and words, and not to paint forth the greatness of its affliction, then to be forced to paint it by the same things which the smallest of afflictions make use of. If any one be not satisfied with all these reasons, it may yet possibly be added, that, as we said before, a moderate compressing of the inward parts, may squeeze forth the humidity of tears; and a too violent compression of the same parts may, on the contrary, keep them in, by closing up the passages by which they use to come to the eyes.   

PROB. 12. What is the reason some things are gotten best by neglecting them?  
WE said in the foregoing Problem, that a Passion being wrought to a very high pitch, is an obstacle to its self, and hinders us from arriving at what we aim at. Now we will endeavour to give a reason of a difficulty like to that, but yet greater, viz. Why there are many things which are best acquired by neglecting them, and looking another way. Thus for example, the Philosophers have observed to us, that Glory is of such a nature, that the best means to get it, is to run away from it, and not to desire it, and that she favours those most, that do least regard her. Pleasure, if we consider it well, is like to it in this: for the soul being softened through the love of pleasure, and rest, becomes so sensible of incommodities and griefs, so vulnerable by all sorts of crosses, and so feeble, that the least thing wounds it mortally, and makes it despair; and even the smallest misfortunes become great unto it: On the contrary, the contempt of pleasure gives it presently a more strong constitution, by which it sustains the shock of evils that would disturb her rest and her pleasures, and by taking away her delicacy, makes her not to stand in need of extreme pleasures to be delighted, but to be satisfied if she have common ones. In Eloquence and Conversation, there are also many Graces which are not gotten if one affects to have them, and must, as I may so say, escape from us without our knowledge, to be natural and charming. But I need not enlarge here into any large discourse, to prove this verity by many examples, seeing we meet with it at every turn in the things of our life, and that even the vulgar confess it and allege it very often, though they are ignorant of the cause of it. But it consists in this, that all those things that are best gotten by neglecting them, are vanities; for our soul weakens itself by the desire of vanities; but on the contrary she fortifies herself, and gets more light and solidity, when she withdraws her affection from them, and by these new forces, which by this means she acquires, she obtains afterwards not only greater advantages, but also even those slight ones which she contemned; for these slight and vain good things are commonly appendices to solid ones, and follow them as images and shadows follow bodies.   

PROB. 13. What is the reason that those things to which we are accustomed, are not prejudicial to our health?  
THere is nothing more common than that saying, that things which we are accustomed to, are not prejudicial to our health; and there is commonly a reason given of it, with which men are satisfied, viz. that Custom is a second Nature. But certainly I conceive, that he which will a little cast the eye of his mind upon this answer, and consider it at his leisure, will see it vanish. For Custom hath indeed some power upon our inclinations, and on the things which depend on the soul: but I do not see that it hath the same power in natural changes, and things that depend purely of the body. To understand it clearly, Suppose that a man should a hundred times hold some Combustible body very near the fire, you will see plainly that it will never accustom itself to endure the power of it, without receiving harm; nay, on the contrary, it will consume by little and little: Even so, if moisture be contrary to the welfare of a body, it is very manifest that it will never accustom itself so well to be moistened, but it will still receive damage from the wet. Since then this answer is not satisfactory, should we not rather say, that there cannot be rendered any universal reason of it, but that it happens oftentimes for several particular reasons, which have nothing of common, that many things cease to hurt after that one hath been accustomed to them? As for example, Cold doth not hurt him that is used to endure it, because it shuts up the pores and thickens the skin; and that he that hath a thick skin, and his pores closed, must needs be more difficultly hurt by external qualities. On the contrary, he that is used to walk bareheaded in the field, receives no hurt from the heat of the Sun, as may be seen in the Bohemians children, and in the Peasants of some part of France, by reason that this very heat hath sucked by little and little from their brains, all those humidities which might have bred Rheums or Catarrhs. Violent labour also doth not hurt those that are used to it, for that it dries the Nerves, and the Nerves cannot be dried, but they are hardened, nor hardened without becoming stronger, and fit either to bear a great weight, or to thrust a thing with vehemency. Or else, is there in it some gross mistake? and should we not rather say, that things which we are used to, do not cease to hurt, because they have lost the power to do it, through use: but that when a man hath long used a thing, without falling into any remarkable inconvenience, it is a sign it was not contrary to him at the first, although it seemed to be so: and therefore Physicians do very wisely permit him to use it for the future. Or else (if we must however find out some reason common to all the effects which this Problem comprehends) doth it not consist in this, that as oftentimes Good is in the middle, and Evil in the extremes; so also on the contrary that sometimes Evil is only in the mean, and Good in the extremes, so that an hurtful thing having by length of time brought our temper into some extreme, it may by this means deliver us from the evil which it brought upon us. But that Evil is sometimes in the middle, and Good in the extremes, there are that prove it by several reasons: For they say that the higher and the lower regions of the air are more calm than the middle region, in which storms and tempests are form; that the extreme force or extreme weakness of the Sun's rays do equally render the air serene: but that when they have only a moderate force, they raise vapours which they cannot scatter: That man should either not reason at all, but follow plain common sense, as the Peasants do, or else reason exactly and profoundly, and become truly learned; because reasoning by halves, and being learned by halves, is the way to embroil one's self in a thousand doubts that others know not; that Angels and things inanimate are equally incapable of misery; but that those natures that are in the middle between these two extremes, are only subject unto it. Though these examples be taken from things far remote from the matter in hand, yet they may bring us to a belief that it is many times after the same manner in things which belong to the health of our bodies.   

PROB. 14. Whence comes it, that (as it is the saying of some body) a great service is not so proper to gain our affection, as many petty services done in a continued secies and on all occasions?  
IS it not because a great service may be received in an instant, whereas this train of petty services takes up in the gaining of our heart, a great deal of time, which must needs help forward the business mightily with all sorts of causes? Or else is it that when any one's beneficence descends upon us thus by little and little, and as it were drop by drop, we do at the several times we receive it, make more several reflections upon the obligation which he lays upon us, so that thus his benefits do sink the better to our hearts, like herein to a gentle and soft rain falling by little and little, which penetrates better into the earth, whereas great and violent showers only sweep it and run away without soaking in? Or else, is it that this continued train of petty devoires and services, each of which apart is not of any consideration, leads us to amity and good liking by so sweet and gentle a force, and brings us on so insensibly, that we perceive it not, and so make no resistance? Or else, as we love more those meats which having delighted the palate do not lie heavy upon our stomaches; do we not in some sort love more for the same reason the services that do us good, and yet leave no weight of necessary and forced obligation upon our spirits; as questionless petty services often reiterated do, because that on one side their number supplies their weakness, and makes them countervail a great benefit all at once; and that on the other side they are of such a nature, that he which did them cannot handsomely reproach them to us? Whence it comes that the acknowledgement we preserve of them in our minds, seems to us to be the more voluntary. Or else that which we search for, proceeds it not hence, that he which doth us a great good turn, is believed by us to do it out of vanity, to gain the reputation of generousness or bounty, because a great service makes a noise, and is exposed to view; but that we cannot suspect the same of him who is assiduous to render us a thousand petty devoires, which appear not to the eyes of others, and are perceived only by ourselves? Or else shall we say, that one may do us a great service in our absence, but that this train of petty services presuppo●●● that he that would make himself be beloved, is not absent from him by whom he desires to be beloved: but that on the contrary, he converses ordinarily with him; and that this familiarity is that which aids him principally to insinuate himself into our heart? Or lastly, doth not this also contribute to it, that when we have received some notable benefit from another, as it is a thing commonly known, it happens many times, that those whose interest it is to make us forget it, have so much artifice to extenuate it, to give it ill interpretations, and to take away its lustre and weight, that they seduce us, and extinguish in us the resentment which we should have had of it; whereas when any one hath insinuated himself into our favour, and hath witnessed to us the ardour of his affections in many occurrences, by petty services which have not been observed by others, the resentment which we have thereof is not exposed the assaults of his enemies, or rivals; and he is so much the more assured, the more it is secret and the cause of it not known?   

PROB. 15. What is the reason that a great joy makes us facile to pardon injuries?  
IT is certain that a great joy disposes us extremely to clemency, that it softens our hearts, and expels that hardness and bitterness which injuries have caused in them, and makes us easy to pardon them; and as it is a thing certain, and such whereof the enquiry cannot be otherwise than curious, pleasant, and profitable; I conceive I have reason to allow it a place amongst these Problems, and endeavour to discover all the causes of it. In the first place then, I believe I shall speak a very great truth, if I say, that our soul being surprised on a sudden by a great happiness, finds itself secretly obliged to some sovereign power, and hath secret motions of gratitude towards it; and that finding its self unable to do it any good whereby to testify its thanks, it is so much the more constrained to do good to his works, that is to say, that it becomes good, and disposed to do good, even to those that have wronged it. But besides this reason, which without doubt contributes very much to the effect we speak of, I conceive that Joy doth besides of its own nature beautify the soul, as well as it beautifies the countenance. And indeed, seeing that Joy is more according to nature than Sadness, seeing it is a Good, as Sadness is an Evil, it must needs for this reason inspire also into it and waken the passions that are more conform to nature, and better than those which are awakened by Sadness. Now there is nothing more according to nature then Goodness. If it be objected that Affliction corrects us, and makes us better; I answer, that it doth not do it out of its own nature, but by accident, as a medicine cures us by accident, although at other times it be a kind of poison, and is always in some sort contrary to the temper of our bodies. For if we consider affliction in its self, we shall find that as it is the property of winter and ill weather to kill flowers and to despoil the trees of the ornament of their foliage, even so it blasts the beauties of the soul, sours and debases it. But above all we shall find, that in cooling and weakening the courage it greatly impairs that generosity from whence issues the pardon of injuries. Philosophers say that Light doth naturally beget Heat, although it be not a quality of the same species with it, by reason of a certain affinity or correspondence of nature which is between them. I suppose it is for the same reason that Joy may beget in the soul goodness and virtuous inclinations, though its self be not a virtuous inclination, since that being a good passion, it must have some analogy with all the good passions, as sadness must have also with all the bad ones. But to come to the consideration of another cause of the same effect, it seems also that as an injury made us not angry, but out of an opinion we had that it had cast us down, when any great prosperity comes to raise us up, it must for this reason appease and sweeten the grief which this pretended dejectment hath caused in us, since that it doth in some sort do us reason. Or else, perhaps the soul, in a great prosperity, looking on the present which smiles upon it, and offers it nothing but matter of satisfaction, and a most perfect rest, doth equally take its eye off, both from what is to come, and what is past, and therefore hates to remember passed injuries, since that it cannot do it without looking off from the present which is so grateful to it, and interrupting its delicious employment: but that which still puts it more strongly upon the same resolution, is, that having all on a sudden received a great blessing, it doth passionately desire to enjoy it fully, and not corrupt the sweetness thereof, and that there is nothing can so corrupt its sweetness, as a motion of hatred and revenge. For as the act of Loving is in its self naturally sweet, because it is very much according to nature: so the motions of Hatred are naturally painful and mingled with grief, because they cross nature; and because the soul doth as I may so say, wrist and distort its self, in receiving them into it, and doth ill employ its faculties. Now that all motion of revenge and hatred of another is naturally painful and mixed with grief, is a thing that may easily be proved. For, besides that our own sense makes us acknowledge it to be true, we need only to look upon the visage of man in choler, to confess that nothing doth more resemble the visage of a man that is sad; and there appears something of painful and forced, somewhat like to that one sees in the face of a Porter employed with all his strength to lift up a great burden. It is even so also in all other motions of Hate. For in a word, it is as unimaginable, that a man should machinate any black designs, and frame within himself some malicious contrivance, without losing the native quiet and serenity of his spirit, as that the air should continue serene when it is form into storms and tempests, and that it should be overspread with dark clouds, before it pours down either hail or thunderbolts upon the earth. And as the spring of a Pistol is not at rest, and as it were in its due place, so long as it is cocked, and ready to give fire and kill: So our soul is without doubt restless, and out of its repose, so long as it continues as it were bend to the execution of some malicious act, and is ready to do mischief to another. And if we will descend from the consideration of men to that of beasts, we shall there also find some testimonies of this truth, since that they which when they are alone, seem to take pleasure in, considering the beauty of the day, of the meadows, of the rivers and forests, and are most lightsome and sportive, are also the most innocent; and that, on the contrary, all the savage and bloodthirsty ones are sad and melancholy, which may be seen both by their countenance, and in that they hate and fly the light. It is wisdom therefore in us to drive from our minds all malicious thoughts when we would fully enjoy any great happiness: Or else, the joy which a good fortune causes in us, renders us sweet and easy to pardon injuries, because after having gotten external goods, we do the more violently desire those that respect the soul, namely wisdom, and virtue, as those only which we want, and which remain to us to desire.   

PROB. 16. What is the reason there is so much false news spread abroad, and that many delight to make others believe strange things?  
IS it not because a man thinks he doth not do very ill, nor trasgresse much the Law of Liberty, to add to that which he receives from others, some small matter, or to take from it some petty and slight circumstance, which yet changes the whole face of the thing; an absurdity like to that of an ill paymaster, that thought he did not any great hurt, and was no dishonest man, in taking away a small cipher from a paper wherein his debt was contained, and in his defrauding his Creditor of a great sum under pretence that he took away and blotted out only a small cipher? Or else, do not false news arise principally from hence, that we wholly give credit to our friends when they tell us strange things; and that, on the contrary, our friends enlarge the wonder to us, because they see we are delighted with it, and that they are unwilling to deprive us of it by disabusing us, and take from us that delightful error in which we are, no more than they would wake us if they knew we were in a pleasant dream? Or else, is it because many men think they do well to make use of a lie to uphold the Truth? Or else, are we not chief deceived by false relations, because we think it reasonable to give credit to one that is no bad man, but hath on the contrary much of goodness; whereas we should consider whether he be not guilty, of some weakness, because a man lies through weakness as well as malice? Or lastly, may we not say that ill news is spread principally for this reason, that many please themselves in making others believe strange things? the truth is, experience evidently discovers this malady with which they are affected; and if it be demanded why they are thus delighted with it, methinks one may say, it is either because they would have these great and strange things be so, and that being unable to give them a real existence, they give them at least a shadow of it in printing them upon the spirits of men: Or that half-believing them, and taking pleasure to believe them, they labour to confirm themselves in their opinion, by drawing many others to be of it, and acquiring to it good store of suffrages; or that being unable to believe them in any sort, yet when they see that an another believes them, they contemplate the joy which they imprint on his eyes, and on his visage, and hear the exclamations which admiration forces from him, and the gestures it puts him in, and receive hereby some reflection of his pleasure; like in this to many sick people, who though they cannot eat themselves, yet delight to see others eat with a good appetite?   

PROB. 17. What is the reason that having been long on horseback, a man doth better refresh himself by walking a little on foot, than by sitting still?  
IS it not that as a colour is more contrary to a colour then to a smell or a sound, by the same reason one motion is more contrary to another motion then to rest, and so easier effaces the impression of it, by that Law which saith that things which are under the same genus do more vigorously combat one another? Or else, is it 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 body of the horse, on which we have been a long time, hath too much pressed many parts of ours, and by this means shut up certain passages; and that when we walk, the spirits running to these parts to move them, do raise them up, and by this means open whatsoever was there pressed, or too much straightened, so that they soon recover their natural situation?   

PROB. 18. What is the reason that when we come to rest ourselves after much walking we find ourselves more weary a while after?  
IS it because the heat which motion drew into our parts rendered them more supple, and obedient to the will, in dilitating the nerves; and that after we have rested a while we have lost this heat, but we have not lost our weariness? Or else, is is because when we walk, our sweat runs down; but when we come afterwards to rest, it sticks upon our skin and benumbs it, by its humidity, as also by its coldness, when the repose of the body hath given it means to grow cold? We see by experience, that those that come from swimming, feel their arms and legs weak, as if they had been beaten, by reason of a cold moisture that rests upon them. It is observed likewise, that when after a long motion we come to rest ourselves, we sweat presently much more; and this is because the motion of the parts of our body doth not then hinder that by which the drops of sweat do descend by their narrow passages, the pores. For, as every body knows, two several motions do very often hinder one the other.   

PROB. 19 Why is it good not to let a wicked man that hath power to do what mischief he please, perceive that we are jealous of him?  
IT is good, first, because he that would do wrong unjustly, hath yet need of a pretence, which how vain and frivolous soever it be, may at the least amuse his spirit, and hinder him from considering and clearly discerning the ugliness and injustice of his action. For, as he that is resolved to be let blood, and hath stretched forth his arm, yet turns his head another way out of a certain horror which nature hath of every thing that hurts any part of our body: So he that is resolved to do an unjust and wicked action, doth yet turn away his eyes from the injustice which he sees in it, out of a natural horror, and endeavours not to see it at all, or at least to see it less clearly. This is very handsomely represented by Esope, in the fable of the Wolf and the Lamb that drank at the side of the same river; for though the Wolf was resolved to devour the Lamb, and saw that it was best for him to do it presently, for fear lest any one should come to her succour, yet he stayed a while to reason with her, being not able to put himself on this action, without setting before his eyes some colour and show of justice. He gins therefore to complain, that she troubled the water; but because she replied that this could not be, because she drank a great way below him, which was so clear a reason that it shut out all appearance of the contrary, he could not yet fall to the committing of this evil, but seeks another pretence somewhat less void of colour, in telling her that she knew well enough, that her Father and Mother and all her Ancestors had been his enemies. Not but that this second reason was very extravagant, seeing it was the sole cruelty of the Wolf, which had bred in the Ancestors of the Lamb this hatred, which made them only avoid, not wrong him: but nevertheless this pretence for want of another, served to furnish him with some appearance of Justice, without which nature cannot be moved or undertake any thing. According to this then, though a wicked man may be resolved to do us a mischief, and hath power to do it, yet he wants a pretence, which he may use towards himself, and whereby he may (if I may be bold to say so) find obedience in his own faculties; We should be therefore so far from venturing to furnish him with one, that we ought carefully to remedy all things from which he may draw one. But we shall furnish him with a pretence and shadow of reason, if we let him see that we distrust him, although it be not without just occasion; and this shadow of reason will serve him to conquer that resistance which he finds in his own nature. Secondly, it is good not to give wicked men any testimony that we distrust them, because if they believe that we cannot so much as imagine they are about to commit a great injustice, they will judge us the honester, and farther from all treacherous and evil thoughts, and so will be more ashamed to sin before us, and discover to us the baseness and ugliness of their souls. Besides, if a wicked man thinks that we esteem him an honest man, he cannot without regret go about to destroy by his actions this belief which is advantageous and glorious to him; and will be so much the more loath to do it, as he believes, that it is well established in our minds, because that in doing it, he sees he wrongs himself: but on the contrary, if he thinks we have already an ill opinion of him, he will not have so great a desire to acquire our esteem, as he would to preserve himself in it, were he possessed of it; because the desire of preserving that which a man hath, is more natural than that of getting. In the fourth place, if he believe that we are in a profound and entire ignorance of the wrong he intends us, he sees by the same means, that in doing it he will cause us more grief, then if we had expected it, and provided ourselves for it. Now the wickedest man hath naturally more of repugnance to bring a great grief upon any one than a little one. Lastly, besides all these reasons, there is this still to be considered, that if any one thinks that men account him an honest man, or that they do not think him very bad, this serves to persuade him, that what is believed of him, is true, and that indeed he hath not very bad inclinations. Now there is no better, nor handsomer way of reforming by degrees the mind of a wicked man, then to persuade him that he hath some seeds of virtue, and an inclination to worthy things, because that loving himself, and every thing that is in him, he will consequently love virtue, if he believes that it is one of his qualities, and a part of his being; and he will also love virtuous men if he thinks he is like them, as he would love a man that hath nose or eyes like his own. In a word, it is certain that every one acts according to the Idea that he hath of himself, and according to that which he believes himself to be: for, those objects which we have most ordinarily before our minds, do by degrees communicate their qualities to our souls, and our actions; Now there is no object any man hath more frequently before his mind then himself, so that if he believes himself wicked, the image which he hath of himself must needs exasperate him and make him still worse and worse; On the contrary, if he thinks himself inclined to goodness, this belief must needs sweeten him by little and little and inspire into him better inclinations. This is all we have to say upon this Problem, which methinks we have by this means sufficiently illustrated: But yet we believe we should by the way add, that the Rule which it gives, is not always true; for herein are many Distinctions to be used: and especially we must have a care, whether he whose injustice we fear, be a man entirely wicked, or whether he have some good principles, and be not yet fully resolved to do injustly: For if he be absolutely wicked, we must not let him see that we distrust him, for the aforesaid reasons; but if he hath something of generous, and be not wholly confirmed in his evil resolution, it is many times good to let him perceive (but with humility and without bitterness, and rather obliquely then in a direct and open manner) that we see well enough he intends to wrong us, that our unhappiness is manifest unto us, and that we have not any hope. For, besides that this raises more pity in him, it troubles him to be accounted more unjust than he is, and having something of generous in him, he labours to refute by his actions this ill opinion which we have of him, and desires to show unto us that we were in an error when we had such a conceit of him.   

PROB. 20. Whence comes it that Beasts do naturally know how to swim, and that Man hath need to learn?  
THey answer commonly, that Man doth not naturally know how to swim, as Beasts do, because that the first time he tries to do it, he is seized with a Fear which hinders him from making use of his legs and arms freely. But I do not approve this answer; for beasts have at least as much fear as man, the first time one casts them into the water; and I have seen some of them that would tremble for fear a long time after, and remain astonished, and for all that ceased no● to swim very well. Besides, if it were only Fear that hindered man from knowing how to swim, this would be nothing to them that are very bold, and cast themselves without fear into great dangers; and a man in this case would know at least how to swim in the water of a Bath, in the midst of a company of his friends, since that then he would have nothing to fear: Or else he would know how to swim in a very narrow brook, where the bottom may be seen all the way, and can leave him no considerable fear. Since therefore this answer doth not suffice, and leaves the difficulty wholly untouched: I conceive rather, that a man doth not naturally know how to swim, because the first time he tries, he cannot choose but manage his legs and arms by Reason, and that this hinders him from doing it right, because it is an action that must be done by the imagination only, after a brutish and blind manner. We see clearly by experience, that there are many things which we do worst, when we would do them by Reason. Besides, I believe it is naught for a man, the first time he tries to swim; to be prepossessed with this belief, that he doth not know how to swim; whereas beasts are exempt from all this preoccupation: for, to believe infallibly that one doth not know how to do any thing, is a disposition to do it ill, and to come scurvily off. But, besides these two reasons, in my opinion it is very remarkable, that when beasts swim, they are in their natural posture, because they have not an erect stature; and do move according as they have an inclination to move naturally, namely, with all their feet at once; and that on the contrary, man lying at his length upon the water to swim, is not in the posture in which he should naturally be, and so hath the greater pains to move himself in this manner, as even upon the earth it would be painful to him to march upon all four. Or else I may say upon this subject, that the difficulty is not so much to know why creatures that are much more light than man, are more proper to swim; but why he doth not know how to swim as well as Oxen, horses, and such other creatures that are heavier than he: To which I answer, that it is because Oxen, and Horses, and such other beasts, have an inward capacity and cavity of their bodies much greater, which is the cause that though their bodies sink deeper under water by reason of their weight, there yet remains part thereof above; and that it happens to them as it doth to vessels that are high built, to wit, that they continue above the water, whilst others that are not so much laden, but are much less, do sink. Or else too, one may rationnlly say, that beasts do naturally swim, because they have for the most part a longer neck than man, so that although all the rest of the body be heavy enough to sink under water, yet in holdlng up their necks they take their breath at ease; whereas man's body being ready naturally to sink under water as well as theirs, he hath not a neck long enough, to keep his head notwithstanding out of the water, and by this means keep himself from being choked. So then Beasts have in this received from nature divers advantages above Man, in which she hath not done him any wrong, but on the contrary hath manifested the same wisdom which she shows in all other things, that she is guided by a most admirable and penetrating judgement, which foresee things that depend upon a long train of consequences. For, this wisdom foresaw that Man only among all other creatures should know how to make Boats and Bridges, or to pass the rivers on Horse back.   

PROB. 21. What is the reason that the fruits which grow at the tops of the boughs are the best?  
IS it because that which is most earthy and gross in the nourishment, cannot reach to the tops of the boughs, so that they receive only that which is more subtle, and doth easier find passage through the narrow straits of the wood? Or else, is it because that the tops of the branches are the newest and youngest parts of the tree, and that for this reason they have the more virtue? Or else, is it for that the fruit which grows at the tops of the boughs, are more exposed to the rays of the Sun, which ripens them better? Or else, because they are more exposed to the beating of the rain, which serves to soften their hardness, and to make them also sweeter; as we see that fruit is sometimes softened between our hands, and made sweeter according as we handle it? Or else is it, that when there is abundance of nourishment in a tree, it passeth to the extremities, after it hath provided for the necessities of all the other places; but that being arrived at the extremities, and not able to pass further, it amuses itself, and so feeds those fruits that grow there the better, which consequently must have more of juice and of savour. Methinks one may express the course of this nourishment by the example of a brook, which runs as long as it finds any way, but meeting at last some obstacle which is laid before it, and hinders it from passing further, it swells and gathers its waters into an heap. Or else, lastly, is it that the nourishment, according as it ascends from the root to the branches, is still more and more concocted by the Natural heat of the tree; so that for this cause it must needs be that which comes to the ends of the branches, must be most concocted, and most purified?   

PROB. 22. Why do good men think they ought to speak in proper terms of other Passions and Vices, but not of things that regard wantonness and corporal Love?  
SOme ancient Philosophers discoursing upon the same Question which we have here propounded, have though that this modesty which hinders us from speaking plainly of things that belong to lasciviousness, and the lower and more terrestrial part of Love, was but an abuse and vain ceremony. Their reasons were, that since we speak in plain terms of all other vices, whereof some are far worse, and that we dare pronounce the names of Treason, Sacrilege, Impiety, Assassination, Cruelty, there is no colour of Reason why we should not with the same boldness speak of vicious Love, much less that we should not dare to speak of all the effects of lawful Love, which hath nothing in it irregular. Whereunto they added, that whatever one might do without sin, one might also speak without sin. Montaigne seems to have been of the same opinion; for in the first Chapter of the third Book of his Essays, he says, that the rule which forbids us to express some things in plain terms, is a false rule, and that he scorns to reckon it amongst his true duties. He says afterwards, that it is the Daughter indeed of true wisdom, as other things which respect Ceremony, but a bastard one; and that he which should undeceive the world of it, would not perhaps do so much mischief, because man acquitting himself of these false offices, thinks himself discharged of so much of the obligation which he hath to natural offices. At last he adds, that it is only a sparing of Vice, not to dare speak of it, but by a Periphrasis. For my part, I think that the general opinion of men which is contrary hereto, must needs be better grounded, and that they have reason to look upon it as a piece of brutishness in those that speak plainly of whatsoever belongs to corporeal Love. And I do justly call this opinion general, whatever Montaigne was pleased to say, since there is no true History found by which it may be proved that there was ever any people wholly void of this modesty; and although there have been some, doubtless it was only a savage people, and scarcely participant of common sense, as certain Nations that have been lately discovered. And a thing doth not cease to be of common sense, though it be contradicted out of simplicity by some particular people. And though we could not tell how to answer to the subtleties here alleged against the general opinion, yet in my judgement it were not wisdom to disbelieve it, and follow them. But for all that, I conceive the truth being on our side, will furnish us with arguments to prove, that the objections which are urged against it, are weak and ill-grounded. For in the first place, Montaigne himself, in that Chapter where he is so much against the common opinion in this bus●ness, doth nevertheless confess, that there is no action which ought so much to humble a man, as this which is here in question; that they are the feet of the Peacock which abate his pride; that our weakness and vanity appear there in their best apparel; that when he considers the circumstances of it, he believes that saying of the Ancients, That man was made by the gods to serve them for a May-game; that all other actions admit a wise and discreet proceeding, except this only; that all other Passions trouble reason and assail it, but that this doth wholly annihilate it. I think that in all this he saith nothing but truth, but we may from hence draw arguments against himself; and indeed this truth being supposed, we have ground to say, that then it is impudent and vicious to speak openly of a thing, where the inconstancy of our judgement and the weakness of our nature seems to be at its best, after a particular manner, because it is a sign that he which doth it, doth not much trouble himself with the perfection and dignity of his soul; and that he doth without regret discover the defects and vanities of it. If it be further objected, that yet we speak openly of Perfidiousness, Sacrilege, Ingratitude and Cruelty; To this I answer, that good men indeed do openly and without scruple, speak of these things, and that no man is offended at it, because it is presupposed, they are things to which they are not subject. It is not so in the follies and sordid things which Love makes men commit, when for hope of a corporal pleasure, it makes a man submit himself with too much weakness to that sex, which nature hath made inferior to him: For they are follies to which the best have been subject; they are weaknesses from which good men are not totally exempt; and even those which abominate all Cruelties, Treasons, Thefts and Ingratitudes, and hate them with a perfect hatred, do yet find themselves weak on this side; and that is the reason they cannot speak of the more base and brutish part of this passion without blushing: and truly they would be impudent, if herein the memory of their infirmity did not produce this effect in them, and if they should speak openly and boldly of their vice, instead of avoiding the representation of it to themselves by formal and direct expressions. To confess that this is so, it is to be considered, that we should think a rogue impudent and brutish without measure, if being surprised in the fact, and being questioned of the manner in which he committed his theft, he should speak of it at large, and with all the circumstances, without blushing and casting down his eyes for shame; and that on the contrary we should think he had some remainders of probity left in him, when he dares not speak of it but with difficulty and by halves, making us guests his meaning, rather than expressing it. Even so a man that we know hath committed a notable Treason, would be thought very impudent, if he should in company make long discourses of Traitors and Treason, and if on the contrary such kind of discourse should not put him into a kind of confusion. In a word, it becomes him that knows himself guilty, to be ashamed of every thing that represents to him his fault. And as for that which was said, that it is only a sparing the vice of wantonness, not to speak as openly of it as of others, it is as ill-grounded as the rest. For as for a lie, parricide, murder, impiety, avarice, cowardice and vanity, because they are things which have an ugliness, which is essential to them, and therefore inseparable, it is very true, that the more lively one can describe them, the more hatred and horror he raises of them; nay it may be maintained, that a lively conception of them is enough to make one fly them, without the assistance of any other discourse; just as men run away from blows, or from an house on fire, without any need of persuasions. But it is quite otherwise in Corporal Love; for it hath no essential deformity, and is bad only by accident, namely, for want of necessary circumstances; and when it carries us in pursuit of its object with excess, or by base and unworthy means. And therefore to moderate it, it is not at all necessary to set it forth to the life, but on the contrary, by how much the more lively and in proper terms it is described, so much the more doth the imagination of those that hear so indiscreet a lesson, grow warm with that base heat which it is accustomed to kindle there. And hence I draw one strong reason more, in favour of that truth I maintain. For since that to speak in proper terms of this low and ignoble part of Love, is rather helping than weakening it, he that discourses of it in this manner, must needs have a design to render it more violent, either in himself or others; both which are equally beastly. Or else it must needs be, that at the same time, he that talks thus, and that he is with his friends, whose converse ought to elevate his soul to nobler and more spiritual pleasures, he feels himself moved with that lascivious and terrestrial ardour; otherwise he would never love to represent to himself the effects thereof so distinctly, because they are of such a nature, that if the imagination be not delighted with them, it is wounded by them, it being not possible there should be a medium between these two extremes.   

PROB. 23. Whence comes it that they say, whatsoever cures us, and is good for us, dislikes us; and that on the contrary, we love that which hurts us?  
IS it that in this they do not say true, but that as the Time whilst we are in sadness seems to us longer, for the same reason the accidents which are offensive to us, seem to us the more frequent? Truly I think that from this Source descend many other Vulgar Errors; as for example these; That a man is hurt sooner in the same part where he is already ill: That the wittiest children do commonly die before they can give their parents that contentment which they hope for from them: That disasters follow one another, and scarce ever come single: For as we desire that these accidents should never happen, so for fear lest they happen, we think that they happen always. Or else, doth not the error wherein men are in this business, proceed from hence, that when we love that which profits us, no man takes any notice of it, because it is a thing conformable to Reason and Nature, and upon which our spirit slides away smoothly, as our hand slides upon a polished body, where it finds no rub or obstacle; and that on the contrary, when we love that which hurts us, as it is a thing that astonishes us, and makes us stick some time to search the causes of it, so we see it the better, and imprint it the deeper into our memories? Or else happens it not thus, in effect, through the imperfection of finite things, which produces also many other effects, that seem to be against nature? As for example, we see that Difficulty whets the appetite, whereas it should rather dull it; and that Evil is more active than Good, although it ought to be quite contrary, and many other the like things; so that this may persuade us, that it is through this very imperfection that wholesome things offend, and hurtful things delight us? Or else, is it because the remedy ought to be contrary to the disease, and that contraries redouble their force against one another by an Antiperistasis? Physic for this reason doth at first heighten the disease, and consequently also the pain. And as Physic doth at first reinforce and heighten the disease, may it not also be that hurtful things for the same reason do delight us more often at the first, and increase our vigour, and that therefore they please us? If we suppose for example, that a man be sick for want of heat, it may be if he uses cold things that are naught for him, they will at the first refresh him and give him some strength, by making of his heat increase, and redouble itself by an Antiperistasis. Or else, is not nature at first delighted with things that redouble its evil, because that by increasing it, they may in some sort stupefy and dull its sense? And is it not, on the contrary, hurt by those things that cure it? because that in restoring it to its strength by little and little, they do as it were awaken it out of that lethargy in which the disease held it, and so make the sense of it the more quick? Or else, is it that Nature when she hath need to be cured, is depraved and ill disposed: so that it is no wonder if in this condition she be offended with that which is good, and pleased with that which is bad for her? Or else, is it not that as a man cannot take a spot out of his clothes without making the place a little more threadbare, nor refine metals without diminishing them, nor cause any great good in a Commonwealth without wrong to some: so also we cannot cure our bodies of any great infirmity, but we must do it some damage; and that as the remedy in curing us, doth us some hurt, this is the reason why it is irksome to the sense? If you ask me in particular, What is the reason that almost all Medicines are bitter, and odious to take? (wherein methinks a great part of the difficulty of this Problem consists) I answer, that this happens from its quality, because if the Medicine were not offensive to the palate, neither would it offend the stomach, seeing that it is from one and the same quality, that things which have been displeasing to the taste when they were in the mouth, do excite also a sense of horror in the stomach and offend it. Now, if the Medicine do not raise a sense of horror in our stomaches, Nature would not use its utmost strength to rid itself of it, and would not reject together with it, the ill humours that made it sick: for I think it is very probable, that it is by this means that most Medicines purge us.   

PROB. 24. What is the reason that Children in Winter, though their face and hands seem to show that they are more afflicted with cold than men grown, yet are not easily persuaded to warm themselves?  
IS it not because to warm themselves they must stand still a good while in the same place, and that Children love to be constantly in motion, out of a kind of Impatience, which is natural to our spirit at that age? Or else is it, that when they are cold and come nigh to the fire, its heat at first instead of comforting, doth more afflict them; which happens, because it reinforceth at first the cold of their bodies by an Antiperistasis; and that as they want experience and reason, and follow the first sentiment of nature, they reject this wholesome remedy for want of knowledge to judge, that by and by they shall find comfort by it? Or else is it, that though their bodies be more easily altered by the cold, than those of full grown men, as it is plain to the eye; yet this alteration is not so painful and grievous to them; the reason of it is, because the cold hurts chief by too much hardening and making stiff all the parts of our body, and that theirs are so tender and so soft, that by reason thereof, they cannot but very hardly be brought into the contrary extreme?   

PROB. 25. Whence comes it that when we are in affliction, we are better diverted by the representation of some Tragic History, or by the recital of some great misfortune, then by more merry shows, or facetious tales?  
IS it that the soul, being lively afflicted, shuns light and vain joys, because that without truly comforting it, and without taking away the grounds of its affliction, they do only dilate the spirits by a superficial emotion of pleasure, with which they tickle the imagination, and that this dilatation of the spirits cannot be but offensive to the soul, if it still keeps its sadness at the bottom of the heart, since that it is for its good, and to the end that it may have the more strength, it keeps them together in affliction? Indeed it seems to be for this reason chief, that the soul being thus afflicted, doth thus fly from gay and delightsome objects, and loves sad ones; just as a weak eye hates cheerful and light colours; and on the contrary, loves such as are dark and have but little light. Or else, when we are profoundly afflicted, and are present at shows full of mirth, are we not displeased to see others laugh there with a most pure and perfect joy, because this doth more sadly put us in mind of our own misfortune: whereas in hearing read, or seeing acted a Tragic history we find ourselves less unhappy by considering the miseries befallen others? Or else, doth not the recital of other folks misfortune comfort us, chief for this reason, that for a time they take off our thoughts and affections to ourselves, and fix them upon a foreign object? Or else, is it that as they say nothing doth better drive out one love then another love? for the same reason nothing doth better expel one sad thought then another. Without doubt this reason is upon good ground, and to speak more generally, when ever one desires to take away from a man wholly and for ever, any strong passion, one should endeavour to put him first into some other passion that is nigh it. For when we have wrought any change in a mind that had given itself up through length of time to some certain inclinations, we may after that bring him to what we please; as we see that when a man hath moved a stone a little out of its place, which long lying had fastened to the earth, afterwards he draws it whither he pleases; Or else the sadness which Tragedies and other such like spectacles beget, is it not more apt to diminish afflictions, then are other things more sportful, for this universal reason, That an evil is always more easily cured by another evil, then by a good, which happens thus, because to go from evil to good is a longer way, and must receive a greater change then to pass from one evil to another.   

PROB. 26. Why do some noises make a man sleep?  
IS it that noises which one hears near at hand being only a motion of the air, or at least such as cannot be form unless the air be moved, do excite some motion in the organs of the brain, by striking the air enclosed in the ears; and that this motion being very proper to hinder the operation of the spirit, makes a man sleep? Or else, doth not the noise of wind or rain, or of a spring make us sleep, by delighting us? And therefore we see also that many fall asleep more easily when they make some part of their body be rubbed, through the pleasure that comes of it; and that children also sleep sooner and with the more facility, when we rock them, because they love to be rocked? Indeed, that pleasure may help to produce sleep, methinks may further be proved, in that they which are in a great and profound pleasure, whether of body or of mind, do shut their eyes, stretch their arms carelessly, and continue in the same posture, as if they were really asleep, and that we say pleasure puts a man as it were into a sound. But why hath Pleasure this property to be more apt to cause sleep then the other passions of the soul? Is it not that the passions being necessarily either pleasures, or griefs, or desires, or hopes, or fears, the soul that hopes, or fears, or desires, or suffers, is in solicitude, and searches every thing, and therefore it sets its reason on work, and so hinders itself of being seized by sleep, whereas when it is in pleasure, it searches after nothing, being content with the present, and therefore its reason ceases to act, and by ceasing to act causes sleep to ensue; just as Night comes when the Sun ceaseth to shine. Besides, noises that tickle the ear, do make us sleep, not only because they give us pleasure, but also because this pleasure is altogether sensual. For a spiritual pleasure makes us employ our reason, and so keeps up within us this internal light of the mind, which doth no less hinder us from sleeping then an external light which strikes upon our eyes; and on the contrary, a pleasure merely corporal, is an obstacle to meditation. But why of sensual pleasures doth that of hearing produce sleep? Is it not because it is that only which we can admit in an entire repose of the whole body, and without doing any thing on our part? For, for example, the pleasures that come from delightful savours, cannot be tasted without moving the tongue and jaws; and we cannot also well enjoy a good odour if we do not make some effort to draw it in and smell it, nor can we well admit the pleasures of the eye without turning the eyes this way and that, and without straining to hold them open, by drawing back towards the forehead the skin that covers them: but to Hear you cannot say we should need to do any such thing; Or else may we not explain this Problem thus, that a pleasant noise which strikes the Ear, produceth first a suspension and cessation of all other thoughts, by that sweetness which charms us, and afterwards takes from us even the sense of itself: because an object that hath been long present to the faculty, strikes it no more, and is not perceived; which appears in that Custom is so proper to render both good and bad things insensible to us, and that he which hath long had his mind fixed upon a work, that he composes, becomes unable to judge rightly of it, until he hath for a while given his mind some other object? But why must the noises which make one sleep, be in some sort uniform? and why, for instance, doth the noise of a spring, because it is all of one kind, make us sleep better than of a musical instrument, which yet is more sweet? Is it that in noises which are not uniform, the same object is not always present to the faculty, that they have in them grave or sharp sounds, high or low, slower or swifter ones; whereas in noises that are uniform, it is precisely the same object which is always present to the faculty, and that by this means it may, after it hath effaced all other objects of our thoughts, efface itself also, and make itself imperceivable, by the continuance of its action, as we said, and so beget sleep? Or else is it that the pleasure which is given us by the noise of a brook or a fountain, is a pleasure purely sensual and of the ear only; but that the pleasure, which the harmony of a musical instrument creates, is not a pleasure of the ear only, but also of the imagination and of the memory, since that a man must compare in it one concord with another, and consider the proportion of the sounds to one another, to dislike or approve it; and that seeing it exerciseth the fancy and the memory, it is not to be wondered, if it be not so proper to make a man sleep?   

PROB. 27. What is the reason we aggravate our miseries, and love to persuade others that we are very unfortunate?  
IF we search why we aggravate our misfortunes, we cannot deceive ourselves in saying it is to persuade others that we are very unfortunate. But it is a greater difficulty to know for what reason we desire they should believe so, because oftentimes they are persons that we do not hope to receive any succour from, and that our very misery rendering us less able to be useful to others, may hinder many base and mercenary minds from doing us any good. To inquire then the cause of this humour of the afflicted; is it not, in the first place, that they are never assured that any man may not for the future be in a capacity to help him; and therefore they tell their misfortunes to all they see, and aggravate them to them, to the end that if hereafter they should discover any means to secure them, the pity which they have raised in them, may presently produce its effect? Or else do they desire to have all that come near them know their evil, and believe it to be very great, thereby to incite them to give them some consolation? Or do they not hope, that he to whom they have aggravated their misery, if he be not able to help them, may at the least pray for them, and that these prayers may prevail with the divine goodness? Or else, do they not desire that those very persons from whom they cannot hope for any succour, should bemoan them, for that they think that some body else that shall have the means to deliver them from their miseries, will do it so much the more willingly, if he sees that many persons do compassionate him, and are affected therewith, because the more general the good is which we are entreated to do, and the more persons it regards, the more ready are we to do it? Or else is it that to be beloved being in itself a good, we do therefore exaggerate our miseries, thereby to raise pity, and by pity love, because we know naturally that pity is so near to love, that there is nothing more easy then to slip from one to the other? Or else, do we not desire that a man should believe that we suffer very much, because we desire he should talk much and long of us, both while we live and after our death, and that we foresee that men will talk so much the more of us, as they think that our miseries have been great? Or is it not out of a vain affectation of glory which is annexed to constancy, and to be in some sort admired by others, that we paint forth as very excessive, incomparable, and in a word, much greater than they are, the evils which men see we suffer with so much patience, our Vanity being so essential and united to our souls, that Grief itself cannot expel it, and that that accompanies it even in the midst of torments, upon the Rack, and at the Stake, as the Stoics said of their Wiseman's Happiness? Or else, do we aggravate our miseries, because through humane weakness, we do in our miseries many times think that the Providence which governs the Universe, doth us some kind of wrong, and that to prove it, we dare not allege our perfections, and our innocence; but we allege only the evils which it sends us, which we say are greater than all that ever man suffered? Or else, because we believe that all things have their course in the world, and succeed one another; do we not for this reason delight to persuade ourselves, that we have been for the time passed very unhappy, to the end that we may build upon this foundation hopes of being happy for the future, and of seeing our felicity return in its course, as the Day returns after Night, Summer after Winter, and Fair weather after a long Storm? Or as Caesar very wisely painted forth to his Soldiers the enemy's forces much greater than they were, to the end that afterwards seeing them less, they should less fear them, and be provided of resolution and courage more then enough; doth not our soul by a like artifice fain to its self its misfortunes greater than they are, to the end that afterwards returning to consider the truth of the business, it may receive some comfort in undeceiving its self; and that when the violence of its evil shall return to oppress it, it may have laid in a large provision of courage, and find its self provided of more constancy than is requisite for the undergoing of it? Or else do we not aggravate our miseries, to provoke ourselves to weep more abundantly, because we find that tears are a refreshment to us; and therefore also in Tragedies, afflicted persons do commonly exhort one another to shed abundance of Tears? Or else, to conclude, do we thus aggravate our evils, because we think that great and excellent things, having only great destinies, either in good or evil, it is some token of elevation and excellence to have been exercised by great evils? If any man object to me, that herein we should make but a simple consequence; I do freely confess it; but I believe he will also grant me, that the mind of man hath very many weaknesses and follies, and especially that he is so passionate for his own excellence, that he lets not slip by in vain the least shadow of the least mark that he can give to himself of it. And therefore we see many men blame themselves for having a bad memory, that from thence they may draw some advantage for their judgement, because though they see this consequence cannot but be very weak, since that there are everywhere thousands of blockheads that have neither memory nor judgement, yet they think that this is some slight sign of it, because of an opinion that is received by many to this purpose, the truth whereof we do not here examine: and that which is yet more, you please men, if you only tell them that they have an head made like some very able man, whom every body reuerences and esteems; nay they please themselves to believe they resemble him in their hair, or gate; or, briefly, in having any air of his, nay to believe that they have had a destiny like to his, and like success in certain encounters. For, as in judgements of Lawsuits, there are some things which being not able to pass for entire proofs, do pass for semiproofs, or yet for less; so our soul in the midst of reasons, by which it labours to prove its own excellence, receives very vain ones, not as entire proofs, but as things which being collected and amassed in a sufficient large number, do give it means to flatter itself with some fancy which is advantageous to it, and to attribute to itself very likely some perfection.   

PROB. 28. Why do many laugh to see another man fall?  
THere are some who propounding this Question, answer in one word, that it is out of malice. And if a man object to them, that many of those that laugh at such a mischance, do not cease to have very honest minds, and a great deal of true goodness: They might answer, that a soul really good, may yet have, together with its goodness, some light mixture of malice; as we see there is scarcely a man so wise that hath not some light weakness of spirit: As when we say a man is sanguine, we do not mean that he hath not a drop of Phlegm, Choler, or Melancholy humour in his body, but only that sanguine is predominant in him; so when we say a man is wise, good, or ingenuous, we are not bound to conceive him exempt and wholly purged from folly and vice; For in truth it signifits no more than that Wisdom, Virtue and Ingenuity are his predominant qualities: Nevertheless, it is clear that in those that laugh when they see one fall, it is not properly malice; which I infer, not only because they do not laugh if he take any considerable hurt, but also and chief because they are as ready to laugh at themselves, if by chance they burn or cut their own fingers; or if the wind blow their hats off, or if they are surprised, or caught with a shower before they can get any shelter, or if any other petty disorder befalls them, the reason is, because these petty disorders have always in them something of grotesque, extraordinary and sudden; and because by these three qualities they do in some sort tickle the imagination.   

PROB. 29. What is the reason that those who embrace Civil and Worldly affairs with too violent an ardour, are subject to lose all sense of Religion, and the knowledge of a Deity?  
THough we had not learned from the authority of the Holy Scriptures, that the care of the things of the world, and the deceit of riches, do blind the understandings of men in respect of the mysteries of Faith, experience would sufficiently prove it; since that it happens even at this day very frequent, that those which settle their affections too much on the affairs of the world, and have in their minds no other designs but of worldly advancements, do so lose the sense of the verities of Religion that there remains to them only an outward profession of it, with which, as with a superficial kind of beauty, they cover the irregularity of their opinions. To say from hence, that they wish there were no true Riligion, that they might give themselves the more liberty to complete their designs all manner of ways, and that they labour all they can to persuade themselves of it, and at last do persuade themselves, it is to say very much, but perhaps not altogether enough, because many times it happens that the more we desire to chase out of our minds a belief, the less able are we to do it: It must therefore be added further, that as those who addict themselves to the contemplation of things sublime and abstract, do become unfit for low things, such as are the affairs of the world: So by the same reason, those that exercise their minds too much about low things, and such as fall under the eye, must become unfit for the discerning of sublime things, for that our soul is so miserable that it can hardly gain on one side but it loses on the other, and its perfections do very often shock one against another, and are incompetible. But besides these two reasons, there is a third more nice and not so easily to be perceived. The better to comprehend it, we must first consider, that when our eyes have been too long fixed upon the Sun, there do remain upon them some certain impressions, which make us think we see its image in all the objects we look on: So when our mind is strongly fastened upon the consideration of any one object, it thinks that it sees it everywhere else, and is also ready to believe that every one looks upon that which he doth with a great deal of earnestness, as he that hath long turned round, believes that all things turn with him. Thus, for example, a man of an Amorous complexion, all whose desires look only at Love, is apt to think that all things in the world are undertaken for Love; that it is this which for the most part plays his own game under the mask of Ambition, or some other passion; and that even wars, and all the greatest troubles of State, are only the effects of some secret Love. But an Ambitious man, out of the love he bears to Glory, takes it quite otherwise, and believes rather that all is done out of Ambition; that Covetousness itself looks at that indirectly; that Learning, as well as War, aims at nothing else; and that in Love itself, the Ambition to conquer the mind of a Mistress, or to surmount a Rival, are our principal motives. A Soldier wiil be ready to think that Learning hath no other rational end but the Military Art; but on the contrary a Scholar will judge that War hath no other end but to provide that wise men may quietly and peaceably apply themselves to contemplation. An Orator will tell you that Philosophy was invented only to move the passions of the Judges handsomely and with a dress. But on the contrary, a Philosopher will rather judge that Eloquence hath no other end but the application of Philosophy. It follows then, according to the preceding Doctrine, that when a man that hath already a propension to impiety, hath the affairs of the world too much in his head, and the means by which they are brought about; and he thinks, night and day, of nothing but politic tricks and 'gins by which he may entrap others; This imagination by little and little becomes plausible to him: That Religion itself is an artifice that tends to the bringing about of these very affairs of the world; and that it is a State-device of the Politicians, because he thinks that every one looks upon that which himself doth with abundance of affection, and thinks he sees everywhere else the same objects which his own mind is filled with, and to which he is too much addicted.   

PROB. 30. What is the reason that the lowest spirits are commonly most persuaded of the truth of their opinions?  
IS it not because that as the earth and gross bodies have this advantage over the noblest and most subtle ones, that they are more firm in their places, and cannot so easily be removed; so gross and dull souls have certain advantages over others, amongst which this must be reckoned to be firm in their opinions? Or should we not rather say that this is rather a disadvantage to them, and that it is harder to take away their errors, then to take from wise men their sound belief; for the same reason that makes it harder to cure a man of a disease than to make him sick? Or else, is it not that as a man that stands on tiptoes, cannot be so firm in this posture as he is in that lies along and keeps himself with all his weight on the ground: So wise men cannot be so firm in their opinions, to which they came only by forcing and straining themselves; as fools are in theirs, into which they suffered themselves to fall as it were with all their weight, being far from striving to raise themselves up again? Or else, is it that base opinions are upheld by the suffrage of the multitude, and that it is not to be wondered at, if that makes us courageously embrace an opinion, since it makes us without fear to run upon death, and assures us against the greatest dangers? Or else lastly, is it that fools for want of judgement, do not for the most part understand the reason of the able; and that on the contrary, able men do by their vivacity conceive the reasons which fools object against them, better than they do themselves, and that this difference is alike proper to make those more resolute, and to weaken something the assurance of these?   

PROB. 31. Whence is it that in the greatest subjects of affliction, we do many times take up more readily a constant resolution, then in others that are much lighter?  
IT is principally for two causes. First, that when we are much afraid of any misfortune, and look upon it as the greatest that can happen to us, this fear makes us very often to think of it; so that when it befalls us, we are already preparey for it, and that for this reason man● times we are more easily resolut●… therein, contrary to the expectation of all men. The second is that a great misfortune disabuses us of the too great estem which we set on the things of the world, and of the happiness which may be gotten in it, and proves to us on the contrary by our own experience, that all things are very fickle and inconstant. Thus than it makes us contemn it, and by that great blow which it gives us, doth as it were cut the roots by which we were tied unto it: In a word, by afflicting us on the one side, it comforts us on the other, and furnishes us with weapons against itself.   

PROB. 32. Wherefore are old men great talkers?  
OLd men have thoughts that vex and perplex them, when they come once to be entertained with much leisure; either because they have discovered vanity in all things, or because old age in which they are, sets before their eyes as soon as they entertain themselves in this manner, many grand incommodities, into which they are ready to fall, and lastly, the most inevitable of all evils, which is Death. They seek therefore to divert their minds from these vexatious thoughts by all means, and hither tend their household cares, to which, for this reason, they apply themselves very earnestly; but when they have nothing to do, they can only Hear, or Talk, or Read, to hinder that melancholy which their mind would give to itself in too great a lesure. But Hearing is not sufficient to divert their minds from thoughts that wound them, because governing themselves wholly by their own judgement, they give no great attention to the thoughts of others, or contemn them, as making account that they themselves have others taken up upon better grounds. As for Reading, it is an employment, which besides that it is hurtful for them, dulls their faculties, which Age hath rendered less quick, because it hath nothing that doth enough affect the senses and the mind. It is then only when they Talk that their minds do in good earnest lose the image of those things that afflict and trouble them, and diverts the sight from every thing that inspires it with melancholy. It is not therefore to be wondered at, if they are much delighted therewith. Or else, as Fruit falls more easily from the tree when it is ripe: so our Conceits come more fluently from us, how careful soever we be to keep them in, when they are full ripe, and that we have cleared and well digested them. Now old men's are such, because they are wise, and have made many reflections, which have disabused them of many errors. Or else, lastly, they are Talkers, for several particular reasons, as for instance, if they are present at any solemnity or great show, they have then less curiosity than others, because they have often seen the like; therefore, instead of being attentive to see; they suffer themselves often to make large discourses, which being then very offensive to those that are near them, hath so much the more easily gotten them the name of great Talkers. Just so also, if they are at a Feast, they have less appetite than others, and are sooner satisfied. And therefore, were it only out of civility, they are obliged to Talk, which incommodating those that by this means see themselves bound to make long replies, makes them so much the more blame this vice. Moreover, after the repast, they are also carried away with a desire to Talk much, to keep themselves from sleeping, because they know well it is a thing they are subject to. These are then, it seems, the principal causes of the effect we speak of, though there may be also many others.   

PROB. 33. Whence comes it, that in all kind of things, those that do but meanly in them, are more severe and rigid Judges of others, than those that excel therein, and hold the first rank?  
DO not people very much deceive themselves, when they think that to dislike all things, is a token of delicacy of judgement; whereas on the contrary, they should say, that a squeamishness both in body and mind, is a sign of sickness; and as an healthful man likes well brown bread, and less delicate viands; so a spirit of a strong and vigorous health, aught to be pleased with all things, wherein it sees shine never so little of perfection, although it will perceive the difference that is betwixt them and others; which being thus supposed, our Problem remains without difficulty; Or else shall we say, that the inclination easily to condemn others, proceeds from rudeness, and a want of natural sweetness, which is not to be found in minds that have an entire and perfect beauty, because it is a great ugliness; as on the contrary, it is a great part of the beauty of the mind to have sweet and gentle thoughts, to be ready to excuse the faults of others, and not to contemn any one? Or else as we see often, that petty Lords are less accostable than the great ones, and maintain a gravity fuller of pride, because their authority being not so well founded as that of these later, they think they must thus uphold it, by surly and arrogant looks, and by a brutish impudence: Is it not just so in the meaner wits, and do they not use this severity to condemn others, for to separate themselves thereby from the common, and labour to maintain the authority they usurp, and which they perceive hath not footing and basis enough to uphold itself? Or else as subordinate Judges, are very often more severe and rigorous in their judgements then the Sovereigns, because it is not in their power to remit any thing of the severity of the Law: the meaner wits, are they not more hard many times to excuse a thing that is against the ordinary rules, because it is for great minds only to grant a dispensation from those rules upon certain occasions; and because those that have meaner abilities, ought not to be bold therein, nor are they, for fear, lest whiles they desire to excuse others, they be blamed themselves? Or else is it, that meaner spirits are not willing to confess in others a moderate worth, because it is troublesome to have many companions; but that when a man doth excel in some kind of thing, he is glad that many others do but meanly in it, because it is glorious and delightful to have a great many inferiors? Or is it not, lastly, because great spirits love the truth more, and have more of ingenuity and of good breeding to acknowledge the perfection that is in another, and to publish it with all sincerity: but the meaner sort are not always capable of so pure and clean a candour, and do many times dissemble their judgements upon some design? It is certain indeed, that many petty passions which they cannot rid themselves of, are capable to alter their good nature, and hinder them from confessing with sufficient magnanimity another's worth. For sometimes they will not confess it out of an appetite of revenge, which some slight words hath raised in them; sometime they refuse to do it out of some motion of emulation and envy; sometimes it is not properly out of envy that they are loath to own a merit far above their own, but because so high a perfection doth more plainly discover to them their own littleness, and by this means makes them sad. Or else it may be, if they have once begun to blame a thing, they will not unsay it out of obstinacy, and lest they acknowledge they were deceived. Or else, they will not confess that another hath any worth, out of fear lest somebody should thence infer by a long consequence, that they themselves have none: Or if they have no interest to obscure another's glory, there will be some friend of theirs, or else some one that is of the same City, or of the same Country, or of the same Party that they are, whom this interest will concern, and they will not prefer before him one that is indifferent, or a stranger, or of a contrary Party. In a word, there are besides many other causes more slight and more nice, which change the candour of their words, and make them deny, either in whole or in part, the perfection of another: but great minds are free from these weaknesses, and undefiled with this filth, because they are less interessed, and therefore worth finds more equity at their hands, and is more easily owned.   

PROB. 34. Whence comes it that it is so easy to blame and find fault, that the least able do it best, and that it is much more hard to commend?  
IS it not because there is much more ill than good in humane things, and that those which are the most perfect, are yet very imperfect, if a man examine them strictly, and with a desire to find fault? But this being supposed, that the most perfect things in this world have very great defects: Whence comes it that the meanest wits do take notice of them much more easily than they do the perfections? Is it not because being ill-sighted, they see only that which exceeds, and is very great in the subjects they examine, and that as we said, the evil doth always exceed? Or else, doth not the imperfection of the objects more lively affect the mind, than their perfection; for the same reason that that which hurts our bodies, is much more lively felt, then that which delights them? Or else is it, that to acknowledge worth, and to commend it, one must first know wherein the perfection and truth of things consists; but that to know and to prove that another man is not arrived at it, one needs only know wherein they do not consist. Indeed this reason seems to be most true, and to be able sufficiently to clear the difficulty of this Problem. For it is so easy to say wherein things do not consist, that after this manner we know the nature of God himself, since that being ignorant what he is, we do nevertheless know him by negation, and we know that he is not any thing material, any thing visible, any thing mortal, and that he is incapable of change, and of the least defect; so that without being able to describe his greatness, we can easily blame and reprove those that speak too lowly of him. After the same manner, it is very easy to tell where the Centre of a circle is not, and the least child can point out with his finger many places which are not the middle of it: but to know where it is, there is need of skill, time, and instruments. But if we must still search out another reason for the same effect, consists it not in this, that as one that swims is carried by the very same water which he strikes, which he thrusts from him, and which he troubles: so he that reproves and combats any one, and doth all he can to decry him, is born up by his inventions, because that he affirms nothing of himself, and doth only maintain that, what he whom he censures says, being supposed, such and such things do follow: So that by this means he discourses oftentimes successfully of many things which he understands not, nor sees the grounds of. Truly it seems to be so; For, for instance, though I know not what a Halfmoon, a Counterscarpe, or a Bastion is, it is clear notwithstanding, that when he that discourses of them before me, shall come to contradict himself, either directly or indirectly, I may in using these terms which I understand not, reproach to him his contradictions, fight against him with those arms which he hath put into my hands, and appear more able and more understanding by this censure of him, than indeed I am. On the contrary, to commend any one with success, one must not suppose for ttue, any thing that he says, but must prove and maintain it by reasons fetched elsewhere.   

PROB. 35. What is the reason that when the Winter hath been very cold, they commonly say the Summer that follows will be very hot?  
THere are sometimes some slight things, the clearing whereof fails not to bring some light to our common sense, and in this number one may reckon this, which at first sight hath some difficulty, by reason that one would think the quite contrary, that if the Winter hath very much cooled the Earth and Air, they should be the more difficultly heated by the following Summer. Is it therefore quite otherwise, that the heat of the Summer finding the earth and air very cold, doth redouble its violence by the opposition of its contrary? Or else do they say so, because they see that one contrary doth naturally succeed another in the same degree; as for example the water doth naturally ascend as much as it hath descended; the excess of heat in a fever ariseth to the same violence with the excess of cold; great friendships leave behind them great enmities; and great displeasures, when they end, produce extreme contentments; after an extraordinary cloudy and wet season, we enjoy an extraordinary serenity and purity of air, and much fairer than that which went before it; and one that is recovered from a great sickness, hath commonly better health than he had before, and recovers a soundness that is more firm and of a greater value, then that which he had lost. Or else is it that when the Winter hath been extraordinary cold, it hath also been necessarily dry, by the same reason the earth being very dry is disposed to receive a great heat? Or else that when it hath been long cold, it is a sign, that the matter of the cold and Northern wind, or of the other causes that do cool the air, is spent for a long time, and therefore it is likely it will be very hot?   

PROB. 36. What is the reason that Fear makes one's hair stand on end?  
FOr the clearing of this Problem, I think it is needful to consider in the first place that Admiration and Fear have some affinity, and do often accompany one another. Which being so, it seems that as Admiration makes a Chillness run through one's whole body by reason that it brings into the soul a certain shadow of Fear. So Fear makes the hair stand on end, out of some mixture of Admiration. Indeed this seems so much the more probable, because the frights which make the hair stand on end, must spring from a danger whose image presently strikes the soul, and yet it knows no cause of it, and that those frights which come upon us when we think we see dead men, or Ghosts, or Devils, do chief produce this effect, because they are not only fearful things, but also very admirable, as being supernatural. Virgil hath excellently well comprised this; for when he would express the Fear which the ghost of his wife Creusa struck into Aeneas, the prodigy of Polydorus' tomb, the arrival of Mercury, that came to bring him a message from Jupiter; or the Fear that Turnus was in, seeing an infernal monster flap his buckler with its wings: upon all these occasions he puts down this circumstance, that their hair stood up right, because that all these things were as Admirable as terrible: But in other kinds of fear, he is contented to mention only coldness and trembling. And if any demand of me why Admiration makes the hair to stand up right? I answer, that the soul, having its faculties intent on the consideration of that which appears admirable, doth also contract the organs of the brain, and with them the skin that covers the head. Now a man may easily imagine that we cannot contract this skin, but by pulling it up, nor pull it up but the hairs will stare a little. It is true that the motion of fear doth also contribute thereto, because it makes one cold, and that a part of our body cannot be cold without being a little more contracted then before.   

PROB. 37. Whence comes it that many being in a frenzy, have spoke Latin or Greek, without having ever learned either of these languages?  
MAny of those that have examined this Question, endeavouring to rid themselves of the great difficulty which it presents at first to the mind, have in my judgement made use of such answers, as are more against all appearance of reason, than the Question itself, and given us remedies worse than the disease: For they would give such strange force to our imagination, that no man of a sound judgement is able to give credit to their vain discourses. Wherefore omitting all that they have said of it, we will search only amongst known causes, according to our custom, the reason of so marvellous an effect. First than it is remarkable, that those words, which many being in a frenzy have pronounced in a tongue which they knew not, have been ordinarily Latin or Greek, or sometimes Hebrew, according to the report of those that have treated of them. In the second place I suppose that the words which they have thus spoken, did not make any discourse that was coherent or that was pertinent to that which was asked them, since that the transports of their frenzy hindered them from discoursing rationally. These two things being thus supposed, one may add, that although those that have spoken Latin, Greek, or Hebrew in a frenzy, never studied it, and yet they easily may have heard those words before which they spoke, seeing that these three languages are commonly taught throughout Europe, and that private houses and those places which are set apart for speaking in public, do very often retain them. Now it is possible that these words, at the same time when they heard them, made some impression in the organs of their memories, which through its weakness did not appear to them, until they fell into madness; because that the heat of the frenzy by its immoderate subtilizing of the spirits of the brain, renders the sense of the imagination so quick and so delicate, that there cannot be in its organs any impressions so weak which it discovers not and is lively enough affected with it. And that the images of certain things can lodge in our memories, and we have no knowledge of them at all, because they are only painted very weakly, and as it were with dead colours, may sufficiently be proved by Reminiscence, which brings to our minds many things which we thought we had utterly forgotten. Besides many otherlike impressions, are also made oftentimes in the other organs of our faculties, and we never perceive it; and it is not to be doubted, for example, but that when the weather is about to change, our bodies, although we perceive nothing on it, do receive within them some change, as well as those of birds that thereby do presage fair or foul weather. In the third place, one may confess that certain images may be imprinted in our organs without being perceived, after the example of a man that is very unbiased, who doth questionless, for all that, receive the images of objects very far distant, because that he would see them if on a sudden, the power which he hath of seeing should become more subtle and quick. And if any man wonders not that these freneticks we speak of, are able to retain, and conserve a long time in their memories the images which they do not know are there, but that the words which they heard only by the by, should be able to leave there any light and weak picture of themselves. He must remember that besides that the organs of the memory are without doubt very delicate, and very susceptible of all impressions, the activity of natural things is marvellous, and hath many times much greater extent than we believe. For, for example, could we easily persuade ourselves, that a beast that runs can in running imprint it's sent in all the places where it goes, if the dogs of chase did not prove it; and when we have handled a ring of glass, or silver, or gold, would we believe at the first, that so small touching of it should take away any thing from it: and yet Philosophers hold that it must needs be so, since that at length we diminish it sensibly by handling it? I add further that it is not necessary, that the persons we now speak, of should have heard those words they pronounce in their frenzy, only once; they may have heard them two or three several times, and a man must the less wonder that we have the images of things without knowing it, when he considers that our very desires are hidden from us, when they are as yet very feeble, and newly born.   

PROB. 38. What is the reason that a too earnest entreaty makes us unwilling instead of inciting us to grant that which is desired of us?  
IS it not because man being a rational creature and one tha● ought to act freely, loves to lea● himself the dance in all his actions and to have the beginning of the● in himself; and that when one desires to constrain him with too much ardour and violence to any things he thinks he is rather drawn by th● ardour and pressing importunity, then put upon it of himself, which consequently displeases him, and makes his will more cold instead of heating it? Or else, is it because he which begs of us earnestly, makes us foresee plainly enough, that we cannot deny him his desire without putting him into a great choler, and making him our enemy, that is to say, that he provides for us his enmity, as it were a punishment in case we fail of compliance toward him, in which our mind sees yet a greater image of constraint, and that which displeaseth it more? for it hates nothing so much, as to seem to do a thing out of fear. Or else, is it because we judge, that he which desires a thing with immoderate and excessive passion, is apt to tell a lie to gain it, sooner than another man that desires it with less violence; and that he doth purposely conceal from us some circumstance, which would make his request unreasonable, and unjust? Or else, is it because that which is very violently desired, seems to us of more consequence; and that in things of consequence, we are wont to demur and consider a good while before we resolve any thing, because we are afraid of committing some great error? Or else is it because he which prays us with too much earnestness, says many things which make us believe that he hath his eye fastened only upon his own interest, and that he regards only the good or evil that may happen to him upon our denial or consent, and not on the good or evil that may befall us, which we dislike with some reason, as being unjust: for, according to equity and reason, he that would have us be disposed to do good to him, ought also on his part to wish us well, and that in desiring of us an act of good will towards him, he have not a will indifferent toward us? Or else lastly, is it not because too earnest prayers and supplications are commonly accompanied with too low and base a submission, and a too servile flattery, which commonly do quite contrary to that a man thinks they should? It is manifest indeed that a too low and sordid submission is apt to be contemned, and every one knows it well enough; but that which deceives men, is, that oftentimes they do not consider long enough before the consequences of this contempt, and see not that it not only extinguishes Affection in us, but also inclines us even to Hatred, just as Pity inclines us to Love. Besides, the submission that any one renders to us, is not more apt to please us, and by this means to get some benefit of us, then to make us think it comes from a base and dejected mind, since that all the advantage we can find in it, proceeds only from the mind that it comes from: and as for the excessive praises which are given us by him that desires to obtain some favour from us by his too base flattery, if we think that they do not come from the heart, we consider them only as so many cheats; and if we believe that he doth really esteem us, with that excess as he makes show of, first, we do not much thank him for it, because the esteem which a man hath of any one, is a thing forced, and depends not on him that gives it; and in the second place, we do not now take so much care to preserve and augment this esteem in him by our benefits, as thinking it both great enough and well enough established, whereas when any one respects us, but with more moderation, we labour what we can to increase this esteem by our beneficence, and take care to cherish and cultivate (as I may so say) a belief, which we see is both profitable and glorious to us.   

PROB. 39 What are the causes of the marvellous things which we observe in the Silkworm?  
TO say the truth, there is nothing so admirable as that which no body admires. Those which we call occult qualities in the Elements, or in other things, may have the most common causes, like Juggler's tricks, which seem to be grand mysteries, before one hath discovered them: but Man, whose ordinary operations and common motions we do not at all admire, offers us nevertheless in these operations and motions far more worthy subjects of astonishment; his Passions are more admirable than the ebbing and flowing of the sea; the power of his understanding over his Will, more marvellous than the influence of the Stars; the operations of his Senses are of much more difficult explication, than all those of the Loadstone; and he is a great marvel that admires little ones. Not to go too far in this discourse, the consideration of the marvels which are discovered in the Silkworms, may furnish us with some proofs of it: they seem at first sight to surpass or equal the things that are most strange; and those that have described them, have not been able sufficiently to admire that this creature should be killed by the sole noise of thunder, that it should have an instinct to spin unprofitably, and even with the loss of its life, seeing that it stifles itself in its own work, that it can draw out of its body that Silk of which it composes it; that a long time after it is dead, it revives; that it transforms itself into a Butterfly, and after it is thus transformed, it can live still many days without meat, that is to say, to the end of its life. But how strange soever all these things seem, I conceive that if we would consider them somewhat exactly, we should persuade ourselves, that there is no necessity of leaving the bounds of common and ordinary causes to unveil and clear the secrets of them; and to do it, I will lay down only two things; First, that Silkworms are excessive cold; and Secondly, that they are full, and as I may so say, overglutted with an excessive moisture: their moisture is apparent of its self to our sight, since that it makes them wholly transparent; and it is credible, that it is this that renders them so fruitful. Their extreme coldness may also be felt by our hands, and doth besides discover itself by certain reasons to our minds, seeing that in the midst of Summer, if the weather come to be a little coldish, they die with cold, which doth not befall any other creature; and seeing those which take the pains to keep them, are careful to keep them very warm, and in a place that is not exposed to the Northwind. These two things being thus supposed, it is no wonder in the first place that the noise of thunder kills them; this manifestly proceeds from the fear which so terrible a noise causes in them; for they must needs be very fearful, since that they are so cold and are void of blood; and when fear adds its coldness to that which is natural to them, so violent an excess may easily deprive them of life. Now as the Silkworm is very cold, and when it gins to grow old, its natural frigidity by this means increasing, it is not to be wondered at that it seeks to envelop and cover itself, to the end that it may be warm: for all other creatures being pressed with cold, do the like, and search out holes wherein they lie in the straw, and enwrap themselves even in the clothes and hang of our houses, to be the less troubled with it. Hereto serves the Silk which it vomits, and we must not wonder that it can vomit this rich matter; for it is nothing but the remainders of its nourishment which its too weak heat cannot digest, and as it were a superfluous humour which their abundance of it hath caused. Besides, when it puts it forth, it is not dry, but viscous, and hath a clammy moistness: but presently after the air hardens and dries it, as if it were glue. Being thus covered for warmth, it is not stifled as folks believe; nature doth not give creatures any instincts that are so destructive to them. It dies not unless by a natural death for want of strength, but rather it makes its Bed when we think it builds its Sepulchre, and sleeps when we believe it dies. And indeed, if we open this pretended grave, after that we believe it is dead, we shall clearly perceive that it is only in a profound sleep; its natural frigidity, which even before it thus locked itself up, caused it to sleep longer then ordinarily other creatures do, making it sleep much longer, since it locked itself up enveloped as it is in silk, which it wisely drew out of its own body to cast round about it; it grows a little warm by reason that its heat is on all sides hindered from exhaling, and driven back, just as a man becomes warm by means of the clothes he covers himself with. But whence comes it, you will say, that it transforms itself into a Butterfly? I answer, that there is no colour to say it is transformed; that the Wings it acquires were due to it from its birth; that nature intended it should fly with them: but that they could not grow out, until that being covered with silk, which it vomited, it had gotten together a little more heat, to strengthen its vegetative faculty, and enable it to put them forth, as it doth to that of Trees, to put forth their fruits, leaves and flowers, the production whereof was formerly hindered by the coldness of the Winter. Nor doth this happen only to Silkworms; for Caterpillars spin the like upon trees, locking themselves up in their own work, and being there, they get wings as well as these. But that which further proves to us, that the heat of the Silkworm, uniting itself, after the manner aforesaid, may serve to put forth its wings, is, that flying Serpents are to be seen only in very hot Countries, by reason it seems, that the extreme heat of the air, supplying the defect of the coldness of their temper, gives their formative faculty power to produce them. But if we must say that they are transformed, and that they change their nature in acquiring wings, because that immediately after their birth they have none, we must for the same reason say, that many other creatures are transformed when they acquire Teeth, Nails or Horns, which they had not when they were born, and that the very birds are transformed when they get wings, since that when they were hatched they had none. The Silkworm therefore is not transformed, but only becomes able to fly somewhat slowlier; and to conclude my story, it is reasonable we should believe, that after it hath slept much, the same cause that awakens other creatures, awakens this also: Then doth wise nature make it vomit forth a thin sharp moisture, which helps it to gnaw that silk, which it was on all sides environed with, and by this means out it comes and continues for many days, and even to the end of its life, without eating any thing, wherein consists the last marvel that we are to speak of. But I conceive we may easily guests the cause of it, if we remember, that it hath a very great moisture joined with a very small heat: for we shall see that this small heat must find for a long time sufficient aliment in this great moisture, without having need to receive any other; and hereupon might be alleged the strange story of a Germane maid, that having a very weak heat, and a body full of a viscous and clammy humour, continued some whole years without eating or drinking. Now as this temper of the Silkworm discovers to us the cause why it can live so long without meat: So this entire abstinence, in which it passes a great part of its life, may be a new confirmation to us, that it hath the same temper which we attributed to it at first. For though for a certain season it eats abundantly enough, of which there may be easily some other particular reason; yet considering its whole life in gross, it must pass for one of the soberest creatures. These are then, in my opinion, the causes of whatsoever appears marvellous in the Silkworm. If any one hath a mind to think that there are more strange and more occult ones, it is not my intent, that this discourse should hinder him; But yet I believe that as we oftentimes do not see many things because they are too far distant from the eyes of our mind, so at other times we do not see them because they are too near, and that we search at the other end of the world for that which lies before our noses, and that the great eagerness that our understanding uses to arrive at their causes, makes it go much beyond them.   

PROB. 40. Why are good men oftentimes subject to a light promptitude of Choler?  
DO they not only seem to be so, because they are more free and open, and so know not how to dissemble the smallest anger, and least discontentments that arise in them; but let them presently appear in their eyes and words: whereas those that are less free, do conceal them what they can possibly? Or else, is it that those that have honest and good minds, are angry for many things that regard not their particular interests? as for example, for the glory of God, and for any thing that respects Honesty and Piety, so that as these are general things which come every moment into our discourse, ordinary conversation offers them more often occasion to speak with heat and emotion, and in some sort to be provoked: whereas a brutish man, to whom all things are indifferent except his own proper interest, can hear without any disturbance, all kind of discourse which he is not the subject of, be they never so strange; which makes him often appear more sweet and gentle, because his interests being some particular things, and little known to others, they scarce ever come to be the matter of a common discourse? Or else, may we not give light to this Problem, by that which Aristotle saith, that Choler is inclined to obey Reason, but that it obeys it too soon, and stays not until the first appearance of Reason hath given place to another more clear and solid? And may it not be said, that if so, it must needs be, that good minds must naturally have some seeds of a light promptitude to Choler, because the inclination readily to obey Reason, is without doubt a good disposition of mind, and a token of excellence, though by accident-there may arise from it vicious actions and other inconveniencies? Or else, may we not add further, that one shall have less reason to wonder, that Good men have many times such a disposition, if it be considered, that there are some kinds of Anger so handsome, that one may maintain they mark out more of Goodness, Tenderness, and Love of good, than even motions of Pity or goodwill; because in the motions of Affection and Pity, the soul doth merely desire to do good; but those of a generous and laudable Anger, are the motions of a soul that doth so much love good and hate evil, that it troubles itself at it even to fury, and becomes foolish for a time? It may indeed be further alleged in favour of this Paradox, that the tenderness of nature of any creature appears not so much; for example, when it takes care to give food to its little ones, as when full of anger and as it were in a fury, it lays on load with its wings, or horns, or other arms that Nature hath given it, on those that would come too near them. Or else, in conclusion we may say, that there are certain emotions of choler, in which a man hath no intentions to do any hurt to those of whom he complains with sharp words; but rather to incite them to produce their justifications, to be able to find them innocent, or less culpable, and to continue by this means to love them: so that as they do not proceed out of malice, but tenderness, there is no cause to wonder that good men are subject thereunto, and that they show a good nature, like in this to Lightnings, that appear in Summer evenings, and are oftentimes signs of fair weather, whereas they should seem rather to presage foul.   

PROB. 41. Whence comes it that they say, The Love of Grandfathers to their grandchildren, is greater than that of their Fathers?  
IS it not because a man attains through longer cares to have a Grandchild, then to have a Son; and that always that which we acquire through more care, is more dear to us? Or else, is not a Grandchild dearer, because it hath been a long time desired? Or else, do we not look upon it as a more rare favour, and such as heaven eommunicates only to few persons, which makes us love it the more, because generally all rare things have a particular allurement for our minds? Or else, is not a Grandchild more beloved of his Grandfather then of his Father, because that his Grandfather, as being more old, and nigher his death, doth for this reason desire the more to live again in another? Or else, is it because the love we bear to those that proceed from us, arising from a desire to extend our being successively to many generations, he that by this natural course is more removed, shows to us this design more advanced, and so doth more touch our inclinations? Or else, is it because the Father loves his Son only for his own sake, but the Grandfather loves him for his own sake and for his Son's sake too, and sees in him the image of himself, and of him whom he hath begotten, and that these two divers considerations do produce in him two divers tendernesses very powerful? Indeed this reason is very likely: for to go about to object, that the Father hath likewise two divers causes of loving his Son, because he may love him for the Grandfather's sake, this makes nothing to the purpose; since that, as every one knows, the affection which blood inspires, hath much less force in ascending than in descending. But if still another reason must be given of this Problem, one may also say, that perhaps the affection of Grandfathers doth only seem to be greater than that of Fathers, because the Son being in a more particular manner the very blood and substance of the Father; the Father for this reason thinks that to love him very much, is to love himself very much, and that therefore he conceals and keeps in these motions of it, for fear lest they betray too much weakness and self-love: Whereas a Grandfather being not so much touched with this consideration, doth the more give himself over to the violences of his Love, and dares more freely manifest it, as judging the excess thereof-less shameful.   

PROB. 42. Why is it that a rare and eminent Virtue which shines in a Prince, raises greater motions of Love in the lower sort of people, then in other men?  
IT is a thing worthy to be observed, that the virtue of a Prince when it is eminent and rare, seems to raise more Love in the lowest sort of people, then in any others. For we see it is commonly the vulgar people that appear most afflicted for the death of a good and virtuous Prince, even to weep in the streets, shops, and about the fields, with an extreme tenderness, as it were for a domestic loss, and it is also the meaner sort of people that in his life-time gives him with more zeal a thousand benedictions, and labours for his glory with a more passionate will, and such as shows that they have more of resentment against those that would do him any wrong. History may furnish us with a thousand strange and admirable examples of this affection of the vulgar people toward a good Prince; but, that I may not enlarge this discourse too much, we will content ourselves to name only some of them. We see in Sueton, that after the death of Germanicus, a Prince of an eminent virtue, the Commonalty of Rome grew almost mad, that neither the Edicts of Tiberius, nor the Religion of certain Festivals, could stop the immoderate course of its grief, and that many of those which were possessed of this grief, went so far as to demolish the Altars of the gods through despair, to cast the tutelar gods of their houses into the streets, and to expose those children that were born to them on that day, as refusing all Happiness and all occasions of Joy. The good qualities of Julius Caesar produced also the like effects after his death; for though he had taken from the Romans that liberty which they prized so high; nevertheless after that Antony had awakened by his Oration the memory of his Goodness, Clemency, Valour, and of the number of his Victories, the common people that heard him, were so touched with it, that after they had done honours to him as a god, they ran with lighted firebrands in their hands to set fire to the Capitol, and had almost burnt down the City, to be revenged on those that had newly freed it, and reduced the Commonwealth to its ancient form. This very Caesar in his life-time was so beloved of his Soldiers, that having failed of their duty, they desired him to decimate them, thereby to expiate their crime, and to give himself satisfaction. The like happened also afterwards to his successor Augustus, according to the report of Appian. And Alexander the Great, leading his Macedonian Soldiers, young and old, cross the deserts, for none other design but to come to the bounds of the habitable world, was nevertheless so tenderly beloved of them, for his Virtue, that seeing them mutiny to return into Macedonia, and even the punishment of some of them could not stop their commotion, he only sent them word, they might go whether they pleased, and that he would love them no longer, nor account them his, which touched them with so sharp a Repentance, that flocking before his door, they fell a crying with abundance of tears, that he should kill them if they had offended him, as Quintus Curtius tells the story. But to begin our search for the Reason, why the Virtue of a Prince excites in the minds of the common people (that are most commonly interessed and mercenary) such disinteressed and such heroic motions, which seem to be greater than those that are raised in the rest of men that are better bred: is it not, in the first place, that the common people are not in all regards inferior in Virtue to the rest of men; and that if they be something less generous and more mercenary, as we have confessed, they are on the other side full of Pity, and have in very many things more of Shame and Justice? And may we not add, that as the love which beasts bear to their young ones, surpasses that which men bear to their children, it may very well be after the same manner that amongst men a good motion may sometimes be more strong where there is less of Reason and Knowledge, because then a man obeys more blindly the good incitements of Nature? Or else is it that many times men of a middle rank look upon the Fortune of their Superiors, if not with envy properly so called, yet at lest with some evil of heart; and that those of the lowest sort are more free from all these motions, because the distance between them and those that govern them is greater, and therefore they are disposed the more to consider their Virtue with Love and Admiration? Or else, is it that the motions of an heroic and extraordinary Generosity, when they shine upon the eyes of all in the person of a Prince, may excite more of admiration in the minds of the lowest sort of people, because they perceive themselves less capable of ever arising so high? Or else is it that when a Prince manifests his affection in general to all his subjects, the lowest people think themselves most obliged to his goodness, because they think themselves least worthy of it? Or else, is it not that the greatest part of the goodness of a Prince consists herein, to be favourable to the Poor, which, as being weakest, are most apt to be wronged by the stronger; not to enrich those that are already too rich, with the substance of the common people, and to do Justice equally to all his subjects, without having regard to the difference of quality, and that it is no wonder if all this doth more please the common sort of people, than persons of quality? Or else is it also that the vulgar sort as being less enlightened, and less polished by Learning, are more dazzled by greatness of Birth, and have more veneration from the pomp and glory that attends the fortune of Princes: so that when the lustre of Virtue comes to shine on their eyes, together with this glittering Greatness, it seems so venerable to them, that it hath power over their minds to do any thing? This last truly seems to contribute not a little to their Admiration; but, to conclude, we may see here by the way, that Machiavelli had no reason to say that the Virtue of a Prince can raise Love and Gratitude in a few persons only, and that all the rest of men are ingrateful, and incapable of being moved by it; and therefore in his opinion, he should endeavour rather to make himself feared by the rigour of his punishments: This appears, say I, to be false by our Problem, for we have seen that the love of a Prince's Virtue shines chief in the common people, which makes the greatest part of men, and is able to beget in them most exquisite and admirable motions of affections, because of this mixture with Greatness, which hath a certain Luster and Beauty, that doth extremely take with the people. And if I may be permitted to add something upon this consideration, I shall say further, that it is only the baseness of his own mind, that made him imagine that Gratitude, shame of an unworthiness generally confessed, or love of a rare merit, should have so little power upon our spirits; for it hath been often seen, that a troop of mutineers from amongst the very dregs of the people, after they have contemned the fear of punishment, have become calm and appeased on a sudden, merely by the presence of a man of known virtue, out of reverence which it imprinted in them. There are many crimes which men cease not to commit every day, although they that commit them are every day hanged for it; but on the contrary, there are ingratitudes and unworthinesses which are committed but very rarely, although the Laws have not ordained any punishment for those that are guilty of them, because the greatest part of men have conceptions lively enough of the blackness and sordidness of them. The fear of Death and Pain, which, according to Machiavelli, do never forsake men, is overcome every day in the wars by the hope of a little pay, and the contempt of them is grown common. But of so many thousand men that hazard themselves thus, without doubt there would be but a very few, that for a much greater sum would betray a friend, by whom they had been sensibly obliged. But we leave this discourse, before it hath carried us very much beyond our subject, and pass on to another Problem.   

PROB. 43. What is the reason that Shame makes a redness to arise in the face?  
AS there are not any motions more pleasant and more worthy to be known, than those of Shame, so there are none that seem to produce their effects in us after so obscure a manner, and so difficult to explain. The reason is, that whatever our mind doth most genuinely and after a more natural manner, is always that which it is least ware of. Now the impressions that Shame causes in our blood, and upon our faces, is so natural, that Stage-players which laugh and cry, though they are neither sad nor merry, which can make themselves look pale as if they were afraid, and can artificially draw upon their faces the redness of Anger, and easily counterfeit Pity, Astonishment, or Disdain, cannot for all this by any cunning draw upon their faces the redness of Shame, and the characters which it ought to be accompanied with. Besides, he that cries hath an intention to cry, and he that weeps hath an intention to weep: but most commonly he that blushes hath no intention to blush; and this is the reason that very modest persons blush even at their very blushing, and by endeavouring to hid their Shame, increase and double it. Lastly, that which makes the difficulty of this Problem appear greater, is, that it is certain the redness of Shame proceeds always from some grief and pain which the soul is in. Now it is the property of Grief to repress the blood and spirits, and gather them together about the heart, instead of spreading of them in the face, as shame doth. Nevertheless, we will endeavour here to discover the mystery of so handsome a passion: And first we will tell you what some have thought, that the soul sends forth the blood into the face in shame, because it desires to cover it as with a veil; whereto they endeavour to add some weight from experience, which shows us, that those which are surprised with Shame, do naturally hold their hand before their face. Now as I do not absolutely reject this consideration of theirs, yet I do not think it ought to satisfy us so, but that we should search for others: For besides that it is perhaps a pretty fancy rather than a reason, certain it is, that many times they that are surprised with Shame, do not desire to hid their faces from him that censures them, but on the contrary do earnestly wish that he read therein his repentance and sorrow, and for all this cease not to blush. To search then another cause of this effect, we must in the first place consider, that in all the Passions, the Soul imprints the images of its least motions upon the body, and there figures out what it resents, and what it suffers by certain dispositions which it gives it, as it were by so many Emblems and Metaphorical pictures, whether it doth it out of design, or be constrained to it by necessity. Thus, for example, angry people hold up their heads high, and commonly set both their hands on their sides, because holding the head high and taking up more room than before, is a Metaphorical expression of the vain elevation of a presumptuous mind, and of the greatness which it falsely attributes to itself: So a man that affirms any thing with much zeal and opinionativenesse, commonly bends his fists, because this action hath some Analogy and correspondence with the estate in which the soul is. But it were unprofitable and endless to think to prove a thing so clear and certain, by enumerating all our passions; wherefore supposing it rather true, we say (and I think with much colour of Reason) that in all griefs and sadnesses, when the soul flies some external evil, and considers it as external, it makes the spirits of the outward parts fly towards the inward, because such a motion as shows that it desires from all sides to enter into its self, thereby to escape that evil which comes unto it from without, is most proper to represent to the life the desire which it then hath, and the condition it is in: but on the contrary in the grief of Shame, because it is touched with the horror and hatred of an evil, that is within itself, and is fastened to its own substance, since it is nothing else but its own imperfection, it cannot better express this horror and hatred, then by violently thrusting forth the blood and spirits from within to the outward parts, as if it would banish them from us, since that indeed it is an estate that hath some Analogy with this corporal motion, and that it would if it could, banish itself, and go out of its self, by that means to fly from the vice which it finds it is defiled with. Moreover Shame dilates the spirits and the blood, and sheds them upon the face more subtly than any other passion, because it proceeds from a most spiritual conception, to wit, from the conception of a dishonest thing, and that the more spiritual impressions have also more quick and sudden effects. To this effusion of the blood and spirits, contributes also perhaps after another sort, the contempt which in shame the soul hath of its self; for seeing that then when it is most careful to preserve and defend us (as for example in Fear and in Affliction) it doth extraordinarily contract and keep them within, to strengthen itself the more; it may be, on the contrary, when it hates, and thinks itself as it were unworthy of its own care, it doth by a natural motion remit much of that straining, which holds the spirits thus united and collected, and gives them more liberty to spread themselves, and to carry the blood along with them. But if this contribute nothing at all to it, the first reason that we give, is methinks sufficient to clear this Problem; for though for the most part we do not blush, if we do not think ourselves really in fault: yet sometimes a calumny makes us blush; and some may wonder that it should be so, since then the soul, one would think, can not be troubled with any remorse nor with any sense of its own imperfection. To this I answer, that i● truth we cannot have a true remor of faults, which we have not committed; but as he which hath for some time held his eyes fixed upon a deep precipice, into which it is impossible he should fall, yet cannot choose but tremble out of a vain shadow of fear that this image gives him: So he that hath great horror for some fault which he is falsely accused of, according as he hath his mind bend upon the consideration of the lewdness which is attributed to him, cannot choose, notwithstanding the clear testimony of his own Conscience and of Reason, but be surprised many times with a vain shadow of remorse, which makes a blush mount into his face, ere his soul hath had time to think better on it.   

PROB. 44. What is the reason that when we blush, it appears especially in the forehead?  
IS it not because the forehead is the whitest part of the face, and most free from natural redness, and consequently most apt to make that more lively appear, which shame imprints in it? Or else the blood which shame brings into the face, doth it not appear chief in the forehead, because the skin thereof is extremely thin and delicate, as one may easily perceive by so many little wrinkles, which Horror, Discontent, Admiration or Anger do make in it, and because it is free from hair, which in the other parts of the face may in some sort hinder us for perceiving so well the impressions which come into it from within? Or else, if the conceit of those that say, that in shame the soul sends the blood into the face to cover it therewith, as with a veil, must take place; may we not say, that it sends it especially into the forehead, because it is the part most exposed to the view of of him that censures us: seeing that when we speak to men, we are wont to look them in the forehead: Or else do not the spirits in spreading themselves, make the blood especially come under the skin of the forehead, for that it is the highest part of the face, and that it is their nature to ascend as much as they can, as soon as the soul let's go her hold by which she keeps them in the body?   

PROB. 45. What is the reason that praises make a man blush?  
IS it not because he that is much commended, feels many times that the excess of praises which are given to him, do puff him up whether he will or no with a little pride, and tickle him with a pleasure that dissolves and as it were shakes all his gravity and firmness: So that he blushes not at the praises, but at the weakness he finds in himself and discovers to others? Truly that which shows that it may be thus, is, that we see those which are most subject to blush when they hear themselves praised, are commonly such persons as have indeed a sincere goodness, but have not a soul really great; for a great soul is not puffed up nor elevated at the praises it receives, any more than the Sea is increased or heightened by the water of Rivers that run into it. But it may be too all their redness proceeds not from Shame, but comes partly from an extreme pleasure they take to hear themselves praised; for pleasure also diffuses the spirits and gives some colour to the face. Or else that on the one side, an honest and good soul hath not always the courage, generously to reject the false praises that are given it, because it loves glory; but that, on the other side, because of its goodness, it blusheth at the fault it commits in not resisting them, and in taking to itself by this complacence an honour which is not its due. Or else, is it not out of extreme Humility that a man blushes, in hearing himself praised for that he doth not at all believe that he is master of those perfections which are attributed to him, and that the praises given him, show him what he ought to be, and therefore do only quicken the sense which he hath of his imperfections? Or else, is it because he that highly commends us, makes every one look on us the more, and doth in a manner draw us out of obscurity by this glory which he procures us, and that then we blush not at our glory, but rather because we apprehend that our faults will appear the more in this great light which it sets us in, and that it doth as well illustrate our blemishes as our perfections, and renders them the more remarkable? Here possibly some may say to me, if the blushing of shame proceeds only from the sense which we have of our imperfection, as you have established it in another Problem, to what purpose is it that our faults are objected to us by others to make us blush, and what is the reason that it contributes thereto? I answer, that it is because the judgement of others doth always confirm ours, and therefore if we think that another blames and condemns a fault which we have committed, this belief of his doth more strengthen the opinion which we had of it before, and doth more lively manifest the ugliness of it.   

PROB. 46. What is the reason that a man laughs more at a pleasant jest, or a merry tale, when he himself that tells it, doth not laugh?  
IS it not because then he doth not seem to have the design which he hath, I mean, that he seems as if he would tell something serious and of importance, whereas he only tells some trifle, and that our mind takes pleasure in this deceit? But why doth it take more delight in this deceit, than it would have done in seeing the naked truth? Is it not because in discovering it thus through a lie, that is transparent and easily penetrable, it still somewhat exerciseth its noblest faculty, the judgement, and gives to itself some proof of its sufficiency and light? Or else is it because a ridiculous thing spoken in a cold and serious tone, surpriseth us the more, because we did not expect to see it in this form, and under this appearance, and so it is proper to cause laughter, which must arise from a being surprised, whereas he that laughs whilst he tells a merry story, doth as it were threaten us and give us warning before hand, so that he doth not surprise us at all? But why must laughter arise from a surprise? Is it, as some say, because it proceeds from Admiration, which is raised chief by a novelty? Or else, is it because that which makes us laugh, is always so vain, that if our minds could consider it a little at leisure, it would not find in it any subject of contentment? Or else, do we not laugh, when he that tells us any merry thing laughs much at it, because he seems to us as if he commended himself; and that otherwise that which he says, seems to be less pleasant, and less apt to cause laughter, when we see he helps it forward by beginning to laugh first? Or else lastly, is it because he which tells a merry passage without laughing, appears to have some politeness, and with all gravity of manners: So that as he appears a more honest man, so likewise whatever he saith, hath more of grace in his mouth, and delights us the more, whereas if he laughs too much, he appears only a Bouffon, and by this means whatever he says, though never so good, loses more than half its grace and beauty?   

PROB. 47. Why do we laugh in seeing a thing very ill-favoured, since that which delights the mind, one would think aught to have in it some perfection?  
TO escape this difficulty which is not so slight, but that many ancient Philosophers, and Orators have laboured to little purpose for the clearing of it: may we not say in the first place, that a man doth not laugh at ugly things, when they are wholly and altogether such, since that on the contrary we do then call them horrible, and fly from them as things odious; but that most commonly a man laughs at some trifling and slight grace mixed with their deformity? as for example, it is clear that the habit of a Bouffon though it be deformed, hath many times I know not what grace that may tickle the imagination; But what is the reason this remnant of grace, and this vain and slight ray of goodness that may be found in some ill-favoured things, makes one laugh more than a thing reasonably well made would do? May it not possibly be because in a thing ill made, the defects that it hath, may by their opposition render in some sort more pleasant, and more grateful to the fancy, that little grace which shines in it? Or else rather, is it not because generally every grace or prettiness that makes one laugh, either in handsome or unhandsome things, should be always vain and slight, and not solid, as we said in the foregoing Problem? But why should it be so? Is it not because solid graces chief affecting the Judgement, and approving themselves to us by our discretion and understanding, do produce a pleasure though greater, yet more sober, and such as hath something of grace in it; but a vain and slight grace, affecting especially the imagination, and being chief liked by our weakness, fills us also with a joy that manifests somewhat of weakness and childishness, and takes from us all gravity, and makes us not able to hold our countenance, which is that we call laughter, and therefore they say it is a sign of folly in those that are much subject to it? Or else do not things that are very ill-favoured delight those that look upon them because they are rare as well as things perfect and excellent? Or else is it not that as our soul loves to have its Ideas perfect and entirely expressive of their objects, for this reason it is pleased more in considering things very ill done, then moderately well, because these first do perfect and accomplish the Idea which it hath of ugliness, and fills up its knowledge to the full every way; whereas those that are moderately well done can give it only imperfect notions? Or else do not objects that are very ill done, by giving us an Idea of extreme imperfection, furnish us with an easy way to draw from thence the image of extreme perfection, and to render it more lively in us; so that they very much instructing our mind, it delights itself to consider them, not for any reason that persuades it that it should do so, but by a natural and blind motion that makes it search in it to perfect its knowledge, and to instruct its self? Or else, do we not love to see things very ill done, to show our abilities in condemning them? But what is the reason we cannot as well show them in praising those that are moderately well done? Is it not because every body knows at first sight that which is extreme, and finds more difficulty in that which is moderate? Or because, as we said in another Problem, it is easier to blame then to commend? Or else, do we not delight to express the rules of good, whereof we have all some Theory, rather on the subject of an ill made thing, then of one that is well made, because a thing well made contains them in its self, and so seems to suggest them to us, and to leave nothing to our invention, whereas when we express them by blaming a deformed thing, we seem to invent them ourselves? It is probable indeed that fools do it for this reason, because they think they cannot manifest their wit better than by detracting and finding fault. Or else, to conclude, is it not in many merely an odd fantastical and childish humour to like a thing that is deformed, and to consider it with satisfaction, and therefore we see that all fools laugh more hearty at monstrous and extravagant things, and that good and discreet men smiling only at these, do laugh more hearty at things excellent and handsome, as at a bold and neat reply, at a pretty compendious way by which some one hath brought about his desires, or at some gentleness that shines in his actions, at a graceful motion of the body, at the fit proportions and correspondence of all the parts of an History, or Fable, at a passion naturally expressed, or some such like thing?   

PROB. 48. What is the reason that Man being inclined to flatter himself, doth nevertheless aggravate his own imperfection above the truth; as for example, in saying there is nothing but folly, and injustice, and ingratitude in the world?  
FIrst, it may be said on this subject, that in truth man attains most commonly to a mediocrity of wisdom, seeing there are scarce any that have not the use of common sense; and that to speak civilly, he also attains ordinarily to a moderate and common Virtue, seeing there are few that become unnatural: but that for all this; when we come to compare this wisdom, and this ordinary virtue of men with a state of Perfection much greater, which reason gives us the Idea of, we find ourselves forced to name them Vice and Folly, just as we call foul linen black, in comparing it with that which hath been new washed, or with snow, though it be white in itself and in comparison with Ink; for every mean state is an evil in regard of an excellency which is much above it as truly as it is a good, in regard of that which is beneath it. Now our soul is so much the more apt to look upon the good that is in it with disdain, because it finds it is born for a state of perfection much more eminent; and thus though an Artisan be to be commended if he perfectly understand any mechanic art; yet wheen we judge of a Prince, we make no account of such an ability, if he hath no other, because we conceive he is born for much greater things. Secondly, our soul doth often attribute to itself more imperfection than it hath, because the good already gotten slips out of our memory, and doth not ordinarily present itself to our minds, as that which is wanting doth; the reason of it is, because the soul always withdraws its sight from the things about which it hath no more to do, as on the contrary, it fixeth it upon those that give it some occasion of desire and endeavour. In the third place, a man doth not think there is any need of aggravating the good that is in man, and believes rather it would be a thing very hurtful: but on the contrary, he thinks it is very profitable to aggravate his Vice and Folly, which is also very true, but yet to some certain degrees only; for to give to man too low conceptions of himself, and such as are like him, is an abating of his Courage and quenching of his Emulation. But however hereby, sometimes the imperfection of man seems to us to be greater than it is; for to consider, first, that which regards his understanding, oftentimes when we speak of many fools, we say with a serious tone, as if we desired to be believed, and to have it pass for an Axiom, that they have no more judgement than beasts; nay in aggravating their folly, we think sometimes that beasts have more: though if we consider it aright and according to the truth of the business, a man that is the most void of wit, gives, at but opening his eyes, and by his first gestures, and by his first looks, tokens of a greater judgement than all beasts put together: There are also Philosophers that have contributed to the making of the generality of men be so severely condemned; for whether it were, that herein, they always had for their end some profit that might be reaped by it, or that at sometimes they might be put upon it for some other reasons, they have one after another aggravated his folly in such a manner as if they had a mind to take from him even common sense. In this there is too much severity and bitterness; for we should not consider only the faults of people, but also the good that is in them, and then we shall find that in many things they have the first notions most quick and most pure, though they know not how to discourse of them exactly, and after a subtle manner: we should not also impute as so many faults of their understanding, all the weaknesses of their imagination, and take them in the worst sense that can be; for all things appear bad to him that considers them not with candour and equity; and he that is resolved never to see any thing but bad, makes short work, by casting himself into an excess of rigour, and turning away his eyes from that which is laudable in them; but by this means he depraves himself, and not that which he considers after this manner; the same also happens from the aggravating of men's vice. But to discover yet another cause that makes us thus defame our nature many times beyond the truth, it may further be said, that every one thinks to gain something to his own advantage in vilifying mankind, and the generality of men; for if he hath any perfection, he is more willing to persuade himself, that it comes to him from what he hath particular and proper, then to believe that it proceeds from what he hath in common with others; the reason whereof is, because what he hath in particular, is more his own; and on the contrary if he hath any imperfection, he also finds some comfort in the displeasure it doth him, by attributing it to the general nature of man, rather than to the fault of his own individual nature: But especially wicked men are put upon a like design by the like motive; for, that they may find out some excuse, they endeavour to include all others in the same fault, which they themselves are guilty of: they scrape together therefore what ever is most ugly in our life, and make it much worse in expressing it, and in giving ill interpretations of it; and when we hear them thus aggravate much beyond the truth that which is ill in us, we contradict them not, as well because as I told you, that we think it is profitable it should be so, as also because it seems to be Humility to consent to an accusation in which we are comprised; and on the contrary that it is arrogance and presumption to oppose it. From hence then arise many say and expressions, which import that reason can do nothing or very little on the mind of man, that there is nothing but injustice and ingratitude to be seen in the world, and such other like things, which are contrary to other say that we have at other times, which are as much beyond the truth: for it is not more impossible that heaven should fall, than it is impossible that Justice and Reason should cease to have very much power upon the minds of men, and that they should not suffer themselves to be bend and affected with this same Reason, as their particular interest. Pirates, robbers upon the highway, poisoners, and the most detestable of men, do not make any exception against this rule; and though Choler be the most wild and savage of all our passions, and though it stir whatsoever is most base and evil in us; yet that which first kindles it is an indignity, which is nothing else but injustice: and therefore Poets that are the Painters of the ordinary motions of the soul, when they bring upon the stage one that talking to himself alone labours to animate himself with a violent rage, they make him insist longer upon reasons drawn from justice or injustice, then upon others drawn from profit; and not without cause; for if a man do only conclude in himself, that it is profitable for him to be angry, there would be nothing more cold than such an enticement, and he would not for this obtain of himself to be angry in good earnest; but if he be persuaded that it is just he should be so, this consideration would without fail put fire into his soul as soon as ever he thinks of it, and will there kindle the flames of choler: Hence it comes that a thief, what want so ever he have of money, will not be angry that a man hath been so careful as not to let him cut his purse; for he cannot see in this any indignity, and he doth absolutely want the considerations of justice, which ought to begin the forming of choler in him. And as for the common say by which we express the want of gratitude, which we ordinarily see in men, they also do often surpass the truth; for if we consider it well, there is nothing more pressing than a motion of gratitude, and experience shows sufficient examples of it amongst all sorts of men. But to leave this discourse, I will add, that because there are few spirits so miserable, as to endeavour to make themselves more wicked than they are: Man, for that reason, knows not how inaccessible the extremity of vice is, and how impossible it would be for him to despoil himself of what ever there is good and laudable in his nature, and to go quite contrary to the rules of Reason; and that this makes him sometimes have too ill an opinion of himself, and to pass beyond the bounds of truth in blaming himself.   

PROB. 49. What is the reason that according to the common saying of the Poets and of Aristotle himself in the second book of his Politics, Valiant and courageous persons are most subject to love?  
IS it not because courage and an inclination to Love have one and the same Original in the Temperament, namely heat of blood, which may be perceived in that the age wherein man is most courageous through the heat of his blood, is that wherein he is most inclined to Love? Or else, is it not because Love is a passion which hath some beauty and nobleness, and that men truly courageous, as they have a more noble soul, so have they also a greater propension to all the Passions that have any ray of nobleness and beauty, and proceed partly from a good principle? Indeed we see, that for this reason they are subject to ambition, because ambition hath some mixture of generosity, and of the Love of that which is honest; and to Opinionativeness, because it hath a shadow of constancy; but that on the contrary they are farther than other men from Avarice, Cruelty, and desire of Revenge, because these motions of the soul have not the least footsteps of any nobleness and beauty. Now to show that Love is a passion which hath some nobleness and something of praiseworthy, we may bring this reason, that (whatsoever some say that would decide this business by fine expressions, and have their jests pass for Oracles) a true Lover doth in some sort love beauty for itself, and not only for the hope of a base and brutish pleasure; for he not only humbles himself before the beloved object, as we humble ourselves before a great man by constraint, and with repugnance, and to obtain some good of him, but he also takes pleasure in this very act of submission, and the more he humbles himself with innocence and freeness, and without any design, the more this pleasure increases in him, which is an infallible token that he makes this the end of part of his desire: Justly therefore do the Poets call the excess of Love handsome fooleries; for though they be fooleries in that they choose their objects ill, they have some Beauty in that they denote in the soul where they are form, some violent inclination to love perfection. Or else may we say, that even the inclination to love perfection is the sole motive and only fountain of true courage, so that if Love have in it any ray or spark thereof, it is no wonder that those who have an extreme high courage, are the more subject to it? Or else is it that it is an hard matter to resist at once two contrary assaults, because this seems to require two contrary dispositions of mind; and that for this reason they that have a soul strong to resist griefs and objects of terror, are many times extraordinary weak against pleasures and objects that conquer by flattering our senses, amongst which those that cause Love are the most alluring? Certainly, it seems credible, when we consider the great weakness with which men, the most famous for their courage, have yielded to pleasures of this kind. Nevertheless, herein their courage was imperfect; for our soul ought not to be firm like Ice very hard frozen, which resisting the blows of hatchets, and bearing heavy burdens, yet makes less resistance to a small heat, and to a ray of the Sun, than the most weak things; but rather like to a Diamant which equally resists all assaults: and as a sword cuts alike on both sides, so a perfect and complete courage should be whetted on both sides, and have as it were two edges and two points to resist equally Pleasures and Pains; Or else, these two different parts of courage, which we now speak of, have not at all any thing of contrary, and do spring rather from the same fountain: but as though the Visual faculty hath one and the same spring, yet when we would collect it into one of the eyes, and there make it become more strong, we do naturally shut the other: so our soul in uniting all its force towards some one side, remits in it other regards, and in avoiding with great care some kind of weakness, it falls more readily into others.   

PROB. 50. Whence comes that aversion to marriage of persons too near?  
AS there is no question but the condemning of Marriage between persons too near, is less clear by reason, than the condemning of vices, which are formally the motions of malice: so he that would infer from thence, that there is nothing of nature in this, and that it is wholly a Civil constitution, and no more, will be deceived; since that the general inclination and opinion of men testifies the contrary; for a general opinion can never fail of being true, at least in part; and the example of beasts cannot upon this subject be considerable to a man of judgement; for it were absurd to think that beasts should respect an affinity which they know not; and he that should say that laughter, shame, desire of glory, desire of knowledge and the like, are not natural to Man, because they are not natural to beasts, would evidently make a ridiculous consequence. And if men cannot give particular reasons why they disapprove this sort of marriages, and specify what they find inconvenient therein according to reason, we ought to think that for all that they see it in gross and at a distance, as many times we see afar off an house, though we be not able to distinguish the doors, windows, and other parts of it. And by how much the less clear the reasons of it are, so much the more reason have we to exercise ourselves in the discovery of them in this Problem. First then I shall say, that not only nature gives us a strong inclination to love those persons which are very near us, and are members of the same family with us, (for of this no man that hath his senses can doubt) but that it also makes us consider them in some manner as we do ourselves: This appears in that if a man commends one that is very near us, we blush at it as if he commended us, and do out of humility desire him to forbear, as if these praises were meant to us. This being so, as every one is naturally far from the folly into which Narcissus fell, and is not capable of being touched with the love of his own beauty: by the same reason he naturally flies from regarding with Passions like to those of Lovers, the persons for whom he hath an affection of the same nature and kind with that which he hath for himself; and this is a token of the ardour and truth of the Amity which he bears them; as on the contrary, if this Amity should cease to have the qualities and properties of that which he bears to himself, it were a certain sign that it had received diminution, and is not such as nature requires it should be. In the second place, the reverence which Proximity gives to persons that are of the same family, being an obligation so strait and so natural, that the ancient Romans have named it Piety, and that every honest soul considers it as a sacred thing; it proceeds from hence that a man desires to see the degrees of it very distinct, and separate, in several persons, to the end that it may the more exactly discharge the duties that belong unto it, and discern more clearly after what manner he ought to be affected towards each of them in particular; for he perceives that this knowledge would become much more obscure by marriages that should unite in one and the same person two of these degrees first, and afterwards three or four or more of them; and that in this case there would be requisite much subtlety of wit to discern the obligation that should arise from the mixture of these different or contrary obligations. If besides these general reasons we shall need to allege others, touching the different degrees of Proximity, first, to show that reason prohibits marriage with those men or women that are of our nearest kindred to whom we own respect, I shall allege those well-known verses, whose truth every one will confess, 
Non bene conveniunt nec in unâ sede morantur  
Majestas & Amor.  That is, 
A real Love and Majesty,  
Can hardly in one bosom lie.  Whereupon I add, that if Reason forbids us to use too familiar caresses towards those persons I spoke of, it doth likewise forbid us to desire to unite ourselves to them in such a manner of union as above all others produces Familiarity, and doth necessarily deface and abolish Respect and Inequality: I mean that Union wherein marriage consists. It remains then only to speak of that marriage which may be imagined between Brother and Sister, in regard of which the preceding reason can have no place, seeing they own one another no Respect, but merely Amity. It is well known what a great Personage discoursing on this subject, hath said, to wit, that the affection which would arise from such a marriage, as being produced from the concourse of two such potent considerations, would be somewhat too ardent. But, for my part, I do not think he should have taken it thus, nay I conceive, that in some sort it ought to have been taken quite contrary. But before I explain myself more clearly, I will say that in every species of the Passions, there are of them that are contrary to one another, and that expel one another, and are incompatible, instead of increasing and mutually assisting each other. Thus, for example, there are contrary Joys; for there is a certain Brutish Joy, which is so incompatible with another Spiritual Joy, that when this last possesses the soul, the other must necessarily give place; and hence it comes to pass that many that feel within themselves most perfect pleasures, and such as are very spiritual, have in their countenance an air of sadness, very far from having their eyes cheerful, and those other marks that accompany lower and base pleasures. Thus a sadness that raises in a man a discourse which he intends to make upon Humane vanities and misery, being very far from increasing that which the loss of a suit at Law, or the like, hath begotten in him, diminishes it, and instead of overcharging his spirit, comforts it: Thus Grief for a disgrace far from augmenting the weakness into which our soul is cast through a corporal grief, serves many times to take from her the sense of it. In a word, it were easy to show, that there are also thus Angers, Fears, Loves, Enemies, as I may so say, one to another, and incompatible. This being thus premised, I say, that the Passion which we properly call Love, as arising from a bodily pleasure, and being altogether sportful and wanton, and an enemy to all serious thoughts and considerations, according to the saying of Poets and of Lovers themselves, cannot but be of a nature more contrary to Fraternal Love, which is altogether Spiritual, Holy, and Serious, and flows only from Reason. That for this cause so far are they from increasing one another, it is certain that That must necessarily loosen all the bonds of This, and that as we perceive that it loosens them, and that we have a very great inclination to keep them still fast and united, and such as nature would have them to be, we feel also for this cause a repugnance, by reason of that which thus loosens them. And herein we do for all the world, as it a man should go about to make us laugh hearty, by making some serious and profound contemplation of Philosophy to increase the pleasure of it; for we should soon perceive that quite contrary these two sorts of Joy cannot agree together, much less augment one another; and that it were an extravigance to think they should. This is all I have to say upon this subject.   

PROB. 51. Whence proceed the excessive heats of the Month of August, and the other effects which are attributed to the Dog-star?  
I Have much reason to fear that I shall be accounted rash, if I dare to question the power which is generally granted to the Dog-star: but on the other side also, I conceive that if herein I am rash, I ought to be pardoned, in consideration that I undertake by this means to maintain familiar and known causes against occult ones; For as in Law, the cause of Liberty against Servitude is always favourable, I conceive likewise that in disputes of Philosophy, the reasons which are drawn from known and familiar things, aught to be favoured against all those that consist in Sympathy, or in secret influence, or in specific qualities, and yet no doubt we ought to have recourse to these last: but it is only as people that are like to be drowned, catch at thorns, and embrace them in that pressing need: that is to say, when we find no other means to deliver ourselves from a difficulty: for so long as there is any other means of escaping it, if it be but any thing tolerable, this must needs be very bad. But to come to the present business, Those which have considered that the heat of the Month of August is greater than that of the Months of June and July, although in them the Sun be nearer to us, and strikes us with less obliqne rays, and makes longer days, have thence inferred, that this excess of heat proceeds from the influence of a Star which is called the Dog, to which they have also given other ill qualities: for this (if we will believe what they say of it) is the cause that in August the heat of the Sun is more malignant, even when it is no greater than in the other Months of Summer; that many creatures, and especially Dogs, do then run mad; and that it is then more dangerous to go into the water; and that sicknesses are more frequent and greater; and that men feel some particular weaknesses in all the parts of the body. But all things well considered, it will be found, that there is nothing in all this that should oblige us to attribute secret and particular virtues to the Dog-star, and to leave the large field of known and ordinary causes; For first I do not see why we should wonder, that the Sun is hotter in August then in July, though it be true that in August he regards us somewhat more obliquely, and that the days are shotter; the reason of it is, because the Earth having been exceedingly dried by the former heats, is more apt to be violently scorched, as we see that any dry thing set before a lesser fire, receives a more violent heat, than a thing that is moist from a fire that is much greater. That this reason is pertinent, there is an experience that methinks proves it plainly enough; it is, that though at noon the Sun be nearer to us, and cast more direct rays on us than he doth any time after: yet those that travel in Summer, do perceive a more violent heat two or three hours' afternoon, then at noon itself; the reason whereof is, that at noon the moisture of the morning is not so well dried up, either on the grass, or the air, or the earth, as it is a while after. This example is so put to the subject I apply it to, the Question in hand, that there cannot be found any difference in it, and it may serve well enough to prove what I say; for as somebody hath well observed, the images of the Four Seasons of the year, are to be seen in one only Day, in which the Morning by its moisture represents the Spring: Noon and sometime after is like the Summer Solstice, and the two Months that follow it; the Evening to the Autumn: and the arrival of Night to the arrival of Winter. Now as this reason renders the heat of August greater, it is manifest that withal it renders it necessarily more malign. But yet if it be objected that it is often more malignant than that of other Months, without being more violent: I answer, that this doth not yet force us to fly to a secret cause; for if it were necessary to attribute this particular malignity to the influence of some Star, it would follow also, that we must give influences to some other Star, for to render a reason of the particular malignity of the Sun in March, which as having a very feeble hear, one would think, should not be able to be hurtful, and to engender so easily rheums and catarrhs. But, to say the truth, these two several malignities are the effects only of the course of the year, and of two contrary extremes; for the Sun in March hath something of malign and dangerous, by reason of the great humidity it meets with in the earth, nay and in our brain, on which it acts so weakly, that instead of dissolving, it only dilates it. And on the contrary, the Sun in August is extraordinary hurtful through an excess of dryness which it finds in the earth, after it hath endured the heats of a great part of Summer, and in our bodies, which the same heats have dried. It is this dryness which at this time disposes beasts to madness, though indeed Dogs run mad not only in August, but also very often in the Months of June and July, or September, which need not for this borrow any thing of the Dog-star. From this excessive dryness proceeds likewise the weakness which we feel then in our bodies, and the disposition which this season puts us in, to divers maladies; for every extreme is always nigh an evil, and easily falls into one, or rather is one itself: To conclude, if those that swim in this Month, do find that the waters are more unwholesome than they were before, a man may say, it is because their more pure and subtle parts have been exhaled by the precedent heats, and that what remains is gross and impure. And I do not see that there is any thing in this, we should need to attribute to the Dog-star, more than in the other things we mentioned.   
THE END.