Nevv epistles of Mounsieur de Balzac. Translated out of French into English, by Sr. Richard Baker Knight. Being the second and third volumes

To my Lord, the Car∣dinall De la Valet. LETTER I.

SIR, being not able to bring you this untoward Present my selfe, I humbly entreat you to excuse mee that I send it. Wherein I bind you not to a second perusall, and to read that againe, which per∣haps you have read already with distast. It is true Sir, that something is altered in the Co∣pie, and well neere one halfe added to the ori∣ginall; but the spight is, that base wares get no value by store, and the water that comes from the same Spring, can never be much differing: but if in any of the passages, I have not altoge∣ther come off ill, and that I have had some tole∣rable conceits, I acknowledge Sir, that I have had it all from the good education I had with you; and that it is the fruit of those Instructi∣ons, which you have done me the honour to impart unto me. For, no man ever had con∣ceits

more pure, more pregnant, than your selfe; no man ever saw things more cleerly than you doe; you can tell precisely in what degree of good and evill any thing stands; and to find out the truth, there needs no more, but to follow your opinion. But to speake truly, I feare this qualitie in you, no lesse than I esteeme it; you have too much knowledge in you for a Dis∣course that requires simplicitie in the Reader. Neither am I so unadvised, to expose it to the severitie of your judgement, I submit it rather to the protection of your goodnesse, and hope you will not lay open those faults, which none but your selfe can see: Humbly entreating you to protect a spirit of your owne making; and not so much to consider my manner of expressing, as the affection with which I am

Sir,

Your, &c.

To the same as before. LETTER II.

SIR, I am negligent, for feare of being trou∣blesome, and least I should be importunate∣ly complementall; I forbeare to shew my selfe officiously dutifull. But my fault growing from

discretion, I hope you will not take it ill, that I have a care not to trouble you, and that you will pardon the intermission of my Letters, which hath no other end, but the solacing your eyes. I seeke no colours of Art, to paint out the af∣fection I owe to your service; This were to corrupt the naturall puritie. Truth is simple and shamefast, and when shee cannot shew her selfe by reall effects, shee will scorne to doe it by verball expressions. It is not in my tongue to expresse her otherwise, than in such termes as are the engagements of a lye; and when I shall have made you most sincere protestations of in∣violable fidelitie, there will come a coozening companion that will out-vie me, and endeare himselfe beyond all my oathes. I could wish there were some marke to distinguish protesta∣tions that are true, from those that are feigned; for if there were, I should have great advantage over many Courtiers, more officious and more hot in offering their service, than I am, and you should acknowledge that the eminency of your vertue, not to speake of the eminency of your dignitie, is of no man more religiously reveren∣ced, than of my selfe, who am, and ever will be

Sir,

Your, &c.

To Monsieur Godeau. LETTER III.

SIR, Disguising will not serve your turne, you are a remarkable man, and whether it be that you call the dissembling of Art, Negli∣gence, or that you cannot put off those orna∣ments which are naturall in you; I let you know that the excellency of your style, extends even to your familiar speech, and that you are able to sweeten it without sawcing it. A man may see that come springing & flowing from you, which in others is brought •…•…farre off, and that with en∣gines; you gather that which others pull off, and though you write nothing loosly, yet you write nothing with streyning: yet I must tell you, they are not the periods of your sentences, nor the pawses that winne mee so much unto you; I am too grosse for such slender and fine threads; if you had nothing but rich conceits and choice words, this were but the vertue of a So∣phister, and I should place you in the number of things that may please but not of things that one ought to love; I make more reckoning of the honesty of a dumbe man, than of the eloquence of a varlet; I looke after the good of societie, and the comfort of life, & not after the delight of Theaters, and the amusement of company: Let us make then a serious profession of our du∣ties, and let us give good examples to an evill

age; let us make the world see, that the know∣ledge wee have of vertue, is not meerly specu∣lative; and let us justifie our Bookes and our Studies, that now are charged with the vices and imperfections of their Teachers. Philoso∣phy is not made to be playd withall, but to be made use of, and we must count it an Armour, and not a painted Coate. They are men of the worst making, that now adayes make the worst doing; sots take upon them to be subtle, and wee have no more any tame Beasts amongst us, they are all savage and wilde. For my selfe, who have seene wickednesse in its Triumph, and who have sometime lived in the Countrey of subtlety & craft; I assure you, I have brought nothing from thence, but loathing, and before ever I tasted it, was cloyed. I am exceeding glad to find you of the same dyet, and doubt not of the Doctrine I Preach, seeing I read the same in your owne Letter; Beleeve it Sir, there is none more wholesome, none more worthy of our Creation. Which I am resolved to main∣taine, even to Death, and will no more leave it, than the resolution I have made, to be with∣out ceasing;

Sir,

Your, &c.

To Monsieur Godeau againe. LETTER IIII.

SIR, I have knowne a good while, that you are no longer a Druyde, and that you lately made your entry into Paris: I doubt not but with magnificence enough, and not without be∣stowing some publike largesse. I never knew you goe a forraging, that you returned not home laden with bootie; and your Voyages have al∣wayes enriched your followers. I pretend my selfe to have a feeling of this, and though farre remooved from the place where you act them, yet I cannot learne, that my absence makes me loose my part in the distribution of your good deedes. Cease not Sir, I entreat you, to bind me unto you, and to deserve well of my tongue. Fill our Closets with the fruits of your braine, and since you can doe it, make us to gather more sheaves of Corne, than the best workmen hi∣therto have left us eares. My devotion stands waiting continually for your Christian workes, and I entreat you, they may be done in such a volume, that we may carry them handsomely with us to Church. That which I have seene of them, doth so exceedingly please mee, that I would be a Poet for nothing else but withsome indifferent grace to prayse them, and to say,

Verses blesse him that makes such blessed Verses.

If I did not love you well, I should envie you the conversation of Monsieur Chaplaine, from whom in fifteene dayes I have received but one small sparke of a Letter by the ordinary Post. Thus I doe but tast of that whereof you make full meales; yet remember, I have as good right in him as your selfe, and though I trust you with the keeping him, yet I doe not quit my part in him; To him and you both, I am most affectio∣nately

Your, &c.

To Monsieur Conrat. LETTER V.

SIR, I had undertaken to have answered to every point of your eloquent Letter, but when I had spent a whole moneth about it, I could not satisfie my selfe with my underta∣king. That which I had written, was not wor∣thy, me thought, that I should Father it; and I began to thinke I should doe you a great cour∣tesie, to save you the reading of an ill Oration. But seeing of evills, the least are the best, you shall have cause to thanke your selfe for this complement, which will cost you no more but one looke to looke over, and never put you to the labour of turning over the leafe. I have this onely to say at this time, that the report which was spread of my death, hath not killed me, and

that in despight of rumour and mortall Presa∣ges, I intend to be happy by your meanes, and not to forgoe the good fortune presented to me in your person: so I call your excellent friend∣ship, with which no burden is heavie, no cala∣mitie dolorous. For I know I shall finde in you that ancient generousnesse, whereof Monsieur de la Nove, and Monsieur de Ferries, made pro∣fession. I account when I discover secrets to you, I hide them; and shall have no jealousie of my honour when I have put it into your hands. In such sort Sir, that my soule should be of a ve∣ry hard temper, if it did not feele a kind of tick∣ling in so present and great advantages, and if I should not most perfectly be, as you oblige me to be,

Your, &c.

To my Lord the Bishop of Nantes. LETTER VI.

SIR, I was upon the point of sending my footman to you, when I saw your footman enter my lodging, who brought me newes ex∣ceeding joyfull; and now I depend no longer upon Fortune, since another besides her selfe can make me happie; and am so indeed as much as I would wish, and should never know the value of your friendship, if I made it not the bounds of my ambition. To complaine of for∣tune,

and to be your favourite, are things that im∣ply a morall contradiction: it is an easie-matter to comfort a pension ill payd, when a man is in possession of store of treasure, and having nei∣ther the gift of impudency, nor of hypocrisie, it is not for me to prosper in an age which e∣steemes them most that are owners of these qualities. It is enough for me, that M. the Car∣dinall doth me the honour to wish me well, and condemnes not your judgement of mee; all o∣ther disgraces, from whence soever they come, I am prepared to beare, and take for a favour the contempt that is linked to the profession of vertue. But it is too much to say of mee, that which Seneca said of Cato: Catonem saeculum suum parùm intellexit. These are transcenden∣cies of M. de Nantes, and impostures of his love. He stretcheth all objects to infinitie, and all his comparisons are beyond proportion. The Sunne and the Starres are common things with him, and he can finde nothing in Nature goodly e∣nough to serve for a similitude of that he loves. It is this deceitfull passion hath made you be∣leeve, that I am of some great worth, and that my barren soyle is fruitfull in high conceits. But Sir, I count all this nothing, if this love of yours perswade you not to come & stay a while in it, and to be mindfull of your word. I have put Monsieur—in hope hereof, and make my selfe sure since you have made me a solemne promise; knowing that Truth is residentupon the mouth of Bishops.

Dixisti, venies, Grave & immutabile sanctis Pondus adest verbis, & vocē fata sequuntur.

The Authour of these Verses shall be your fourth suppliant: it is one that hath been of your olde acquaintance, and was accounted the Vir∣gill of his time. I make use of him upon this occasion, because perhaps you will make more reckoning of him than of me, who yet am more than any man in the world.

Sir,

Your, &c.

Another to my Lord Bishop of Nantes. LETTER VII.

SIR, I speake Latin but once a yeare, and yet as seldome as it is, it comes more upon hazard than out of knowledge, and holds lesse of learning than of rapture: vouchsafe there∣fore to take it in good part, that in my setled braines, I answer you in the vulgar tongue, and tell you, that never eares were more attentive, nor more prepard to hearing, than those of our family when I read your Letter before them: they were not satisfied to have onely a literall interpretation, and to make me their Gramma∣•…•…ian, but I must declaime upon it, and make a

Paraphrase as large as a Commentary. If you will know the successe, I can truly say, that all the company was well satisfied; but to tell you all, was even ravished with admiration of your bountie, specially my Niece, who in the grea∣test vanitie, that sexe is capable of, never durst imagine shee should ever have the honour to be praysed in Latin, and should serve for an Argu∣ment of commendation to the greatest Doctor of our age. Shee saith, this is a second obligati∣on you bind her in, to make her a Romane after you have made her your daughter; and to give her so noble a Country, after giving her so wor∣thy a Father. And yet to these two favours, I can adde a third, which shee forgot: methinkes Sir, shee fattens and grows gracefull with these prayses you give her; shee is fayrer by one halfe than shee was before. And if from ver∣tue there issue certaine beames which enlighten the objects that are neere it; and that beautie flowes from goodnesse, as from the Spring, I need not then goe farre to seeke from whence this varnish of her looke, this amiablenesse of her countenance, is growne upon her: It is cer∣tainly your late benediction that hath painted her; and to speake it in the words of the Poet,

Formosam Pater esse dedit, Lumen{que} Juventae Purpureum, & laetos oculis afflârat honores.

I have considered of the Letters whereof you pleased to send me a Copie, and in my judge∣ment, you have all the reason in the world to

rest satisfied with it. They could never have been more in favour of you, if you had endited them your selfe, and our friend himselfe had writ them: if you had been the King, and he the Secretary, if I be not deceived, this stile will bring a cooling upon the joy of—and make them see, they have at least mistaken one word for another, and that the absence of—hath not been a discharge of his authoritie, but one∣ly a breathing from the labours of his charge. I am wrestling still with—and preparing you an after-dinners Recreation, which I will bring my selfe to Burdeaux, if you stay there till the next moneth. In the meane time, since you desire new assurances of my fidelitie, I sweare vnto you, with all the Religion of Oathes, and with all the libertie and sinceritie of the golden age, that I am

Sir,

Your, &c.

To Monsieur de la Nauue, Coun∣cellour of the King, in his first Chamber of Enquests. LETTER VIII.

SIR, my deare Cousin, your noblenesse is not of these times, but you are generous af∣ter the old fashion. To call the paines I put you

to, a favour, and to thanke a man for persecuting you, this is a vertue which Orestes and Pylades perhaps knew, but is now no where to be found, but either in old fables, or in your Letter. The offers you make me, doe not so much give me a possession, as confirme me in it, and assure me the durablenes of a happinesse which wants nothing of being perfect, but being durable. Monsieur de—hath stretched his beliefe yet further; he hath told mee of your comming into this Province, and hath promised me at lest some houres of those Grand daies that bring you hither: if they were as long as those of Platoes yeare, they should not be too long for me, if I might be so happie to spend them in your com∣pany. I make account to husband the least mi∣nutes of it I can take hold of, and am about in such sort to deck up my Hermitage, that it may not be offensive to your eyes. I can present you but with grosse pleasures and Country recreati∣ons; yet you that are perfectly just, will not re∣fuse to take a little contentment where you are perfectly loved, and preferre a lively passion, and a heart sincere, before false semblances and a dead magnificence. My complements are short, and I am by profession a very bad Cour∣tier, but my words carry truth in them, and I am with all my soule,

Sir, my deere Cousin,

Your, &c.

At Balzac; 1. June. 1634.

To Monsieur de la Motte le Voyer. LETTER IX.

SIR, I am going from Paris in hast, and car∣ry with me the griefe that I cannot stay to tell you in how great account I hold the offer you make me of your friendship. If this be the price of so poore a marchandise, as that I sent you, never was man a greater gainer by traffi∣king than I: and you seeme in this, not unlike those Indians, who thought to over-reach the Spaniards, by giving them Gold for Glasse. I have long since knowne your great worth, though you would not be knowne to have such worth in you; all the care you can take to hide the beautie of your life, cannot keepe the lustre of it from dazeling mine eyes, and though you make your vertue a secret, yet I have pierced into it, and discovered it. And yet I must con∣fesse unto you my infirmitie, I finde it too sub∣lime for me, and with my uttermost abilitie am not able to reach it; all I can doe, is to respect it with reverence, and to follow you with my eyes and thoughts. The world cannot all rayse it selfe above the pitch of the presentage, and be wise in equall rank with Aristides & Socrates; I am contented to be in a lower forme of ver∣tue, for I am a man, and they demy Gods; I nei∣ther aspire to be their equall, nor their rivall, much lesse Sir, to be their judge or accuser.

Anitus and Melitus would be much mistaken in me, if they should thinke I would joyne with them in their accusation, as though I thought all opinions to be bad which are not like mine own; I had rather thinke, that it is I that loose the sight of Orasius Tubero sometimes, than thinke that he is strayed, or out of the way; & rather charge my selfe with weaknesse, than accuse him of rashnesse. Let him leave the middle Region of the ayre below him, and mount up above the highest; let him take upon him to judge of hu∣mane things, from Shepheards to Kings, from shrubbes to starres, provided, that he be pleased to hold there, and bow his wings, and submit his reason to things divine. I have not time to tell you, how much I value him. Monsieur de—will at more leisure entertaine you with discourse about it, I onely will assure you, that what maske soever you put upon your face, I finde you alwayes exceeding amiable, and that I will ever be

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Paris, 6. Septemb. 1631.

To Madam de Villesavin. LETTER X.

MAdam, seeing it is my ill fortune, that I cannot finde you when I come to see you, I entreat you to let me speake to you by an In∣terpreter,

and that I may make this benefit of my being so farre from Paris, to have a right of writing to you when I could not have the pow∣er of speaking with you. Indeed as long as you were taken up with entertaining your deare sonne, whom long absence had made as it were new unto you, and as long as you were tasting the first joyes which his returne had brought with it; It had been a great indiscretion in a stranger, to intrude himselfe into your private feast, & not give you the libertie to make choice of your Guests; but now, that your extasies of joy are over-passed, and that a more calme estate makes you sociable to others abroad: Now Ma∣dam, you may vouchsafe to accept my comple∣ment, and to heare me say, with my Countrey freedome, that you want much of that I wish you, if you want any thing of absolute felicitie. I make no doubt but Monsieur Bouthillier your sonne, as he parted from hence a right honest man, so he is returned hither an understanding man; and that to the lights which are given by Nature, he hath added those that are gotten by practise, and by conference. The ayre of Italie which is so powerfull in ripening of fruits, hath not been lesse favourable to the seeds of his spi∣rit, and having been at the spring-head of hu∣mane prudence, I assure my selfe, he hath drawn deepe of it, and hath filled his minde with so many new and sublime knowledges; that even his Father (if it were not for the great love he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 him) might not unjustly grow jealous at it. This Madam, is that happinesse I speake to

you off, and which I have alwayes wished to you, and to which, there can nothing be added, but to see shortly so excellent an instrument set aworke, and so able a man employed in great affayres. When this shall be, I shall then see the successe of my ancient predictions, and of that I have long read in his very face; so that, you may well thinke, I shall take no distast at your con∣tentment, as well for the reputation of my skill in Physnomie and Prognosticating, as for that I perfectly am

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac 2. Octob. 1631.

To Monsieur de Gomberville, LETTER XI.

SIR, the mischance at the Tuilliries, hath disquieted me all night, and my unquiet∣nesse would have continued still, if you had not taken the paines to calme it. The newes you send me, gives me life; A man cannot be innocent, whom Madam de Maiso•…•…fort judgeth culpa∣ble, shee is not one that will complaine where there is no fault; and truly, if she had taken the mischance of her page in another fashion than shee did, I would rather have abandoned reason than maintaine it against her, & would not have

trusted my owne testimony, if shee rejected it. You remember, that but hearing her Name, I fell downe in a trance, and that the very sight of her livery, strucke into me a religious horrour, and a trembling respect, which is not borne, but to things divine. And in this ranke, I place so rare a beauty as hers is; and though I be no man of the world, yet I am not so very a stranger to the occurrents of the world, but that I very well know, shee is universally adored; I must not al∣wayes passe for an Hermite; this I am sure, shee carries with her the desires and vowes of all the Court, and shee leades in triumph those Gallants, who have themselves triumphed over our enemies: yet I know withall, they depend more upon her by their owne passion, than by her endeavours, and follow without being drawne. These are Captives, whom shee trusts upon their word, for their true imprison∣ment, and whom shee suffers to be their owne Keepers. In the course shee holds of honestie, her favours are so morall, or so light, that either they content none but the wise, because they desire no more than what is given them; or none but the unwise, because they take that to be given them, which was never meant them; so there are some perhaps well satisfied, but it is by the force of their imagination, and no body hath cause to be proud of a Fortune, which no body possesseth. As her vertue is as cleere as the fire that sparkles in her eyes, so her reputa∣tion is as much without blemish as her beautie; & of this, honest people give testimony by their

words, and Detractors by their silence. Shee makes thornes that they cannot pricke, and makes slander it selfe to learne good manners. And therefore Sir, I should be very unfortu∣nate, if I had been cause of displeasing her, whom all the world endeavours to please; and it would be a shame to our Nation, that a Frenchman should beare himselfe unreverently towards her, to whom very Barbarians beare a reverence. If this mis-fortune had besallen me, it is not the saving my Pages life, should make me stand in the defence; and I would never de∣sire to augment my traine, but to the end I might have the more sacrifices to offer upon the Altar of her choler. But shee is too mercifull, to pu∣nish meane Delinquents, and too generous, to give petty Examples: shee reserves her justice for the Great ones, and the Proud; for those who having more tender senses, are better able to feele the weight of her anger; or els in truth her purpose is to shew me a particular favour, by a publike declaration, and to let the world see, shee makes a reckoning of that of which the world makes none. And knowing what the gratefulnesse of good Letters is, shee is desirous to have them in her debt; shee payes our studies before-hand, for the fruit shee expects from them, and obligeth the Art which can prayse the Obligation: shee is made beleeve, that I have some skill in this Art, and I perceive I am not in so little respect with her as I thought; and of this I am assured, by the paines it cost you, to make her take her Page againe that was hurt;

and by the civill language shee desired you to deliver from her. It exceeded indeed all bounds of moderation, and it seemes shee would not only for my sake protect an innocent, but would be ready, if need were, to reward a delinquent. For acknowledgment of which generous good∣nesse, all my owne spirit, and all my friends put together, can never be too much. It is particu∣larly your selfe to whom I must have recourse in this occasiō: you Sir, who set the Crown up∣on Beauties head, who have the power to make Queenes at your pleasure; and to whom Olym∣pia and Yzatide, are beholding for their Em∣pire: having bestowed so great glory upon persons that never were; and set all France a running after Phantosmes, you may well take upon you to defend the reputation of a sensible and living vertue, and choose a subject that may be thankefull to you for your choice; and this is a matter you cannot deny, of which wee will talke more, and conclude it after dinner in pre∣sence of the Lady that is interessed in it, into whose presence, I must entreat you, to be my usher to bring me, that so I may ever more and more be,

Sir,

Your most humble and most obliged servant, &c.

At Paris, 1. June: 1631.

To Monsieur de Villiers Hottoman. LETTER XII.

SIR, being equally tender of the good will you beare me, and of the account you make of me, I cannot choose but rest well satisfied with your remembring me, and with the judge∣ment you deliver of my writings; you are not a man that will beare false witnesse, and you have too much honestie to deceive the world, but withall, you have too much understanding to be deceived your selfe, and one may well re∣lie upon a wisedome that is confirmed by time and practise. This is that which makes mee to make such reckoning of your approbation, and such account of your counsell, that I should be loath to be defective in the least tittle of conten∣ting you. It is farre from me, to maintaine a point, that you oppose; I give it over at the first blow, and yeeld at the first summons: yet I could never have thought, that of a jeast, there should have been made a fault; or that a poore word, spoken without designe or ayming at any, should have been the cause of so great complaints. You know, that in a certaine moderne Schoole, there is a difference made, Fra la virtu faeminile, & la Donnesca; and it is held, that to make love, is more the vice of a woman, than of a Princesse; and lesse to be blamed in the person of Semird∣mis or Cleopatra, than in the person of Lucretia

or Virginia: I carry not my opinions so farre, and I meane to be no Authour of so extrava∣gant a Moralitie. It may suffice, that without descending from the thesis to the hypothesis, I protest unto you, I should be very sorry, I had trenched upō the reputation of that great Queen, or intended to corrupt the memory of so excel∣lent an odour, as shee hathleft behinde her; of whose great worthinesse, I have in other places sayd so much, that I should but shame my selfe to say any otherwise; and indeed, the termes I used were free, and not injurious, and such, as if they wound a little, they tickle & delight much more: I neither spake disgracefully of the dig∣nitie of her royall birth, nor gave her any odious or uncivill names, as some others have done, whom I condemne extreamly for it; yet Sir, I will yeeld to confesse, that I have said too much, and though my saying too much should have attractives to charm me, and were as deare to me as any part of my selfe, yet seeing it is di∣stastfull to you, I will for your sake cut it cleane off, and never looke for further reasons to in∣duce me to it. I can deny nothing to my friends, and therefore make no doubt of the power you have over me, and of my testifying, upon this occasion, without further opening my eyes, that I am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 4. Jan. 1632.

To Monsieur de Borstell. LETTER XIII.

SIR, I am so farre from seeking to justifie my negligence, that I will not goe about so much as to excuse it: nothing but my being dead, can be a valuable reason why I waited not upon you, to offer you my service; all other impediments would prove too light, to have kept mee here: but such is your graciousnesse, that it is impossible to fall foule with you; such your indulgence, that you remit a fault before I can confesse it: you give me no leisure to aske you, at the very first, you oblige me to thanke you, and I have received my pardon here at home, which I never looked to obtaine, but at Oradour, and that with long solliciting. I have not yet seene the Ambassatrix, who hath done me the favour to bring it to me, and I cannot imagine, shee should be surprized with that de∣spaire, as your Letter represents herein. Al∣clones affliction, in respect of hers, would be but meane, and those women whose teares Anti∣quitie hath hallowed, did but hate their hus∣bands, in comparison of her: I know not whe∣ther you doe her a pleasure, to raise her sorrow to so high a pitch; for after this you speake of, shee shall never be allowed to lift up her eyes, and you give her a reputation whereof shee is not worthy, if shee leave but one haire upon her

head. I much distast your exaggerations, and cannot thinke shee will beare you out in the re∣port you make of her miserable estate: if it were such, as you make it, it would be capable of no remedie: Epictetus and Seneca, would be too meane Physitions, to take her in hand; yet I meane not to contradict you:

I thinke when death her husband sea'de, Angelica with her Fates displeasde, Lookt pale i'th face as Alablaster: Charging the guiltlesse starres with blame In the th'hard language, Rage could frame When it is growne the Reasons Master.

Yet the glory of her spirit makes me beleeve withall, that this sad humour was but a Fit, and continued not long, and that the same day upon the tempest there followed a calme. A man shall meet with some women of such spirits, that neither time nor Philosophie can worke upon them; and some others againe, that pre∣vent the worke of time & Philosophie, by their owne naturall constitution. As there are some fleshes so hard to heale, that no Balme can cure the pricke but of a pinne; so againe, there are some bodies so well cōposed, that their wounds are healed with plaine Spring water, and they close and grow together of themselves. I assure my selfe, our faire Lady is of this perfect tem∣per, and that she wouldbe no example, to make widowes condemned for curling their locks, or for wearing their mourning gowns edged with

greene. You should alledge unto her the Prin∣cesse Leonina, so highly esteemed of the Court of Spaine, and the prime ornament of this last age. Knowing that her husbands quirry was come, to relate unto her the particulars of his death, & hearing that his Secretary was to come the morrow after, shee sent the quirry word, to forbeare comming to see her, till the Secre∣tary were come, that so shee might not be ob∣liged to shed teares twice. There is no vertue now adayes so common as constancy, nor any thing so superfluous, as the custome of comfor∣ting. All the Steele of Biscay, and all the poy∣son of Thessalie, might well enough be trusted in the hands of the mourners of our time, with∣out doing any hurt. I scarce know a man that would not be glad to out-live, not onely his friends & parents, but even the age he lives in, & his very Country, and rather than die, would willingly stay in the world himselfe alone. Speake therefore no more of keeping Angeli∣ca here by force, who in my opinion is not of herselfe unwilling; and not having lost the King of Sweden, may therefore the more easily re∣payre her losse. I would to God Sir, I could be no sadder than shee is, and that I could forget a person, who is at this present the torment of my spirit; as he hath heretofore been the delight of my eyes: but melancholick men doe not so easily let goe the hold of their passions, and the good remedies you have sent to comfort mee for his death; I approve them all, but apply none of them: yet I give you a thousands marks,

though six moneths after they were due; and though I say not often, yet I say it most truly, that you shall never take care of any man, that is more than my selfe,

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 30. Aprill. 1633.

To Madam—LETTER XIIII.

MAdam, seeing I could not come to see you at your departure, as I was bound to doe, I doe not thinke I shall doe you any wrong to send you a better companion than that I promi∣sed you; I meane the Booke I now send you, whereof you have heard so much talke, and which you meant to have carried with you into Perigord, to be your comforter for the losse of Paris. It is in truth worthy of the good opini∣on you have of it, and of the impatience with which I am a witnesse, you have expected it. And if wagers have been layd upon Queenes great bellies, and assurance given they should be brought abed of a sonne, why should I won∣der that you have given before hand, your ap∣probation of a thing that deserves the approba∣tion of all the world? It will certainly bring you

out of tast with the Present I gave you, when you desired me to looke you out some of my Compositions. In it you shall finde that, that will shorten he longest dayes of this season; That, that will keepe you from tediousnesse when you are alone; That, that will make you thanke me for my absence. For to say true, all visits will be unseasonable to you, when you set your selfe to the Recreation of so sweet a rea∣ding; and whosoever shall come to trouble you at such a time, must needs have from you some secret maledictions, what civilities soever you make shew of, as your custome is. I would be loath to fall into this inconvenience, it is better I give my opinion a farre off, and in a Letter, which you may entertaine without any solem∣nitie: since then you will have me beleeve, that my judgement is not altogether bad, nor my o∣pinions wholly unsound; I professe unto you Madam, that setting aside the affection I beare to the Authour of this worke, I have observed in the worke it selfe, a number of excellent things, which I could not chuse but prayse, e∣ven in an enemy. He is not so cholerick I hope, but that he will pardon me if I say that he is one of the most pleasing lyars that ever I saw. I complaine not of his impostures, but when he ceaseth to deceive me, because I would gladly have them last alwayes. His History hath quite removed my spirit out of its place, and hath tou∣ched to the quicke all that I have sensible in me. I will not hide my weaknesse: I knew at first, that the painting I looked on, was all false, yet

I could not hold from having as violent passi∣ons, as if it had been true, and as if I had seen it with mine eyes: sometimes sorrowfull, some∣times glad; as it pleaseth Monsieur de Bois Ro∣bert to tell me tales of good or bad fortune. I find my selfe interessed in good earnest in all the affayres of his imaginary Kings; I am put in feare for the poore Anaxandra, more than I can expresse, and as much I am humbled for the mis-fortunes of Lysimantus, and I have seene them both in such extremities, that I made so∣lemne vowes for their safetie, when at the very height they were miraculously delivered. In conclusion Madam, though I have a heart hard enough, and eyes not very moyst, yet I could not forbeare to shed teares, in spight of my selfe; and I have been even ashamed to see, that they were but the dreames and fancies of another man, and not my owne proper evils which put into me such true passions. This is a tyrannicall power, which the sence usurpeth over the rea∣son, and which makes us see, that the neigh∣bour-hood of the imagination, is extreamly contagious to the intellectuall part, and that there is much more body than soule in this proud creature, which thinkes it selfe borne to command all others. The Aethiopick History hath oftentimes given me these Alarums, and I cannot yet reade it without suffering my selfe to be deceived. As for other writings of this kinde, it is true, I make some choice, and runne not after all Spanish Romanos, with equall pas∣sion. They are indeed for the most part, but He∣liodorus

in other clothes, or as—sayd, but children borne of Theagenes and Chariclea, and seeme to resemble their Father and Mother so neere, that there is not a haires breadth of difference betweene them. But in this worke Madam, I make you promise you shall see no∣velties, and shall finde in it this sweet ayre of the wide world, and these dainties of the spirit, which are not common in our Provinces. I con∣fesso unto you, there is in some passages some thing that may seeme too much painted, and perhaps too garish, and which will not beare examining by the rigour of Precepts; but then you must confesse as well that Fables looke chiefly after beautie, and care not though it be a little immodest, seeing this kinde of writing is rather a loose Poesie, than a regular Prose. As soone as I shall be able to ride, I will come and heare your Oracles hereupon, and tell you, as I use to doe, that as your selfe is one of the per∣fectest things I ever saw, so I am more than of any other,

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 10. August, 1629.

To Monsieur Hobier, President of the Treasures in the Ge∣neralitie of Bourges. LETTER XV.

SIR, though you should say, I present you alwayes with flowers that prick you, and offer you services that may seeme unseasonable, yet I cannot forbeare the sollicitations of my Letters, nor the trading with you by this way of Complements. The Booke which I have desi∣red Monsieur de—to deliver to you, shall passe if you please, but for an Essay; and I am contented that my discourses Morall and Poli∣tick, shall contribute nothing to the mending of my own fortune, so they may contribute some∣thing to the recommending of my Sisters busi∣nesse: if it become me to speake of a person that is so neere unto me, and if you thinke me wor∣thy to be credited in the testimony I shall give of her, I am able Sir, to say thus much, that shee is a womā, either lifted up by her own strength above the passions of her sexe, or that Nature hath exempted her from them, by a peculiar priviledge: so farre, as that amongst us, shee stands for an example, and leads a life that is the edification of all our Province. But though shee make profession of severe vertues, yet shee aspires to no glory by sullen humours; shee hath

nothing muddy, nor clownish in her, but tem∣pers her austerity with so much exterior sweet∣nesse, that without endeavouring to please any, shee seemes to be pleasing to all the world, I therefore sollicite you for her, in behalfe of all the world, and crave your favour with vio∣lence; for to crave it with discretion, would make but a weake shew, of the desire I have to obtaine it. In matters that concerne my selfe onely, I am held backe by a certaine naturall •…•…∣mourousnesse, which makes me oftentimes to be wanting to my selfe; but in that which con∣cernes her, I observe not so much as honest re∣spects; but am bold, even to temeritie; and if therein I should not doe too much, I should ne∣ver thinke I did enough: and yet this is a fault, which leaves no remorse behinde it; the merit of the subject, justifies the impor•…•…unitie of the suppliant; and when you shall know her bet∣ter, you will find no great excesse in that I write, and will blesse my persecution. You have al∣ready obliged us exceedingly, and have put the businesse in an infallible way of prospering; it onely remaines Sir, that you crowne your cour∣tesie, and draw a concluding word from the parties, whom I shall call Publicans, and cou∣ple them with Heathens, if they be not conver∣ted and led with that you shall say unto them: but I cannot doubt of the effect of your perswa∣sions, who know, that both by your tongue, and by your pen, you practise our Art, with assured successe. Let us now see the proofe of it, in this occasion, and I p•…•…omise you, that never favour

was more commended, nor shall be more re∣commended, than yours shall be. The conside∣ration of a good deed, being joyned to that of vertue, you shall possesse me by a double title, and I shall not be lesse of due, than I am by choice,

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 25. Decemb. 1631.

To Monsieur de Coupeauville, Abbot of the Victory. LETTER XVI.

SIR, seeing the Relations that come from Paris, tell us no Newes at all of you, I en∣treat you to be your owne Historian, and not suffer me to be punctually informed of a thou∣sand things, that are indifferent to me, and re∣maine altogether ignorant of the state of your health, which is so infinitely deare unto mee. It is very likely, you have all the care that may be of it, as of a thing necessary for exercising the functions of a vertuous life; and I doubt not but you containe your selfe alwayes in that ex∣cellent meane, which is between disorder and mortification. You are no longer hungry after the glory of 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and if the Artillery of

the Valstin carry not so farre as the Realle, I as∣sure my selfe, it can doe you no hurt: my minde therefore is at quiet in that point, and I am not afraid to loose you, as I have lost some other va∣liant friends; and you doe well to leave the warre to others, and stay your selfe upon the Victory. I aske you pardon for this untoward Aequivocall word, I have rather written it than thought it, and it is a mis-fortune which surpri∣zeth me but very seldome: I onely say Sir, that it is better to be Abbot a dozen miles from Pa∣ris, than to be Generall of an Armie in Tharin∣gia or Westphalia; and that a Crosse of so many pounds a yeare, is much more worth than either Hercules clubbe, or Rowlands sword; and that he that gave you so honest and so rich an idle∣nesse, hath not ill deserved of your Philosophy, to which I recommend me with all my heart, and wish unto it the continuance of this happie repose; but upon condition, that it make you not distaste our friendship, and suffer you to place one of the most noble vertues of the mind in the number of her maladies and infirmities. Be not a Doctour so farre as that, and remem∣ber, you are my debtor of some affection, if you forget not, that I am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 25. Decemb. 1632.

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To Monsieur de Forgues, Com∣mander of a Company in Holland. LETTER XVII.

SIR, my deare Cousin, I thinke my selfe a rich man with the goods you have given me another that should have received the same present, should not owe you for it the same ob∣ligation, but the opinion of things, is the mea∣sure of their value; and because I have neither minde nor eyes that be covetous, I account the Emeraudes of your Glasse-windowes, of as great a price as those of Lapidaries: at least, whereas they are without life and motion, these live and moove in my base Court. I know my riches, and am known by them, and after I have read my selfe starke blind, I goe and refresh my wearied sight in that admirable verdure, which is to me both a recreation and a remedie. Base objects, not onely offend my imagination, but even provoke my choler; and I should never receive a Monkey from the best of my friends, but onely to kill it: but I vow unto you, that beautie pleaseth me wheresoever I meet it; yet because it is a dangerous thing in womens faces, I like better to behold it in the feathers of birds, and in the enameling of flowers. Plea∣sures so chast, are compatible with Lent, and

offend not God: and therefore upon these one houre in a day, I take pleasure to stand gazing and amuse my selfe: I thanke you for it with all my heart, and passionately am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 7. March. 1634.

To Madam d'Anguitur. LETTER XVIII.

MAdam, It shall never be laid to my charge, that you speake of me with honour, and that I understand it without feeling. A good o∣pinion is obligatory, from whence so ere it come, but infinitely more, when it comes from an exquisit judgement, as yours is; and I doubt not, but Socrates was more touched and tick∣led with that one word the Oracle spake of him, than with all the prayses the world had given him. The favourable discourses you have held of me, ought not to be held of me in lesse acoūt than words indeed inspired, & if I should place them in the number of humane testimonies, I should sh•…•…w my selfe ignorant, that it is Hea∣ven which hath been your Instructour; and that from thence, you have received those cleere lights, whereof the Starres are but shadowes.

I doe not amplifie any thing at adventure, nor suffer my selfe to be swayed with flattery; but in this point of Illumination, Madam, I alwayes except matters of Faith, least your Ministers should take advantage of my words. We must needs, I say, hold for certaine, that either you have been instructed by an extraordinary way, or confesse that you owe it all to your selfe, and that comming to know the truth, without stu∣die and discipline, your vertue is a meere work of your owne making. It is no small matter for one that lives in parts remote from the Court, to be but tolerably reasonable, & able to main∣taine his common sence against so many oppo∣sites and oppositions, as he shall meet with; but in those remote parts, where you have no choice of Examples, there to discover the Idaea, from whence Examples are taken, to breath in an infected Ayre, and full of Errours; and yet reteine still sound opinions; to be continually opposed with extravagant questions, and yet alwayes returne discreet answers; To take pit∣tie of silly Buffons, when others admire them; to make a difference between jeasts picked up here and there, and those that come from the Spring it selfe; between wise discourses, and harmonious fooleries; between a sufficiency that is solid, and that which is onely painted; to doe these things Madam, ought to be called even halfe a miracle: and no lesse a raritie in these dayes than in former times, it was to see a white Aethiopian, or a Scythian Philosopher. Our Country may justly be proud of so admira∣ble

a birth; It is the great worke of her famous faecunditie, and wee may boldly say, there is that found in Saintoigne, which is wanting in the Circle; that which hinders the Court from be∣ing compleat, and that which is necessary for the perfecting of Paris it selfe. But as well here as there Madam, if ever you will heare the vowes of those who wish your happinesse, I would thinke it fit, you should not make your selfe a spectacle for the vulgar, nor suffer your enter∣tainment to be a recreation for idle persons. It deserves not to be approached unto without preparation; & that they should examine them∣selves well, who present themselves before it. All spirits at all times, are not capable of so wor∣thy a communication, and therefore, let men say what they will, I account the reservations you make of your selfe, to be very just, and it cannot be thought strange, that being as you are of infinite value, you take some time to possesse your selfe alone, and not to loose your right of reigning; which admits, as no division, so no Company. To use it otherwise Madam, would not be a civilitie, or a courtesie, but indeed an ill husbanding of your spirit, and a wastfull pro∣fusion of those singular graces, of which, though it be not fit you should deprive them that ho∣nour you, yet it is fit you should give them out by tale, and distribute them by measure. It is much better, to have lesse generall designes, and to propose to ones selfe, a more limited reputa∣tion, than to abandon ones spirit to every on•…•… that will be talking, and to expose it to the cu∣riositie

of the people, who leave alwayes a cer∣taine taynt of impuritie upon all things they looke upon: by such vitious sufferance, we find dirt and mire carried into Ladies Closets: if there come a busie fellow into the Countrey, presently honest women are besieged, there is thronging to tell them tales in their eares; and all the world thinkes, they have right to torment them: and thus, saving the reverence of their good report, though they be chast, yet they be publike; and though they can spie the feast sul∣lying upon their ruffes, yet they willingly suffer a manifest soyling of their noblest part. You have done Madam, a great act, to have kept your selse free from the tyrannnie of custome, and to have so strongly fortified your selfe a∣gainst uncivill assay lants; that, whilst the Louver is surprized, your house remaines impregnable. I cannot but magnifie the excellent order, with which you dispose the houres of your life; and I take a pleasure to thinke upon this Sanctuary of yours, by the onely reverence of vertue made inviolable: in which, you use to retyre your selfe, either to enjoy more quietly your repose, or otherwise, to exercise your selfe in the most pleasing action of the world, which is the con∣sideration of your selfe. If after this your hap∣pie solitnde, you come sometimes and cast your eyes upon the Book I send you, you shall there∣in Madam, doe me no great favour: the things you shall have thought, will wrong those you shall reade; and so it shall not be a grace, but an affront I shall receive. I therefore humbly en∣treat

you, there may be some reasonable inter∣mission, between two actions, so much diffe∣ring: Goe not streight from your selfe to me, but let the rellish of your owne meditation be a little passed over, before you goe to take re∣creation in my worke. To value it to you, as a piece of great price; or otherwise, to vilifie it, as a thing of no value, might justly be thought in me an equall vanity. They who praise them∣selves, desire consent, and seeke after others ap∣probation; they who blame themselves, seeke after opposition, and desire they may be con∣tradicted. This latter humilitie, is no better than the others pride. But to the end, I may not seeme to goe to the same place, by a third way, and desire to be praysed, at least with that in∣differency I ascribe to you; I entreat you Ma∣dam, that you will not speake the least word, either of the merit of my labour, or in default of merit, of the fashion of language I have u∣sed in speaking to you: I meane not to put this Letter upon the score; to speake plainly, I en∣treat you to make me no answer to it; so farre I am off, from expecting thankes for it. It is not, Madam, a Present I make you, it is an ho∣mage I owe you; and I pretend not to oblige you at all, but onely to acquit my selfe of the first act of veneration, which I conceive I owe you, as I am a reasonable creature, and desiring all my life to be

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac 4. May, 1634.

To Monsieur Balthazar, Coun∣cellour of the King, and Treasurer Generall of Navarre. LETTER XIX.

SIR, I never deliberate upon your opinion, nor ever examine any mans merit, when you have once told me what to beleeve. But yet, if I should allow my selfe the libertie to do otherwise, I could but still say, that I find Mon∣sieur de—well worthy the account you hold him in, and my selfe well satisfied of him, upon his first acquaintanee. By further conver∣sation, I doubt not, but I should yet discover in him more excellent things, but it is no easie matter, ever to bring us together againe: For, he is a Carthusian in his Garrison, and I an Her∣mite in the Desart; so as that which in our two lives makes us most like, is that which makes us most unlikely ever to meet: yet I sometimes heare Newes of him; and I can assure you, he is but too vigilant in looking to his Charge; hee hath stood so many Rounds and Sentinells, that it is impossible, he should be without rhumes, at least, till Midsomer. These are, to speake truly, workes of supererogation; for I see no enemy this Province need to feare, unlesse perhaps, the Persian or Tartarian: the very Name of the

King, is generally fortification enough, over all his Kingdome; and as things now stand, Vau∣girad is a place impregnable; that if Demetrius came againe into the world, he would loose his reputatiō before the meanest village of Beausse: but this is one of your politician subtleties, to make Angoulesme passe for a Frontier Towne, and to give it estimation, that it may be envied. Doubt not, but I shall give you little thankes for this, seeing by this meanes you are cleane gone from us, and I must be faine to make a journey of purpose into Lauguedoc, if I ever meane to enjoy the contentment of embracing you, and of assuring you, that I am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 1. March. 1633.

To Monsieur de Serizay. LETTER XX.

SIR, if you were but resident at Paris, I should hope sometimes to heare of your Newes, but now that you are bewitched there, it will be an ungratefull worke for you to reade •…•…ine. They are alwayes such as must be pitti∣ed. In my way there are as many stones to dash against, as in yours there are flowers: and life it

selfe is an evill that I suffer, as it is a good that you enjoy: you left me blind, and may now find me lame; my causes of complaining never cease, they doe but change place; and the favours I receive, are so husbanded, that I cannot recover an eye, but by the losse of a legge. I was yester∣day in a great musing upon this, when suddenly a great light shined in my Chamber, and daze∣led mine eyes, even as I lay in my bed. And not to hold you long in suspence, the Name of the Angell I meane, was Madam d' Estissac, who thus appeared unto me, and willing to make the world see, how much shee hath profited in Religion, runnes after all occasions, to put her Christian vertues in practise. This somewhat abates the vanity I should otherwise have taken in her visite; for, I see it is rather charitie than courtesie, and I am so much beholding to my in∣firmitie for it, that shee made a doubt whether I were sicke enough to merit it; as much as to say, a Paralitick should have had this courtesie from her sooner than I. They must be great miseries that attract her great favours; pittie which tea∣cheth the fayrest hands of the world to bury the dead, may well get of the fayrest eyes that ever were, some gracious lookes to comfort the af∣flicted. What ere it be, I have found by expe∣rience, that no sadnesse is so obstinate and clow∣die, but pleasing objects may dissolve & pierce, not any Philosopher so stony and insensible, but may be softned and awaked by their lightest impression. I verily thinke, another of her vi∣sits, would have set me on my legges, and made

me able to goe: but shee thought me not wor∣thy of a whole miracle, and therefore I must content my selfe with this beginning of my cure. I enforme you of these things, as being one that reverenceth their cause, and as one that loves me too well, to make slight of the goods or evills I impart unto him. This last word of my Letter, shall serve, if you please, for a cor∣rective to the former, I revoke it as a blasphe∣mie, and will never beleeve, that all the Magick in: Paris, is able to make you forget a man, whom you have promised to love, and who passionately is

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 3. July. 1633.

Another to him: LETTER XXI.

SIR, this is the first opportunitie I could get to write unto you, and to comfort my selfe for your absence by this imperfect way, which is the onely meanes left mee to enjoy you. These are but shadowes and figures of that ture contentment, I received by your presence; b•…•… since I cannot be wholly happie, I must take it in good part that I am not wholly mise∣rable.

I will hasten all I can to finish the busi∣nesse I have begun, thereby to put my selfe in state to see you; and if my minde could goe as fast as my will, I should my selfe be with you as soone as my Letter. It is true, there cannot be a more delicate and daintie place, than this where I live banished; and a friend of ours said, that they who are in exile here, are farre hap∣pier than Kings in Muscovia: but being sepa∣rated from a man so infinitely deere unto mee, I doe not thinke, I could live contented in the Fortunate Islands; and I should be loath to ac∣cept of felicitie it selfe, if it were offered me, without your company. Wherefore assure your selfe, that as soone as I can rid my selfe of some importunate visits, which I must necessarily both receive and give, I will not loose one mo∣ment of the time, that I have destinated to the accomplishment of—and will travaile much more assiduously than otherwise I should doe, seeing it is the end of my travaile, that one∣ly can give me the happinesse of your presence. In the meane time, I am bound, first to tell you, that I have seene here—and then to give you thankes for the good cheare he hath made me. He beleeves upon your word, that I am one of much worth, and gives me Encomiums, which I could not expect from his judgement, but that you have corrupted it, by favouring me too much. I earnestly entreat you, to let mee heare from you, upon all occasions; and to send me by the Post the two books, which I send for to Monsieur—if you have not received

them of him already; but above all, I desire you, that we may lay aside all meditation and art in writing our Letters; and that the negligence of our stile, may be one of the marks of the friend∣ship between us: and so Sir, I take my leave, and am with all my soule,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 2. Decemb. 1628.

Another to him. LETTER XXII.

SIR, eyther you meane to mocke me, or I understand not the termes of your Letter; I come to you in my night gowne, and my night cap upon my head, and you accuse me for be∣ing too fine. You take me for a cunning mar∣chant, who am the simplest creature in the world: if another should use me thus, I should not take it so patiently; but what ere your de∣signe be, I count my selfe happie, to be the sub∣ject of your joy, and that I can make you merry, though it be to my cost: when I write to you, I leave my selfe to the conduct of my penne, and neither thinke of the dainties of our Court, nor of the severitie of our Grammar; that if there be any thing in my Letters of any worth, it must needs be, that you have falsified them, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 so it is you that are the Mountebanke, and

will utter your counterfeits for true Diamonds. You know well, that Eloquence is not gotten so good cheape, and that to terme my untoward language, by the name of this qualitie, is a su∣perlative to the highest of my Hyperboles. Yet it seemes, you stand in no awe of Father—as though you had a priviledge, to speake with∣out controll, things altogether unlikely; for this first time, I am content to pardon you, but if you offend so againe, I will enforme against you, and promise you an honourable place in the third part of Philarchus. The man you wrot of, hath no passions now; but wise and stayed; he hath given over play, and women, and all his delight now, is in his Bookes and vertue. Rejoyce, I pray you, at this happie conversion, and if you be his friend so much, and so much a Poet, as to shew your selfe in publicke, you may doe well to make a Hymne in prayse of Sicknesse; as one hath heretofore done in prayse of Health: for to speake truly, it is his sicknesse that hath healed him, and hath put into him the first meditations of his health: I expect great Newes from you by the next Post, and passionately am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Bolzac, 25. Decemb. 1628.

To Monsieur Ogier. LETTER XXIII.

SIR, I cannot but confesse that men in mise∣ry, never found a more powerfull Prote∣ctour than your selfe; and that you seeme borne to be a defender of oppressed innocency. The Fathers of the Minimme Order, are as much be∣holding to you as my selfe; whose right, you have so strongly maintained, that if I did not know you well, I should verily think, the Saint you speake of, had inspired you. And as by his prayers he gaines a jurisdiction over the fruit∣fulnesse of Princesses, so by the same prayers he hath contributed assistance to this excellent worke you send mee. After this, it is not to be sufferd you should make shew of distast, and tell me of your sloathfulnesse. When fire shall cease to be active, I will then beleeve, you can be sloathfull; but will never thinke you hate Bookes, untill—shall give over his suits in Law; or if I must needs give credit to your words, I then assure my selfe, this distast could never come unto you, but by your too great fare, nor this wearinesse, but by your too great labour. I am my selfe a witnesse of your assidui∣tie in studie; and you know, how early soever I rise in the morning, I alwayes find you in the chamber next to the Meteors; which high regi∣on, I conceive you have chosen, that you may

be the neerer to take in the inspirations of Hea∣ven. I thinke it long till I come and visit you there, to take counsell of your Muses, in a num∣ber of difficulties I have to propound unto you. In the meanetime, I have this to say, that the Newes you send me, hath even astonished me, and it seemes to me, a kinde of Enchantment Monsieur—will shew you certaine Let∣ters, which I entreat you to consider of, and by which you shall see, that if I be deceived, yet it is not grossely, nor without much cunning used. Make me beholding to you, by opening your minde more particularly in this matter, and by beleeving that I am with all my heart

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 4. Feb. 1629.

Another to him. LETTER XXIIII.

SIR, there is no friendship in the world of more use than yours: it is my Buckler in all my battailes, it is my Consolation in all my calamities; but specially, it is my Oracle in all my doubts. That which before. I have your ad∣vice, I propose to my selfe with trembling, I soone as once I have your approbation: I make it a Maxime, and an Aphorisme: and when

have once consulted with you, never did an Ignoramus take upon him to be some great Doctour better than I doe: You have know∣ledge enough to serve your owne turne, and your friends; you are the God that inspires the Sibylle: for my selfe, I am no longer an Au∣thour, but an Interpretor, and speake nothing of my selfe, but preach onely your doctrine. I give you a thousand thankes for your great magnificence, in giving me so great a treasure; and for the learned Observations you have been pleased to communicate unto me: Assure your selfe, I will cry them up in good place, & make your Name alledged solemnly for an Authori∣tie. Gratefulnesse is the poore mans best ver∣tue, and seeing I cannot be liberall, I will endea∣vour, at least, not to be unmindfull: And so Sir, I am most perfectly, and more than any other in the world,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 6. Mar. 1629.

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXV.

MAdam, being in a fit of a Feaver, I heare you are at Oradour, where I should have the honour to see you, if the joy of so good Newes had the power to carry me thither, and

were able to give me the health, which it is for∣ward to promise me. Being therefore not in case to assure you in person, how sensible I am of your many courtesies; give me leave to te∣stifie unto you, that I am not unmindfull of the very last you shewed me, and that I give you thankes for the beginning of my amendment, whereof you are the cause. It is certaine, that when I was burning in a most extreame fire, I received a notable cooling and comfort, to heare you but onely Named; and this, Madam, is the first miracle you have done in this Countrey, if you stay but a while here, I hope we shall see many more and greater, and that you will leave some excellent markes, that you have beene here. Our Desarts shall be no longer rude, or savage, having once been honoured by your presence, the sweet ayre, that breaths on the bankes of the Loyre, shall spread it selfe hither; and I doubt not, but you will change all the choler of Lymousin into Reason, and make our Lyons become men. I doe not thinke, there is any will oppose this truth, unles perhaps—who had the heart to part from you with drie eyes, and could not finde teares to accompany yours. I have told him of it to his shame, before Monsieur de—and both of us agree, that in this occasion, he might honestly enough, have broken the lawes of his Philosophie, & might have lost his gravitie, without any lightnesse. Whilst wee were together, they desired to see a part of my Prince, which as yet I dare not call by so illustrious a Name; for in truth, Madam,

he can be but a private person, untill such time as you proclaime him, and that he receive inve∣stiture from his Soveraigne: so I call your ap∣probation, which is with me in such respect and reverence, that I should preferre it before Rea∣son it selfe, if they were two things that could be separated, and that I were allowed to choose which I would have. I would say more here∣of, but that methinks, I have done a great worke to say so much; for my head is in such violent agitation, with the heat of my last fit, that all I can doe at this time, is but to set my hand to this Protestation, that I honour you exceedingly, and am as much as any in the world,

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 25. August. 1629.

Another to her. LETTER XXVI.

MAdam, I am jealous of my Lacquies for∣tune, who makes now a second journey to you, and consequently, shall be twice toge∣ther twice as happy as I: he should never have this advantage of me, if to a journey to see you, there went nothing but courage, and if the rel∣licks of my disease, which prey upon weaknes, did not tyre me more than the extreame vio∣lence

did, when I had some strength to resist it. By staying in my chamber, I loose all the fayre dayes that shine in the garden; all the riches of the fields are gathered without me; I have no part in the fruits of Autumne, whereof the Spring gave me such sweet hopes; and I am promised health at winter, when I shall see no∣thing but a pale Sunne, a thread-bare Earth, and dead sticks, that have brought forth grapes, but not for me to eate. In this miserable estate, I have no comfort, but onely the Letter you did me the honour to write unto me, which is so precious to me Madam, that I even honour it, with a kinde of superstition, and am ready to make a chaine or bracelet of it, to try whether the wearing it about me, may not proove a bet∣ter Remedy against my Feaver, than all the other I have used. There is but one word in it that I cannot endure, being not able to conceive why you should call your selfe Unfortunate: are you not afraid, least God should call you to account for this word? and charge you with ungratefulnesse, for making so slight reckoning of his great benefits and Graces? He hath lifted you up above your owne sexe, and ours too, and hath spared nothing to make you compleat; the better part of Europe admires you; and in this poynt, both Religions are agreed, and no contesting betweene Catholike and Protestant; The Popes Nuntio, hath presented our Beliefe even to your person, all perfumed with the complements and civilities of Italie; Princes are your Courtiers, and Doctours your Schol∣lers:

and is this Madam, that you call to be un∣fortunate? and that which you take for a just cause to complaine? I humbly intreat you, to speake hereafter in more proper termes, and to acknowledge Gods favours in a more gratefull manner. I know well, that your loyaltie hath suffered by your brothers Rebellion; and that in the publike miseries you have had some private losses, but so long as you have your noble heart, and your excellent spirit left you, it is not possi∣ble, you should be unfortunate; for indeed, in these two parts, the true Madam Desloges is all entire and whole. It is I Madam, that have just cause to say, I am unfortunate, who am never without paine, never without griefe, never without enemies; and even at this very time I write from a house of griefe, where my mother and my sister being sicke on one hand, and my selfe on the other, I seeme to be sicke of three sicknesses at once; yet be not afraid, least this I send you should be infectious, as though I had a designe to poyson you with my Presents: for I have not yet medled with any of the Musque fruits, which I hope you shall eate; I have not durst so much as to come neere them, least I should chance to leave some light impression of my Feaver upon them: They are originally Natives of Languedoc; and have not so dege∣nerated from the goodnesse of their auncestors, but that you will find them, I hope, of no un∣pleasing taste, and besides Madam, rhey grow in a soyle that is not hated of Heaven, & where I can assure you, your Name is so often rehear∣sed,

and your vertue so highly esteemed, that there is not an Eccho in all our woods, but knowes you for one of the perfectest things in the world, and that I am

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 20. Septemb. 1629.

To—LETTER XXVII.

MAdam, see here the first thankes I give you, for you know, that having never done me but displeasures, I have never yet re∣turned you but complaints: but now at last you have been pleased to beginne to oblige me, and after so many sentences of death, which you have pronounced against me, and after so many cruelties, which I have suffered, you have be∣thought your selfe, ten yeares after, to send me one good Newes, which truly is so pleasing to me, that I must confesse, you had no other way to reconcile your selfe unto me; and I cannot forbeare to blesse the hands that brought mee a Letter from Madam Desloges, though they were dyed in my bloud, and had given me a thousand wounds. The sence of former injuries, hath no competition with so perfect a joy, and of two passions equally just, the more violent is easily

overcome of the more sweet. You have haste∣ned the approach of my old age, and made gray one halfe of my haire; you have banished mee this Kingdome, and forced me to flie your ty∣ranny, by flying into another Country: finally, it is no thanke to you, that I have not broken my owne necke, and made matter for a Trage∣die: and yet foure lines of Madam Desloges, have the force to blot out all this long story of my mis-fortunes, and willingly with all my heart, I forget all the displeasures I have received, for this good office you now affoord me. I make you this discourse in our first language, that I may not disobey Monsieur de—who will have me write, but will not have me write in a∣ny other stile; for in truth, and to speake seri∣ously, now that he leaves me at libertie, I must confesse unto you Madam, that I am exceeding∣ly bound unto you, for the continency I have learned by being with you, and for the good examples you have given me: your medicines are bitter, but they heale; you have banished me, but it is from prison: and if my passions be coo∣led by the snow of my head, I have then never a white hayre, which I may not count for one of your favours. I therefore recant my former complaints, and confesse my selfe your Debtour of all my vertue. The time I have imployed in your service, hath not been so much the season of my disorderd life, as it hath been an initiating me into a regular life which I meane to leade. Your conversation hath been a schoole of auste∣ritie unto me, and you have taught me, never to

be either yours, or any others, but onely in our Lord,

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 10. Octob. 1629.

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXVIII.

MAdam, my evill Fortune, gives one com∣mon beginning to all my Letters: I am impatient even to death, to have the honour to come and see you: but now that I am well, the ayre is sicke, and all the Countrey drowned: There is no Land to be seene between this and Lymousin; and the mischiefe is, that there is no navigation yet found out, for so dangerous a voyage. This bindes me to waite, till the wa∣ters be fallen, and that God be pleased to re∣member his Covenant with Noah. As soone as this shall be, I will not fayle to performe my vow, and to come and spend with you the hap∣piest day of all my life. In the meane time Ma∣dam, give me leave, to tell you, that I am not yet well recovered of the extasie you put me in, by writing unto me such excellent things, that I could not reade them with a quiet minde, nor indeed without a kinde of jealousie. All Fron∣tignon would be sufficiently paid with that you

write of a dozen paltry Muske-fruits I sent you; & you prayse my writings with words, which have no words worthy of them, but your own. This, of one side makes me envious, and of the other side interessed: and if the honour I receive by your flattering Eloquence, did not sweeten the griefe of being overcome, it would trouble me much that I had no better defended the ad∣vantages of our sexe, but should suffer it to loose an honour, which the Greekes and Latines had gotten for it. Yet take heed, you hazard not your judgement too freely, upon the uncer∣taintie of humane things: you reckon him a Prince, who is not yet borne, you should have seene his Horoscope from the poynt of his conception, before you should speake of him in so loftie termes. But besides that nothing is lesse assured, than the future; and nothing apter to de∣ceive, than hope: Consider, Madam, I beseech you, that you favour an unfortunate man, and that Faction oftentimes carries it away from truth. It will be hard for you, your selfe alone, to withstand an infinite multitude of passionate men: and it may be said to you, as was said to those of Sparta, upon occasion of the great Ar∣mic of the Persians, that you can never van∣quish as long as they can die. Herein there is no∣thing to be feared, but for your selfe; for as for me, I finde in your favour, all I seeke for; and having you of my side, I care not what fame can doe, having once your testimony, I can easily flight hers; and all her tongues put together, can never say any thing for me, that is worth

the least lyne of your delicate Letter. It is at this time, the delight and joy of my spirit; I am more in love with it, than ever I was with—and if shee shew you that which I write to her, you shall finde, I make not so much reckoning of my ancient Mistris, as I do of your new mes∣senger; and that I desire all the world should know, that I perfectly am,

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 13. Octob. 1629.

Another to her. LETTER XXIX.

MAdam, I will not take upon mee to give you thankes, for the good cheare you made mee; for, besides that I have none but Country Civilities, and when I have once said, Your humble servant, and your servant most humble; I am then at the end of my cōplemnts, and can goe no further. It were better yet to let you hold your advantage entire, and owe you that still, which I can never pay. I forbeare to speake of the dainties and abundance of your Table, enough to make one fat, that were in a Consumption; nor I speake not of the delicacy of your perfumes, in which you laid mee to

sleepe all night; to the end, that sending up sweet vapours into my braine, I might have in my i∣magination, none but pleasing visions. But Ma∣dam, what but Heaven can be comparable to the dainties of your Closet, and what can I name to represent sufficiently, those pure and spiritu∣all pleasures, which I tasted in your Conversa∣tion? It is not my designe, to talke idly, nor to set my stile upon the high straine; you know, I am bound to avoyde Hyperboles, as Mariners to avoyde Sands and Rockes; but this is most true, that with all my heart, I renounce the world, and all its pompes, as long as you please to inhabit the Desart, and if you once determine to stay there still, (though I have sent to Paris to hyre me a lodging) yet I resolve to breake off the bargaine, and meane to build me an Hermi∣tage, a hundred paces from your abode: from whence Madam, I shall easily be able to make two journeys a day to the place where you are, and shall yeeld you a subjection, and an assidui∣tie of service, as if I were in a manner of your household. There shall I let nothing fall from your mouth, which I shall not carefully gather up, and preserve it in my memory. There you shall doe me the favour, to resolve me when I shall have doubts; set me in the right way, when I goe astray; and when I cannot expresse my selfe in fit termes, you shall cleere my clouds, and give order to my confusednesse. It shall be your eares, upon which I will mea∣sure the cadences of my sentences; and upon the different motions of your eyes, I will take no∣tice

of the strength or weaknesse of my wri∣tings. In the heate of the travaile, and amidst the joyes of a mother, that lookes to be happily delivered, I will expose the Infant to the light of your judgement to be tryed, and not hold him for legitimate, till you approve him. Some∣times Madam, we will reade your Newes, and the Relations that are sent you from all parts of Christendome: Publike miseries shall passe be∣fore our eyes, without troubling our spirits; and the most serious actions of men, shall be our most ridiculous Comaedies. Out of your Clo∣set, we shall see below us the tumults and agita∣tion of the world, as from the top of the Alpes, we stand and safely see the raine and hayle of Savay. After this, Monsieur de Borstell shall come and reade us Lectures in the Politiques, and Comment upon Messer Nicholo unto us: He shall informe us of the affayres of Europe, with as great certaintie, as a good husband would doe of his Familie. He shall tell us the Causes, the Proceedings, and the Events of the warre in Germany; and therein shall give the lye, a thousand times, to our Gazets, our Mer∣curies, and such other fabulous Histories. Wee will agree with him, that the Prince he is so much in love withall, is most worthy of his pas∣sion; and that Sweden is no longer able to con∣taine so great a vertue: After the fashion of Plutarch, he shall compare together the prime Captaines of our age; alwayes excepting—who admits of no comparison. He shall tell us, which is the better man, the Italian, or the Ger∣mane;

what meanes may be used to take off the Duke of Saxony from the house of Austria; and what game the Duke of Bavaria playes, when he promiseth to enter into the League; and is alwayes harkening to that which he ne∣ver meanes to conclude. From these high and sublime Newes, we will descend to other mea∣ner, and more popular subjects. It shall be writ∣ten to you, whether the kingdome of Amucant be still in being, and whether there appeare not a rising Sunne, to which all eyes of the Court are turned: Monsier de—shall send you word, whether he persist in his pernicious de∣signe, to bring Polygamie into France, and to commit nine Incests at once; I meane, whether he have a good word from those nine Sisters, to all whom he hath solemnly made offer of his service. Wee shall know whether the Baron of—put Divines still to trouble: whether Monsieur da—have his heart still harde∣ned against the ungratefulnesse of the time, and whether Monsieur de—continue still in his wilfulnesse to punish mankinde by the sup∣pression of his Bookes. By the way of Lymo∣ges, wee shall get the devises of Boissiere; the Epigrammes of Mayn•…•…d, and other toyes of this nature. The Stationer des Espies Meurs will furnish you plentifully with Romances, and with that they call Belles Choses: and if it come to the worst from the very Cindera of Philar∣chus, there will spring up every moneth a new Phaenix of backbiting Eloquence, that will find 〈◊〉〈◊〉 recreation for one houre at least. And these

Madam, are a part of those imployments, in which I fancy in my minde, we may spend our time all the time of the heat; for when the re∣turne of Aprill shall bring againe the flowers and fayre dayes, and invite you abroad awalk∣ing: we must then looke us out some new plea∣sures, and change our recreations: wee will have swannes and other strange Birds, to cover this water at once both quicke and still, which washeth the feet of your Muses: wee will fall a planting of trees, & dressing the allies of your Garden: wee will digge for Springs, and dis∣cover treasures, which loose themselves under ground, which yet I value no lesse than veynes of silver, because I judge of them without cove∣tousnesse. And finally, Madam, we will fall a∣building that famous Bridge, by which to en∣ter your enchanted Palace, and wherof the one∣ly designe, puts all the neighbouring Nobilitie already into a jealousie. If you like of this course, and of these Propositions, and that my company may not be troublesome to you, there remaines nothing to doe, but that you command mee to come, and I am instantly ready to quit all other affayres in the world, and to come and testifie to you, that I am

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 6. Novemb. 1629.

Another to her. LETTER XXX.

MAdam, wee receive the Answers of Ora∣cles without making reply; perfect de∣votion is dumbe, and if you had left me the use of my tongue, I should then have had one part at least, of my spirit free from this universall a∣stonishment that hath surprized it. You are al∣wayes lifted up above the ordinary condition of humanitie, and the divinenesse of your spirit is no longer an Article in question amongst people that are reasonable; yet I must confesse, you ne∣ver shewed it more visibly, than in the last Let∣ter you writ unto me, & if at other times I have beene dazeled with some beame, you have now made me starke blind with the fulnesse of your light. Spare Madam, I entreat you, the weak∣nesse of my sight, and if you will have me be a∣ble to endure your presence, take some more humane forme, and appeare not all at once in the fulnesse of that you are, I were never able to abide such another flash of brightnesse. My eyes are weary with looking upward, and with considering you, as you are a creature, adorable and divine. Hereafter I will not looke upon you, but on that side you are good and gracious, and will not venture to reason with you any more, for feare I should to my owne confusi∣on illustrate the advantage of your spirit over

mine. You shall have nothing from me here∣after, but prayers and thankes; and I will make you confesse, that I sollicite better than I praise. I therefore send you now Madam, divers cros∣ses at one time, and persecute you with no lesse than three afflictions at once, I meane, three Letters of recommendation, which I request from you, in behalfe of—I humbly entreat you to deliver them to this messenger, and to write them in such a perswasive style, as might be able to corrupt all the Catoes of Paris; al∣though indeed, the cleernesse of our right, hath more need of their integritie, than of their fa∣vour. I expect Madam, this new courtesie from your goodnesse, and am alwayes more than any in the world,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 10. Decemb. 1629.

Another to her. LETTER XXXI.

MAdam, in the state I am now in, there is none but your selfe could make me speak: and I never did a greater worke in my life than to dictate these foure untoward lynes: my spi∣rit is so wholly taken up with the consideration of my misery, and flies all commerce and com∣pany, in so violent a manner, that if it concerned

me not exceedingly, you should know that—finds himselfe infinitely obliged to your courte∣sies, and my selfe no lesse than he; I thinke ve∣rily, I should have let—depart, without so much as bidding him Farewell. Pardon Ma∣dam, the weaknesse of a vulgar spirit, which feeles no crosses light, and falls flat downe at tho very first blow of adverse Fortune. Perhaps in prosperitie, I should carry my selfe better, and I doe not thinke, that joy could make me inso∣lent; but to say the truth, in affliction I am no body, and that which would not so much as leave a scratch upon the skin of a Stoick, pier∣ceth me to the very heart, and makes in it most deepe wounds. Griefe dejects me in such sort, and makes me so lazie in doing my dutie, and so unfit for all functions of a civill life, that I won∣der no longer at those that were turned into trees and rockes, and lost all sence with onely the sence of griefe. Yet Madam, as often as I call to minde, that I hold some part in your ac∣count and love; I am forced to confesse, that my melancholy is unjust, and that I have no good foundation for my sadnesse. This honour ought to be unto me a generall remedy against all sorts of affliction, and the misery that you complaine of, is not so much to be pittied as to be envied. From thence it is, that I draw all the comfort I am capable of, humbly entreating you to beleeve you shall never pitie a man in misery, that will be more gratefull than my selfe, nor that is more passionately, than I am

Madam

Your, &c.

31. Decemb. 1629.

Another to her. LETTER XXXII.

MAdam, I receive but just now your Letters of the five & twentieth of the last moneth, and though I know not, by whom to send an an∣swer, yet I can no longer hold from expressing my joy, nor keepe my words from leaving my heart to fall upon this paper. The last time I writ unto you, I had heard of the unfaithfulnes of a friend of mine, which struck me to the ve∣ry heart; since which time, a better report hath somewhat quieted me; but it is you, Madam, that have restored to me the full use of my rea∣son; and are a cause that I am contented to live. Although corruption be in a manner universall, and that there is no more any goodnesse to be found amongst men, yet as long as you are in the world, it is not fit to leave it quite, but your ver∣tue may well supply all its defects. Besides Ma∣dam, if it be true, as you doe me the honour to write unto me, that you account my interests as your owne; this very consideration is enough to make them dearer to me than they were be∣fore; and I am therefore bound to preserve my selfe, seeing it seemes, you would be loath to loose me. One gracious word, which I obser∣ved in your Letter, hath wonne me to you, in such sort, that I have no longer any power of my selfe, but what you leave me; and in all your

Empire, which is neither meane, nor consists of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 subjects; I can assure you, that you pos∣sesse nothing with more soveraigntie, than my will. If your occasions draw you to Aunix this next Spring, I hope to have the honour to see you at Balzac, where I am trimming up—with all the care I can, that it may be a little more worthy of your presence, and that the amusement I shall thereby give you, may keepe you from working the ill cheare you are like to finde in a Country village: My sister is in∣finitely bound to you, for the honour you doe her, in remembring her; and I am my selfe, with all my soule

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 1. Febr. 1630.

Another to her. LETTER XXXIII.

MAdam, my indisposition hathbin the cause of my silence, and I thought it better to say nothing, than to entertaine you with a trou∣blesome discourse: Besides, I was in a continu∣all expectation of the performance of your pro∣mise; and looked to have the honour, to see you here in May. But seeing you have made my hopes recoyle, and that you make your a∣bode

in Limousin for some longer time, be plea∣sed Madam, that I send—to bring me a true relation of the state of your health; and to tell me, if you use, as you ought, the shade of your woods, and the freshnesse of your foun∣taines: For my selfe, who make my harvest at the gathering of Roses and Violets; and who reckon the goodnesse of the yeare, by the abun∣dance of these delicate Flowers; Now is the season for my humour, and in one onely sub∣ject I finde cause enough, to scorne and slight both the perfumes of the sheet St. Honore, and the pictures of the faire St. Germain. Thus I make my selfe happie, at a very easie rate, and have not so much as a thought of any want. And indeed, to what purpose should I grieve for pleasures that are absent, and curiously hunt af∣ter all the defects of my Estate. If my com∣merce be onely with dumbe Creatures, at least I am not troubled with the importunitie of Courtiers, nor with the verses of a paltry Poet, nor with the Prose of Messieurs—: These are the inconveniences of Paris, which I count more troublesome, than either the dirt, or the justling of Coaches, and at the worst, if by living in the Desart, I should become a meere savage, yet I am sure to recover the garbe of the world, as soone as I shall but see Madam Destoges, and make my selfe neat and civill, with but one halfe houres conversing with her. This is my wish Madam, and passionately I am

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 20. June 1630.

To Monsieur de la Nouve, Counsel∣lour of the King in his first Chamber of Enquests. LETTER XXXIIII.

SIR, My deare Cousin,

one cannot say you nay, in any thing: to doe you a second plea∣sure, I am about to commit a second treason, and to send you the Verses, of which I told you who was the Poet. I was bound by a thousand Oaths to keepe them secret, but I must confesse you are a strange corrupter, and your perswasi∣ons would shake a firmer fidelitie than mine: yet to the end, we may at least save the appa∣rence, and give some colour to my fault; you may be pleased to say, that it is the translation of an Ode, made by Cornelia, mother of the Grac∣chi, and that you found it, in an ancient Manu∣script: you may say, shee made it for one of her sonnes, being in love with a woman, whom af∣terward he married; and that seeing him one day looke extreamly pale, shee asked him, what it was had made him sicke? There is nothing more true than this Story, and there needs no∣thing, but to change the Names. It is not indeed, the same person, but it is the same merit, and I am sure, you doubt not, but a French Lady is capable of as much, as Quintilian spake of a Romans: Graccorum eloquentiae multum contu∣•…•…isse Corneliam, matrem, cujus doctis•…•…mus ser∣mo,

in posteros quo{que} est Epistolis traditus.—I never heard speake of such an impatience, or such an irresolution, for I cannot beleeve, that it is either feare, or effeminatenesse, or that the spi∣rit of so great a Prince could be subject to such enormous maladies. Whatsoever it be, if he had but read Virgill, a woman would have sayd un∣to him with great indignation; and is it then such a miserable thing to die? And if he had been in the Levant, he might have learned of a Turkish Proverbe, That it is better to be a Cock for one day, than a Henne all ones life. Et con questo vi bacio le mani, and am

Sir, my deere Cousin,

Your, &c.

〈◊〉〈◊〉. August, 1630.

L'Amant qui meurt.

OLympa, made me sicke thou hast, Thou cause of my Consumption art: There needs but one frowne more, to wast The whole remainder of my heart. Alas undone, to Fate I bow my head, Ready to die, now die, and now am dead.

You looke to have an age of tryuth Are you a Lover will repay; And my state brookes no 〈◊〉〈◊〉 de 〈◊〉〈◊〉, I hardly can one minute stay. Alas, undone, to Fate I bow my head, Ready to die, now die, and now am dead.

I see already Charons boate That comes to ferry me to Hell: I heare the Fatall Sisters note, That cryes and calls to ring my knell, Alas, undone, to Fate I bow my head, Ready to die, now die, and now am dead.

Looke in my wound, and see how cold, How pale, and gasping my soule lyes Which Nature strives in vaine to hold. Whilst wing'd with fighes, away it flyes. Alas undone, to Fate I bow my head, Ready to die, now die, and now am dead.

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXXV.

MAdam, I have not dared now a good while to send you any Letters, for feare you should conceive, they carried an ill ayre about them; nor yet to send you any more Melons, which yet prove excellent good this yeare; for doubt you should suspect them, as comming from a Countrey extreamely disparaged: but since I understand by your Letter, that you are not so much frighted as I was told, and since also, I can protest unto you most religiously, that I write from a place most cleere from any taint of the neighbouring misery, and that hath kept sound in the midst of infection: I am most glad

Madam, that I have the libertie to tell you, that I value you more, than all the ancient Ro∣manes, and that I have no comfort to thinke of, in the deepest houres of all my solitude, but onely you, and your incomparable merit. What businesse soever I am about, I take plea∣sure to let this thought make me a trewant at my travaile; it is a recreation, for which I a∣bandon all affayres; and there is neither Morall, nor Politique, Plato nor Aristotle, but I pre∣sently give him over as soone as you are once presented to my imagination. I hope I shall need to use no Oaths, to make you beleeve this veritie: you are well enough acquainted with my pride, and know that this Country swayne would not, turne flatteret for an Empresse. There are but three persons, I am resolved to prayse; you Madam, are one; and if you have the leisure to reade that I send you, you will easily guesse, who the other two are; and so I b•…•…d you Good •…•…orrow, and perfectly am

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 9. Septemb. 1630.

Another to her: LETTER XXXVI.

MAdam, you shall receive from me no pre∣meditated excuses, I had rather confesse my fault ingenuously, than take the paines to justifie it untowardly. Indeed a fatall sluggish∣nesse, cousin german to a Lethargie, hath seazed in such sort upon me since my comming hither, that I have not so much as written to my owne mother; so as having fayled in this first poynt, I thought not fit to fayle by halfes; and there∣fore never troubled my selfe much in the rest of my dutie. I speake Madam, of this exteriour dutie, and this affection in picture, which is of∣tentimes but a false representation of the soule, for as for the true respect, and the passion, which hath residence in the heart: I assure you, I have that in me for you, as pure and entyre as ever, and that he that calls you his Soveraigne, yet honours you not more perfectly, than I doe. Monsieur de—will I doubt not, be my witnesse herein; and will tell you, that what part soever I be forced to play amongst jeasters and merry companions, yet under my players cloathes, there will alwayes be found an honest man. I have beene sensible, Madam, of the losse, which—hath had, and have not bin sparing to speake of his unfortunate vertue; yet I never thought, he needed any comfor∣ting

for it; for, seeing he sees that God spares not his own Images and that his neerest friends have their disgraces and troubles, he ought not to thinke any thing strange that happens in this inferiour world, and upon inferiour I persons; what consideration soever may otherwise make them dea•…•… unto him. If you have vouchsafed to keepe the Letters. I have written to you; I humbly 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you to send them to me, that I may see what volume II can make for the im∣pression that is required of mee: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Madam, it shall be if you please upon this condition, that parting with the Letters, you shall never let your memory part with the truthes they con∣taine, but hold undoubtedly that I very firmely am, though I doe not very often say I am

Madam,

Your, &c.

25. Decemb. 1630.

Another to her. LETTER XXXVII.

MAdam, my labour is happie, since it is ne∣ver from before you, and since I am told, you make it your ordinary entertainment. The end of all fayre Pictures, and good Bookes, is but onely to please your eyes, and to delight your spirit, and the good you have not yet set

a price upon, is not yet come to its uttermost perfection. I have therefore all that an ambi∣tious man could wish for, I may perhaps have fortune from others, but glory I can have from none but you; and another perhaps may pay me, but none but you can recompense mee. The paines I have hytherto taken, have beene but ill required. I have tilled a ground that brings mee forth but thornes; yet Madam, since they grow for your service, I am conten∣ted to be pricked by them; and I love the cause of my disgraces, if they proove a cause of your recreations. The first Newes, you shall heare, will tell you what I meane; and that my pati∣ence never makes my persecutours weary. You shall see Madam, that there is no consci∣ence made to contradict you, and that, that which you call excellent and admirable, hath yet at Paris found enemies, and at Bruxells hangmen. I will say no more at this time, but that I am

Madam.

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 6. Jan. 1631.

Another to her. LETTER XXXVIII.

MAdam, I writ unto you about six weekes since, but my packet not being delivered where I appointed it, I perceive some curious body hath seazed on it, and sought for secrets, which he could not find. The losse is not great, to loose nothing, but a few untoward words; and small comforting would serve me, for so small a crosse; yet because they were full of the passion I owe to your service, and carried in them the markes of my dutie, I cannot but be troubled, they came not to your hands, and that my mis-fortune, gives you cause to complaine of my negligence. I dare not undertake to cleare my selfe altogether; for though in this I com∣mitted no fault, yet I cannot forget some other faults committed before. The truth is Madam, I have been for some time so continually taken up with businesse, that I have beene wanting in the principall obligations of a civill life, and I have drunke besides so many bitter potions, and tasted so many bitter Pills, that I should but have offended you with my complements; which could not choose but carrie with them, at least some tincture of my untoward hu∣mour. What pleasure could you have taken, to see a medley of choler and melancholy, powred out vpon paper? and instead of plea∣sing

Newes, to reade nothing but pittifull Sto∣ries, and mortall Predictions? But enough of this unpleasing matter. I expect here within three or foure dayes, my Lord the Bishop of Nantes; and I would to God Madam, you could be here at that time, and that you were at leisure to come and taste the doctrine of this rare personage. I have heard you say hereto∣fore, you never saw a more holy countenance than his, and that his very looke, was a Pro∣logue of perswasion. This conceit, makes mee hope, that he is the man, whom God hath or∣dained to be your Converter, and to bring you into the bosome of our Church. Beleeve mee Madam, and you shall not be deceived; trust that enemy, who wounds not, but onely to draw out the bloud that causes a Feaver, and never make difficultie to commit your selfe to one, that intends your freedome. The triumph which the world makes you feare, is no way injurious to those that be the captives; nor like unto that of which Cleopatra tooke so sadde an apprehension: but in this case, the vanquished are they that are crowned, and all the glory and advantage of the victory rests on their side: I am not out of hope to see so good a dayes worke; and seeing you are rather layd asleepe in the opinion of your mother, than obstinate in a wrong cause: I intreat you, that you will not be frighted with phrases. Wee will not use this hard terme to say, you have abjured your heresie; wee will onely say, you are awaked out of your •…•…umber, and if our deare

friend, Monsieur du Moulin would doe so too, than would be the time of a great festivall•…•… Heaven; and the Angels would rejoyce at the prosperitie of the Church. My zeale Madam, is not out of ostentation: for it is most true, that such a change, is one of my most violent wishes; and to see you say your prayers upon your Beads, I would with all my heart give you a payre made of Diamonds; though I am not rich, yet I hope you doubt not of the truth of these last words, and that I am with all my foule,

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 7. May. 1632.

Another to her. LETTER XXXIX.

MAdam, it hath beene, as much my shame, as my glory, to reade your Letter, ha∣ving so ill deserved it, and the remorse of the fault, I committed, makes mee; that I dare not yet rejoyce in the honour, I received. You

are good and gracious, even to the not hating o•…•…evill actions; Your delinquents, not onely obteine impunitie, but you allow them recom∣pence, and idlenesse hath more respect with you, than diligent service with ordinary Ma∣sters. This is the faelicitie of the Golden age, where Plentie had no neede of tilling; and where there was reaping without sowing. Yet Madam, I must not so abandon my cause, that I forbe are to alledge the good it hath in it; it is long since I writ unto you, it is true, but the cause hath beene for that these six moneths, I have every day been upon comming to see you: and according to the saying of the Oratour your acquaintance, I have dispenced with my ordinary dyet, in hope of a great Feast, and to performe my devotion with the more solemni∣tie. If Monsieur de—have kept his word with mee, he hath told you, how often he hath found me upon the very poynt of comming; but as many journeys, as I intended to make, so many crosse accidents alwayes happened to hinder them, and the mis-fortune that accom∣panies me, makes every dutie, though never so casie to another, impossible to me. Yet Ma∣dam, I have never ceased from doing continu∣all acts, of the reverence I beare you, and I ne∣ver sweare, but by your merit. My braine is drie in any other Argument, and wordes are drawne from me one by one; but when there is occasion to speake of you, then I over∣flow in words; upon this onely Text, I take

a pleasure to be Preaching; and Monsieur de—to whom I am alwayes before a har∣kener; as soone as I beginne discourse of you, becomes my auditour. I can assure you Ma∣dam, he honours you exceedingly; and nei∣ther his ambassage to Rome, from whence Gentlemen returne not commonly without a certaine conceit of soveraigntie; nor the im∣ployments of the State, which make particu∣lar men, thinke themselves the Publike, have beene able to make him take upon him, this un∣gratefull gravitie, which makes Greatnesse ri∣diculous, and even vertue it selfe odious. He hath protested here, before good companie, that hee will never be found other, and that Fortune should have an ill match in hand, to thinke to corrupt him. I used my ordinary rudenesse, and intreated him, to be mindfull of his word, and to be one of our first exam∣ples of so rare a moderation: You shall see Madam, in a Letter I send you; that which hereupon I am bound to say of him: and I in∣treat you, to maintaine for me, that I am no common prayser: and that, if I were not per∣swaded of what I say, it is not all the Canons of the Towne should make mee to say it. It is onely the worth of things, or at least, the opi∣nion I have of their worth, that drawes from mee the prayses I give them. If Monsieur de—should returne to be a private person, I should not respect him a jot lesse, than now I doe: and if you should be made Governesse of

the Kings house, I should not be a whit more than I am,

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 30. Aprill. 1633.

Another to her. LETTER XL.

MAdam, never trust me any more, I pro∣mise that I cannot performe, but though I be a deceiver, I am an honest one; my promi∣ses are alwayes true in my intention, though of∣tentimes false in the Event. I know not what to say of this unfortunatenesse, nor to what knowne cause, to attribute this long trayne of mischiefes. It must needs be, there is some De∣vill imployed, to hinder voyages to Lymousin: and that will not suffer me to goe thither to see you: sometimes he rayseth up suites in Law a∣gainst me, sometimes puts me into a quarrell; and when these be composed, and that I am ready to take horse, either he sends mee com∣panie to divert mee, or prickes my horse in shooing, or puts a legge out of joynt; for, all these crosses have befallen mee, as he that deli∣vers you this Letter can be my witnesse. But withall Madam, he shall assure you, that though

I flie away by night, and be carried in a chayre, it shall not be long ere I will have the honour to come and see you. In the meane time, vouchsafe to accept from me, the amusement of halfe an houre, and be pleased to reade an In∣scription, which was lately found, and taken forth of the ruines of an old Building. It is en∣graven in Letters of Gold, upon a Table of blacke Marble, and seemes Prophetically to speake of you and mee. If I were a man could make Verses, you might doubt it were some tricke put upon you, but my ignorance justifies mee, and seeing, as you know, Poets are not made, it were a strange thing I should be borne at the age of seaven and thirtie yeares. I expect from you a Comment upon the whole Myste∣ry; and remaine

Madam.

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 6. Jan. 1631.

In Effigiem D. D. praestantissimae & laudatissimae faeminae.

Hac est sequanico, veniens à littore Nympha: Hospite quâ Lemovix, jure superbit ager. Quis de fiderium Dominae mihi durius urbis

Mitigat; & per quam non fera turba sumus? Vindicat hāc sibi Thusca charis, sibi musa latina, Nec minus esse suam, Graius Apollo velit. Hanc sophiae Gens sancta colit, dat jura disertis, Princeps Grāmaticas temperat una Tribus. Scilicet ut distent specioso sana tumore Vnascit, & fractis verba sonora modis. Judicat urbano quid sit sale tingere ludos, Et quid inhumano figere dente notas. Novit ab agresti secernere plectra cicuta, Vos{que} sacri vates non sociare malis. Ergo quid infidi petitis suffragia vulgi? Qui dve Palatinus quaeritur arte favor? Quae canitis vivent, si docta probaverit auris, Et dabitur vestris versibus esse bonos. At si quando canat, taceas vel mascula Sappho, Te meliùs salvo nostra pudore canit.

Another to her. LETTER XLI.

MAdam, my eyes are yet dazeled, with the brightnesse of your Cabinet, and I vow unto you, the Night was never so fayre, nor so delicately trimmed up, as lately at your House.

Not when the Moone accomplishing her way Vpon her silver wayne, beset with starres Within the gloomy world, presents the day.

I have shewed our Ladies the Description of this proud and stately Night, and of the rest of your magnificence, which if it were in a seve∣rer Common-wealth than ours, would be cal∣led a Profusive Wast; they admire you in your house, as well as in your Verses, and agree with mee in this, that Wisedome hath a hand in eve∣ry thing, and that, after shee hath discoursed of Princes, and matters of State; shee descends to take care of her Hosts, and lookes what is done in the Kitchin. But from a vertue of their own, they alwayes come to that of yours, asking me continually for Newes of your entertainment, and for Copies of your Letters: and by this meanes, the happinesse which I have from you, is instantly made common to all the neighbour∣hood, and yet stayes not there neither, but spreads it selfe both farre and neere, that when you thinke, you write but to one particular man, you write indeed to a whole Province. This is not to write Letters, but rather to set forth Declarations and Edicts; I know Ma∣dam, you were able to acquit your selfe per∣fectly, in so noble an Imployment; comple∣ments are below the dignitie of your style; and if King Elisabett, should come againe into the world (you know of whom this is spoken) no question but he would make you his chiefe

Secretary of State. Monsieuer de—ex∣tolls you yet in a higher strayne, and is infinite∣ly desirous to see you in this Country. Yester∣day, of his own accord he made himselfe your Tributary, and hath bound himselfe to send you, every yeare, a reasonable number of his Loaves; if you shall like them, they will grow into more request than the Gloves of the Fran∣gipani: but because your people of Lymousin, may take occasion to Equivocate here: I en∣treat you to advertize them, that this Perfumer hath thirtie thousand pound rent a yeare; and holds the supremest dignitie of our Province, and that this Glover is a Romane Lord, Mar∣shall of the Campe of the Kings Armies, cou∣sin to St. Gregory the Great, and that which I value more than all this, one of the honestest men that lives. I am bold to use my accustomed libertie, seeing you allow mee to doe it Ma∣dam, having given me your Letters Patents for it, and will beare me out to laugh in graver sub∣jects than this is. It may therefore suffice me to say, but most seriously, that I am

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 2. May. 1634.

Another to her: LETTER XLII.

MAdam, your place is before all other things whatsoever, and therefore no law∣full impediment can be alleaged, for sayling in the dutie, that is due unto you. I have these two moneths had great affayres; which in the rigour of your Justice, is as much as to say, I have these two moneths neglected my dutie. Having not written to you, in all this time, I am contented to call it, a Disorder, which o∣therwise I should call a Businesse, and I doe not thinke, I could with all the reasons of the world have made you patient, to stay so long, for the thankes I am to give you. Your present hath equally wherewith to content both the cove∣tous and the vaine; it hath soliditie no lesse than lustre; the onely sight of it, refutes the mode∣stie you use in speaking of it: you are injurious Madam, to so excellent a thing; it deserves the most stately inscription, you could devise to give it, and if I were worth the having of a Cabinet, this should be the prime piece, I would make choice of to adorne it. Because vulgar people have nothing but eyes, there∣fore they value nothing but Candlestickes of Crystall, and guilded vermillian dishes, but men of understanding, who see lesse with their eyes them with their spirits, they reflect upon ob∣jects,

that are more simple and immateriall, and preferre not the peoples errour, and Arti∣ficers fingers, before the truth of things, and before the Master-pieces of the workes of rea∣son. Hee, to whom you did me the honour to send me, is farre above all the Encomiums I can give him: I have onely this to say Madam, that I have with me here, a famous Authour, who as soone as he hath once read him, is resolved instantly to shut up shop, and give over his Trade. He protests he will never more set hand to Penne, unlesse it be to signe his last Will; and therefore meanes to make you a sacrifice of all his Papers. I shewed him the incompara∣ble Sonnet, De L'Amant qui meurt, at every verse, he called you Divine, and made such lowd Exclamations, that he might have beene heard to the great high way: which you know, how very farre it is from my Chamber. Hee sayth, he will maintaine it, even to the sheete Saint Jaques, that Parnassus is fallen upon the Distaffe, and that Racan hath given over the right he pretended in the succession of Mal∣•…•…erbe. He speakes in this familiar manner, of these two great Personages; and I never heare him use any meaner style: if I can keepe him with me a while; I will tell you more of him, and promise you a collection of all his Apoph∣thegms. I saw yesterday Monsieur de—who is a most just valuer of vertue, and by con∣sequent, most perfectly reveres yours. He in∣finitely desires you would come amongst us, and that you would make choice of one of his

houses for your abode: if you were pleased to doe this, I should have no more journeys to make: I should be the happiest unhappie man that ever was, if I had you here to be my com∣forter, and that I might be alwayes telling you, that I alwayes am,

Madam.

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 1. Aug. 1634.

Another to her. LETTER XLIII.

MAdam, you never heard speake of such a diligence, in two moneths your Letter hath gone twelve myles; so as a businesse that required hast, had been this way in a good case: and if therein you had given me advise for sa∣ving my life: I might have had good leisure to dio, before your advise came. I have made grievous complaints hereof, to my good kins∣woman—who layes the fault of her fault upon a thousand that are innocent; upon her Gentlewoman, her Nurce, three maides, foure men, &c. so as Madam, there have beene great arraignments upon this matter; and never was

any crime so long and so rigourously in exami∣ning; for my selfe, the joy I take to heare of your health, makes me forget my most just complaints, and sweetens all my choler. I thinke no more of the late receiving it; I con∣tent my selfe, that I have received it at last; and I finde enough in your Letter, to make me amends, for the slownesse of your messenger. Besides Madam, I give you to understand, that I have had some few dayes, with mee here, Monsieur Bardyn, as much as to say, The Living Philosophie: or Socrates risen from the dead. You make doubt perhaps, what the subject of our conference hath beene? Indeed Madam, it hath been your selfe, and we have concluded to erect your statue in the most eminent place of his Lycaeum: and if any Stoick come to new build the Particus, and any other to restore the Academie, no doubt but they will honour you with the like respect, and you shall alwayes be reverenced of wise men, next to wisedome it selfe. If you write shortly to—I entreat you Madam, to doe me the favour, to put in your packet the dispatch I send you. It imports me much, to have it beleeved, that—and I doubt not, but you will be content, to use this little fraud for my sake, who am without reser∣vation,

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 10. Decemb. 1634.

Another to her. LETTER XLIIII.

MAdam, I am of your opinion, and can by no meanes approve the ambition of your fayre neighbour: her head is full of state and soveraigntie, and aymes certainly at a Crowne. God loves her too well to second her bad de∣sires, and to give her that shee askes: so rare a beautie ought to be the recompence of vertue, and not the prey of Greatnesse: It is fit, that he who possesseth her, should understand, when things be excellent, should know the value of this, and all his life be thankfull to his good for∣tune for it: it is fitter to make a Gentleman hap∣pie, than to give contentment to a tyrant; fhee might perhaps be some amusement to him, when he were cloyed with killing of men; but withall, shee might be sure to be the next ob∣ject of his crueltie, at the next fit of his wicked humour. You know the Story of Mariamne; our Theaters at this day sound forth nothing so much, as the cryes of this poore Princesse: hee that put her to death, loved her above mea∣sure, and after her death, kneeled downe a thousand times before her image, praying her to forgive him. Poppea was first the Mistris, afterwards the wife, and alwayes the Gover∣nesse of Nero; shee had vanquished this Mon∣ster, and made him tame, yet at last he slipt from

her, and in an instant of his choler, gave her a kicke upon the belly, which was her death. His unkle Caius dealt not so roughly with Cae∣sonia, yet in the greatest heat of his fire, he made love to her in these termes: This fayre head shall be chopt off, as soone as I but speake the word: and told her sometimes, that he had a greater minde to put her on the racke, to make her tell him, why he loved her so much. The meaning Madam, of all this is, that the tamest of all Tygers is a cruell Beast, and that it is a most dangerous thing, to be woo•…•…d with talons. I have seene the Booke you write to me of, and finde it not unpleasing; particularly, where speaking of the makers of Pasquius, and of sa•…•… tyricall Poets, he sayth, that besides the golden age, the age of silver, of brasse, and of iron, so famous and so much talkt of in their Fables, there is yet behinde to come an age of wood, of which the ancient Poets never dreamt; and in the miseries and calamities whereof, they themselves shall have a greater part than any other. If I goe abroad to morrow, I hope to have the honour to see you: In the meane time, that I may observe good manners, and not be wanting in formalities, I will say I am

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzae, 16. Aug. 1627.

To—LETTER XLV.

MY Lord, besides the thankes I owe you for my Head, I have a speciall charge from Madam de—to thanke you from her, and to give you a testimonie of your Coach∣mans skill. He is in truth, a great man in his profession; one might well trust him, and slip from hence to Paris: He glides by the brinke of Praecipices, and passeth broken brid∣ges with an admirable dexteritie, say what you can of his manners otherwise; Pardon mee, my Lord, if I maintaine that they be no vices, and that you doe him great wrong to reproach him with them in your Letter. Hee doth that by designe, which you thinke hee doth by inclination, and because he hath heard, that a man once overthrew the Common-wealth, when he was sober, he thinkes, that to drinke well, is no ill qualitie to well go∣verning: Hee takes otherwise no care for go∣ing astray, seeing he hath a God for his guide, and a God that was returned from the Indies before Alexander was come into the world. After so long a voyage, one may well trust Fa∣ther Denys, with a short walke; and hee that hath tamed Tygers, may well be allowed to

mannage horses. Your Coach-man, my Lord, hath studied thus farre; and if they, who hold in their hands the reynes of the State, (to use the phrase of—) had beene as intelligent and dextrous as he, they would have runne their race with a better fortune, and our age should not have seene the fall of the Duke of—nor of the Earle of—: it is written to me from the Court, that—: These are the onely Newes I received by the last Post; but I send you, in their companie, the Booke you desired, which is as you know, the booke of the wickednesse of the world, and the an∣cient originall of all the moderne subtleties. The first Christians endevoured to suppresse it, and called it, Mendacoorum Loquacisse∣mum: but men at this day, make it their Ora∣cle, and their Gospell: and seeke in it rather for Sejanus and Tygellinus, to corrupt their innocency, than for Corbulo or Thraseus, to instruct them to vertue; at our next meeting wee shall talke more hereof: The great Per∣sonage I have praysed, stands in doubt, that his Encomium is at an end, and presseth me to con∣clude, that I am

My Lord,

Your, &c.

At Bolzac, 4. June, 1634.

To—LETTER XLVI.

SIR, I am sorry to heare of the continuance of your maladie, though I hope, it be not so great as you make it. These are fruits of this unseasonable time, and I doubt not, but your •…•…leame, which overflowes with the rivers, will also with the fall of the rivers, returne a∣gaine to its naturall bounds. I have had my part in this inundation, and it would be no small commoditie to me, that things should stay in the state they now are in; for by this meanes, my house being made an Island, I should be lesse troubled, than now I am by people of the firme Land: But seeing upon the abating of the wa∣ters, depends the abating of your Rhume, I am contented with all my heart, they shall abate; a•…•… above all things desiring your health: yet withall, I must tell you, there is care to be used: you must absteine from all moyst meates, for∣beare the good cheare of Paris; and follow the advise of an ancient sage, who counselled a man troubled with your disease, to change the rayne into drowth. You see how bold I am, to send you my praescriptions; I entreat you to follow them, but not to imitate me; for in this mat∣ter of Medicines, I confesse my selfe a Pha∣risee; I commend a Julippe to others, but

I drinke my selfe the Sweetest Wines. But to speake of something else, I cannot imagine, why Monsieur de—should keepe me lan∣guishing so long, and having made mee stand waiting three moneths after his time appoin∣ted, should now require a further prorogation; and a longer delay. For my part, I verily be∣leeve, he spake not in earnest, when he made you this untoward answer, and that it was ra∣ther for a tryall of your patience, than for an exercise: He hath the reputation of so honest and just a man, that I can make no doubt of that he hath promised to Monsieur de—and I am perswaded, he accounts himselfe more streightly tyed by his word, than by his bond. Monsieur the—beleeves that I have fin∣gred my silver a yeare since, and you know it is a summe provided to stoppe three or foure of my Persecutours mouthes, who will never leave vexing you with their clamours day and night, till they be satisfied. It is therefore your part to use all meanes possible, to content them, at least if you love your libertie; and take not a pleasure to be every morning salu∣ted with extreame unpleasing good morrowes. I expect hereupon to heare from you; and am

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 17. Jan. 1630.

To—. LETTER XLVII.

SIR, you are too just to desire such duties from a sicke friend, as you would exact from one that were in health. The reasons I can give of my silence, are much juster than I would they were, and me thinkes, three moneths continuing in a Feaver, may well dispense with any obligation whatsoever of a civill life. Yet seeing you will needs have me speake, I cannot but obey you, though I make use of a strangers hand to quarrell with you. I cannot endure the dissimulation you shew, in doubting of my affection, and of the truth of my words. I understand no jeasting on that side; these are Games that I am uncapable to learne, and in matter of friendship, I am of that ten∣dernesse, that I am even wounded with that, which is perhaps intended but for a tickling. I perceive I have beene complained upon to you, but I entreat you to beleeve, it hath been upon very false grounds; and I require no bet∣ter justifier, than her owne conscience that ac∣cuseth mee. Within a few dayes, I will come my selfe in person, and give you an account of all my actions; and will trayne my selfe

on to Paris, in hope to enjoy the happinesse of your companie. In the meane time, be care∣full to cure the maladie you tell me of, which brings us forth such goodly Sonnets, and makes so well agree the two greatest enemies that are in Nature, I meane, Passion and Judgement: so I bid you Farewell; and am with all my heart,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 25. August. 1639.

To Monsieur de Coignet. LETTER XLVIII.

SIR, I am much bound unto you for your writing to me, and for sending me Newes that exceedingly pleaseth mee. You may well thinke, I have no mind to crosse my own good; and to refuse giving my consent to the Earle of Exceters request. To have so illustrious an In∣terpreter in England, is morethan a full revenge upon all the petty Scribes that oppose mee in France: it is the crowning and triumph of my writings. I am not therefore so a Philosopher, that I place the honour he doth mee, amongst things indifferent, but rather to tell you plainly, I have perhaps received too sensible a content∣ment in it; and upon the poynt of falling againe

into my old desire of glory; of which I thought my selfe to have been fully cured: I send you a word, which I entreat you to deliver to him, which shall witnesse for mee, how deare and glorious, the markes he gives mee of his love and account, are unto mee; Otherwise Sir, I doubt not, but I owe a great part of this good fortune to the good opinion you have of me, which is to be seene in every lyne of your Let∣ter; and that you have confirmed the English in this Error, which is so much in my favour. Onely I entreat you, never to seeke to free them of this errour, but so to deale with them, that if you convert them from other, it may still be with reservation of this. The truth in question is of so small importance, that it deserves not any curious examination; and in which, to be in a wrong beliefe, makes not a man to be ei∣ther lesse honest, or more unfortunate: Never therefore, make scruple to oblige me, seeing you shall oblige a thankfull man, and one who is;

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 12. June. 1629.

To Monsieur de Neusuic. LETTER XLIX.

SIR, If I were onely blind, I would try to make some answer, to the good words of your Letter; but the paine, which my ill eyes put me to, makes mee uncapable of this plea∣sing contention: and I cannot draw from my head, in the state it now is, any thing else but Water and Waxe. And besides the unhappie blindnesse I speake of, I am in such sort over∣flowed with Rheumes; that if it were in the time of the old Metamorphoses, I thinke veri∣ly, I should be turned into a Fountaine, and be∣come the subject of some new Fable. I have lost as well my smelling, as my taste; my Nose can make no difference betweene Spanish Lea∣ther, and an old Cowes hide: and I sneeze so continually; that all my conversation, is but to say, I thanke you; to them that say, God helpe you. Being in this estate, doe you not wonder, I write unto you, and have the boldnesse to be sending Letters? In truth, never complement cost me so deare as this, and if I would make use of the priviledge of sicke men, I might ve∣ry justly require a Dispensation; but I had not the power, to let your servant goe away, with∣out telling you, that you are a very honest Im∣postour; and that the Perigurain you send, is the most refined Frenchman that ever ranne

afoote to Paris. It must needs be, that the people of your Village is a Colonie of the Louver, that hath preserved the first puritie of their language amidst the corruption of their Neighbours. There never were such fine things written upon the banke of Dordonne; at least, not since the death of Monsieur de Mon∣taigne, yet I esteeme them not so much, be∣cause they are so fine, as because they come from you, whose I passionately am,

Sir,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 25. Jan. 1633.

To Madam Desloges. LETTER L.

MAdam, I am alwayes of your minde; and like not Ladies that would be Cavaliers. There are certain bounds that part us, and ma•…•… us out our several duties and conditions: which neither you nor we can lawfully passe. And the lawes of Decencie are so ancient, that they seem

to be a part of the ancient religion. Moses hath extended the commandements of God, even to the distinction of your apparell, and ours: and you know hee expresly forbids to disguise our selves in one anothers cloathes. Women must be altogether women: the vertues of our sex, are not the vertues of theirs; and the more they seeke to imitate men, the more they de∣generate from their owne kinde. We have had some women amongst us, that would ride Spa∣nish horses would discharge Pistols, and would be parties in maintaining quarrels. M. the Mar∣shall Scomberg shewed mee once a letter which he writ to a Gentleman of—at the end whereof were these words; I kisse the hands of this valiant and pleasing Lady, that is your se∣cond in the day, and your wife at night. This La∣dy might perhaps bee valiant, but to my hu∣mour, she could not be pleasing. If she had had abeard, she could not have had a greater fault. Women that are valiant, are as much to blame, as men that are cowards. And it is as unseemly for Ladies to weare swords by their sides, as for Gentlemen to have glasses hanging at their girdles. I professe my selfe an enemy, Madam, to these usurpations of one sex upon another. It strikes me with a kinde of horrour, when I reade in historie of the ancient women Fen∣cers, whom the Romanes beheld with such plea∣sure in their Amphitheater; and I account not Amazons in the number of women, but of Monsters and Prodigies. Sweetnesse and ten∣dernesse are the qualities that belong to you

and will your she Friend give over her claime to these, that is, to the succession of her mo∣ther, and the priviledges of her birth? will she not be as well content as you, with the partition which Nature herselfe hath made? I cannot conceive with what face she can goe a hunting amongst such violence & tumults, and how she can run hallowing all day, till shee bee out of breath, after a kennell of Hounds, and a troope of Huntesmen. God made her for the Closet, and not for the Field: and in truth, it is a great sin to distend so handsome a mouth, and to disfigure so comely a face, with blow∣ing a horne. To expose such excellent things to all the boughes of the Forrest, and to all the injuries of the weather; and to endanger such pretious colours with winde and raine, with the sunne and dust. And yet, Madam, to see hunting, without being a partie, to goe in Coach, and in Parkes inclosed, where a multi∣tude of beasts are kept prisoners, and come to dye at Ladies feet, such a recreation as this, I doe not condemne, being onely entertained with the eyes, and may passe either for a spe∣ctacle, or a walke; and is as farre from agita∣tion as from rest. But this serves not her turne, she calles these but lazie and sedentarie recrea∣tions, and takes no pleasure, but when it is with hazard of her life. But what would be thought Madam, if one should come and tell you, shee is slaine with a fall, by ranke riding, or that shee hath met with a wilde Boare, that was too hard for her? In such cases, ther•…•… would not

onely be no excuse for her death, but it would bee a blot upon her memory for ever: and to save her honour, there must bee feigned some other accident in her Epitaph. As for that o∣ther discoursing Lady you complaine of, and whom I know, she commits not, in truth, such extravagant faults as this doth; yet shee hath her faults too: and I can no more allow of wo∣men to bee Doctors, than of women to bee Cavaliers. She should take you for a pateme, and make profit of the good example you give. You know indeed, an infinite number of excellent things; but you make no open profession of your knowledge, as shee doth, and you shew, you have not learned them to keepe a schoole. You speake to her, when shee preacheth to you, and making po∣pular answeres to her riddles, and giving di∣stinction to her confusion: you doe her at least, this good office, to expound her to her selfe. Neither in the tune of your voyce, nor in the manner of your expressing, is any thing seen in you, but that which is naturall and French: and although your spirit bee of an extreame high clevation, and farre above the ordinarie reach, yet you so accomodate it to the capaci∣tie of all that heare you, that whilest the mea∣ner sort doe understand you, the more able spirits doe admire you. It is a great matter, Madam, to have gotten the knowledge of such excellent things: but it is a greater matter so to hide them, as if they were stollen, and to call them, as you doe, by the name of your se∣cret

Truanting•…•…, Your Canvas, your Silke, your Needles, are seene, but your papers are not seene; and those women that are taken with men that are not their husbands, are not more surprized than you are, when you are found to have an Authour in your hand, that is not French. I know therefore, Madam, you cannot approve of one so contrarie to your selfe, how fairc•…•… shew soever you make, nor will ever change the plainnesse of your words, for her learned gyb•…•…sh. Pedanterie is not sufferable in a Master of Art, how should it be borne withall in a woman? And what pati∣euce: can endure to heare one talke a whole day together, Metamorphosis and Philosophiet to mingle the Id•…•…s of Plato, and the Praedi∣cables of Perphinic together; to make no com∣plyment, that hath not in it; a dozen Hori∣zons and Hemispheares and at last, when shee hath no more to say, then to raile upon mee in Greeke, and •…•…cuseme me of Hyperbole, and Ca∣•…•…eale. These be h•…•…rdevises, she will have, in two verses, at least foure full points, she hath 〈◊〉〈◊〉 designe to set on foot, and bring into use a∣gaine, the Strophes and Antistrophes, she gives Rules both of Epick and Dramatick •…•…esie, and sayth, she cannot endure a Comedic, that is not within the law of foure and twentie ho•…•…es: and this shee is going about to publish through all France. If I had a mortall ene∣mie, I would desire no greater revenge of him, than to wish him such a wife. Nothing hath more confirmed not in my desire of solitude,

than the example of this Ladie: and I see plain∣ly, that a single life is the best thing in the world, seeing it lies in covert, and is free from the cumber of this talking Ladie. I ex∣pect by this bearer the Essayes you promised mee, and am

Madam

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 20. Septemb. 1628.

Another to her. LETTER LI.

MAdam, I cannot possibly live a•…•…ie longer without hearing from you: but I cannot heare of anie of whom to heare it; and Ley∣monsins are as rare in these par•…•…, as Spaniards since the warre was proclaimed, I must there∣fore make use of a messenger, whom you have raised to an Embassadour, to the end hee may informe mee of your health and your friends, My love of you, drawes on a curiositie: for all things that are yours: and my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 will not be in quiet, till I heare how my masters, your children doe, and what good newes you heare

from them. Particularly I desire to know, whe∣ther you bee yet a Grand-mother in Holland: and whether my Ladie, your daughter in law, have brought you Captaines or Senatours, at least, Madam, they shall bee children much bound to their mother; seeing, besides their birth, they shall owe her for their libertie, a thing they should not doe to a Fleming of Bruxels. I have seene the Cavalier you have so often spoken of, and I thinke you judge verie rightlie of him. Hee consists wholly of a Pickedevant, and two Mustachoes: and therefore utterly to defeate him, there needes but three clippes of a paire of Cizers. It is not possible to bring one——to bee afraid of him. Hee sayth, that if he wore a Lions skinne, and carried in one hand a Torch, and in the other a Clubbe, yet in such equipage hee would bee more ridiculous than redoubtable. Hee beleeves hee hath cho∣ler enough, but beleeves not hee hath any heart; hee reckons him, in the number of beasts that are skittish and resty, but not that are cruell and furious: And when I tell him, he hath been often in the field; hee answeres me, it hath been then, rather to feed, than to fight. You can, if you please, returne mee a hundred fold for this my untoward short re∣lation: and it will bee: long of you, if my man come not back laden with histories, which must certainly have been written to you by the

last Posts. Take pitty upon the ignorance of your neighbours, and doe me the honour to bel•…•…ive I am,

Madam,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 15. Aug. 1635.

To Madam du Fos. LETTER LII.

MAdam, my deere Cousin; There is no∣thing heard in all quarters, but benedi∣ctions and prayses, which our poore pleaders give you. They invocate you, as their Redee∣mer; and if Themis be the goddesse of good causes, you, it seemes, are the goddesse of good successe. For my selfe, I have knowne a long time, that you are powerfull in perswasion, and never speake without prevayling. This is the cause, why I have promised Monsieur de—, not that you shall sollicite for him, but that you shall speed for him; and I am this day warranted of the Event. I could tell you, to make you respect him the more, that he is a∣ble to thanke you, in five or six languages; that

hee hath a full Magazine of Astrolabes a•…•…d Globes; and that, being but of a meane sta∣ture, he hath yet, by his knowledge in the Ma∣thematicks, found a meanes to make himselfe as high as Heaven. But I will content my selfe to say, that he is my friend, and your Oratour: that if my commendation, and your own glory be deare unto you, you cannot but very shortly send him backe with full satusfactuib, I pro∣mised to send you the two Sonnets, you have heard so much spoken of, but my bad memo∣ry, makes me fayle in a part of my promise, and I can send you, but one and a halfe:

The one entyre is this:

Tu reposois Dephnis, au plus haut de Parnasse, Couronné de lauriers si touffus & fivers, Qu'ils sombloit te Couurir des orages divers Dont la rigueur du sort trouble nostre bonac•…•….

Quand l'injuste Menalque a been eu cett' audace D'employer les poysons sans sarabe couuerts, Pour corrumpre ton No•…•… 〈◊〉〈◊〉 •…•…plit l'univer•…•… Et me sprise du temps la fatale menace,

Mais si durant la paix, tes Innocents Escrits, Forcerant d'avouer les plus •…•…ares asprits: Que Florence devoit tu Temple ata memoire, Ce style de combat. Cet Efford plus qu'humain, Feravoir aqual poyut, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mettre ta gloire, Qu'and l'iujure t'a mis les armes a la main.

The halfe one is this:

Quelque fois ma raison par des foibles discans, M'incite a la revolte, & me promet secours Mais lors que tout de bon je me veur servir d'elle

Apres beaucoup de peine, et a'efforts impuissants Elle dit, qu' vr•…•… est seule aymable & belle, Et m'y rengage plus que ne font tous mes sens.

The Authour of this last Sonnet, hath made one in Spanish, which in the Court of Spaine, goes under the Name of Lopez de Vega, and another in Italian, which Marino verily be∣leeved, he had read in Petrarke; It is a Spirit, that changeth himselfe at pleasure, and trans∣formes himselfe into what shape he list: yet he deserves better prayses than this, and his Mo∣rall qualities are nothing behinde his Intelle∣ctuall: I will tell you his Name, when it shall be lawfull to love him openly, and to make his Encomium without soruple. But first, it is need∣full, that Fortune which hath cast him upon an Enemies Countrey, should bring him backe to Paris, where both of us, meane to waite upon you, to make our Court; and from whence I desire not over to returne, but onely to testi∣fie to you more carefully, than heretofore I have done, that I am

Madam, my deare Cousin,

Your, &c.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 Balz•…•…e, 4. May, 1633.

To Madam de Campagnole. LETTER LIII.

MY most deare Sister, I send you the Book which you required of mee, for my Niece, and I beleeve, that this and her Prayer-Booke, make her whole Librarie: shee shall finde in it, a Devotion that is not too mysticall, nor too much refined; and which hath nothing but Morall and reasonable. I like this popular Divinitie, which meets us halfe way, and stoops a little, that we may not strayne our selves too much. It followes the example of its Authour, who made himselfe familiar with common peo∣ple, and put not backe so much as Courtisans and Publicans, farre from making division in families, and withdrawing women from obe∣dience to their mothers, and their husbands. It commends this obedience, as their principall verue, and calles it a second worship, and a se∣cond religion. I shall be glad to see my Neece make profession of a pietie, so conformable to naturall reason, and so good a counsellour of all other duties. But let her not, I pray, climbe higher, and undertake Meditations of her owne head: Grenada whom I sent her, hath taken this paines for her, and hath meditated for her, and for all other that shall reade his Bookes. There is nothing more dangerous, than to

mount up to Heaven without a helper and a guide; and it is a great confidence, one must have in his Spirit, to let it goe so farre, and be assured, it will ever come backe againe. It is not long agoe, there was in a Towne of Spaine, a Societie of devoted persons, who continued in meditation so many houres a day, leaving off all base works, to live, as they sayd, a more heavenly life; but what thinke you, became of it? even a thousand domesticall disorders, and a thousand publike extravagan∣cies. The lesse credulous, tooke the pricke of a pinne, for a Saints marke, the more humble, accounted their husbands prophane; the wi∣ser sort, spake what came in their heads, and made faces perpetually. In so much, that when in the moneth of May, there did not past three or foure runne madde; it was coun∣ted a good yeare. It is fit to stay ones selfe up∣on the true vertue, and not to follow the vaine Phantasmes of holinesse. And it is farre safer, to ground ones selfe upon a solid and certaine reading, than to goe wandring in a hollow, and unsteady contemplation. If I had more time, you should have more words; but hee that brings you the letter, calls upon mee for it, and I can no more to it, but that I perfectly am

My deare sister,

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 15. April. 1635.

Another to her. LETTER LIIII.

MY dearest Sister, all the world tells me•…•…, that my Niece is fayre, and you may be∣leeve, I will challenge no man, for saying so. Beautie is in Heaven a qualitie of those glori∣ous bodies, and in Earth the most visible marke that comes from Heaven. It is not fit there∣fore to slight these gifts of God, nor to make small account of this sparke of the life to come: It is not fit to be of so crosse an humour, to blame that which is generally praysed. Marke when a comely personage comes in place, ha∣ving but this advantage of her birth, you shall presently see all that were talking, to hold their peace; and what noyse soever there was be∣fore, you shall have all husht, and an univer∣sall calme upon a suddaine: you shall see a whole great multitude, all busie in different la∣bours, to make presently but one body, and that onely to stand to gaze and wonder: some leave to make up the reckoning they had be∣gunne, some curtoll their complements, and cut them off in the midst; every man puts off his conceits to some other time, onely to take a

full view, and to contemplate this divine thing that presents it selfe. If it be at a Sermon, they leave hearkening to the Preacher, and they are no longer the auditours of M. de Nantes, but the spectatours of Calista. The fayre can ne∣ver be seene without respect, without prayses, without acclamations. They triumph, as often as they appeare, and their youth hath not mor•…•… dayes, than their beautie hath Festivalls. But the mischiefe is, my deere Sister, that the Fe∣stivals are short, the youth is not lasting, and the fayre at last come to be ill favoured. Queenes and Princesses grow old, and there is no old beautie, but that of God, of the Sunne, and of the Starres. These heads that now have nei∣ther skinne, nor flesh, nor hayre; These car∣kasses and dry bones have beene in their time, the divinities and wonders of the world: and was heretofore called the Dutchesse of Valen∣tinois, the Dutchesse of Beaufort, the Mar∣quis of—: Besides there may happen dis∣eases, which will doe old ages worke before hand, and are oftentimes more gastly than death it selfe. Wee are frighted sometimes to see the spoyle and ruines of Faces, upon which the foote of sicknesse hath troaden, and there is nothing, in which wee may more observe the lamentable markes of the inconstancie of hu∣mane things. From hence I conclude, that beau∣tie being a thing so frayle and tender, subject to so many accidents, and so hard to keepe; it is fit wee should seeke after another beautie,

that is more firme and permament, that can better withstand corruption, and better defend it selfe against the force of time. Above all, it is not fit, that women should be proud of a qua∣litie, that is infamous for the losses and wracks of many poore Consciences, and which as in∣nocent and chast as it can be, will yet be a cause to rayse in others, a thousand fowle de∣sires, and a thousand unhallowed and wicked thoughts. Say, my Niece hath some thing in her that is pleasing, some thing that is fayre and beautifull, as her friends conceive, yet shee ought alwayes to be afraid of such a good, that is so dangerous for doing hurt to others. I set before her eyes, the sad Picture of that which shee shall be hereafter; to the end, shee may not grow proud of that which shee is now. There is no hurt in meditating a little upon this poynt. But allow her the libertie wee e∣ven now tooke from her; yet withall, put her alwayes in minde, that of the foure beauties I have shewed her in my Tasso; there is but one of them, that will be a fit example for her to follow. Shee must leave Armida and Er∣minia, for the Gallants of the Court, Clorinda is for the valourous men of Gascoigne, and Pe∣rigord; but shee that I propose for her Pat∣terne, is Sophronia. And if shee have not courage enough to say to the Tyrant, as shee sayd, It is I that am the Delinquent you looke for; let her at least, have the other conditions, that are necessary to the being her follower,

and imitate her in them. This fayre Saint made profession of modestie, and neglected her beautie; shee was alwayes, eyther hidden un∣der a veile, or shut up in her Chamber, and all the world might suspect her to be fayre; but there was scarce any at all that knew it but her mother. Shee had no designe to entrappe any mans libertie, and therefore layd not her snares in their way, nor went to Church to see and to be seene. My deare sister, I cannot choose, but take upon me here to be a reformer of corrupt manners, and make my complaint to you, of a Custome, which as well as many other naugh∣tie things, the Court hath cast upon us. What reason is there in the world, that women should enter into holy places, of purpose to draw up∣on them, the view and attention of the Com∣pany? as much as to say, to trouble and disturbe the whole devotion of a Towne, and to doe as bad, or worse, as those buyers and sellers did, whom Christ whipped out of the Temple? By this meanes, good actions become evill, and Pietie comes to have no better odour before the Altaus, than Perfumes that are mustie and corrupted. Women now adayes, are bound to be seene to be at Church; and this very de∣sire of being seene there, is the ordinary pro∣phanation of the place where they are seene. And in truth, seeing this place is particularly called the House of God, what is it but to vilifie God, even in the highest degree, to come and offend at his owne doores, and as it were to his

face? It is even as great an Impudency, as that of the first Angells, who sinned in Paradise. Yet herein certainly, the Italian women are more pardonable than the French; for they indeed, have no other breathing time of their unfortu∣nate libertie, being at all other times, kept up as slaves and prisoners: but in France, where women are not denyed the company and visits of honest men, they can have nothing to say, in justification of this incontinency of their eyes, and of this unsufferable vanitie, to seeke to part stakes with God, in mens vowes, and to share with him in his publike Adoration. You little thought this morning to heare a Preacher, and I as little thought to be one, but as you see, the zeale of Gods House, hath brought mee to it; and finding my selfe at leisure, I was desirous to bestow part of it upon you. The Text was gi∣ven mee yesterday, by the company that was here; where my Nieces beautie was so much extolled, that, sending you Newes, which are to her so glorious, I thought fit, to send her withall, a cooling, to keepe her glorying in some temper: and so my deare Sister, I take my leave, and am with all my soule,

Your, &c.

At Bolzac, 3. May. 1635.

Another to her. LETTER LV.

MY dearest sister, having both of us but one passion, it makes us alwayes talking of one thing. My Neece is the subject of all our Letters, as she is the object of all our cares. For my owne part, I see not a good or a bad ex∣ample, which I make not use of, for her instru∣ction, and endevour to imploy it to her profit. You remember a woman the other day, who values nothing, likes of nothing, excuses no∣thing; and let her be in the best & most pleasing company that may be, yet she is sureto put them all into dumpes and melancholy. You can come on no side of her, but she pricks and bites: all her coasts are craggie and rockie. And it was not without cause my brother sayd, that if the man you wot of, had married her, there would certainly have nothing come of that marriage, but Teeth and Nayles. It is impossible to live in peace with such a savadge chastitie. I make no more reckoning of it, than of that of the Fu∣ries, whom the ancient Poets call virgines, and wonder not, that women of this humour, love no man, seeing they hate the whole world.

This sad and sullen poyson taking up all the roome in their soules, leaves no place at all for other passions that are sweet and pleasing. They flye pleasures, rather by having their mouth out of taste, than by having their judge∣ment in perfection: and are so continually fretting, that they have no leasure at any time to be merrie. As long as they bee chaste, they thinke they may lawfully bee discourteous, and scratch men, so they doe not kisse them. They have a conceit, that by wanting one vice, they have presently all vertues: and that for a little good fame they gaine to their husbands, they may keepe them under yoake, and affront all mankinde. It is true, the losse of a womans honour is the greatest disgrace she can possibly incurre; and which once lost, shee hath no∣thing left her that is worth the keeping: But yet it followes not, that the preserving it, is any such royall act; and I doe not admire any, for not being willing to live in misery and dis∣grace. I never heard, that a woman should bee praised, for not falling in the fire, or for not casting her selse downe a rock. We con∣demne the memorie of them that kill them∣selves; but we give no reward to them that preserve themselves. And so indeed it is, a woman that magnifies her selfe for being chaste, magnifies herselfe for not being dead, and for having a qualitie, without which she were as good bee out of the world, seeing shee stayes not in it, but for a plague to her name, and to

see her owne infamie. I say yet more, that shee ought not so much to consider the vice as an evill thing, as to consider it as an inpossible thing, and not to have it so much in detestation, as in ignorance. For indeed, if a woman bee truly vertuous. shee will sooner believe there are Meremaids and Centaures, than that there are any dishonest women: but will rather conceive that the world is given to slandering, and that Fame is a lyer, than that her neigh∣bour is false and disloyall to her husband: though with her owne eyes she should see the fault committed, yet it is her part to suspect her eyes mere mistaken, and that it was but an il∣lusion which she saw; at least, shee should ne∣ver give sentence upon this sort of delinquents, seeing Christ himselfe would not doe it to the adulterous woman. When others wrong a woman, it is her part to be sorrie: and when o∣thers say, she hath beene unfaithfull, it may bee enough for her to say, she hath beene unfortu∣nate. And yet more than this too, I could wish, if it were possible, that where shee findes most weaknesse, there she should make report of most goodnesse: und I would no•…•…, that vertue should beget this bad qualitie. It is an enemie to societie, and deserves not to have so good a mother: and one may well flie and blame the vice, so as the flying it, bee with∣out oftentation, and the blaming it be without choler. For otherwise, it would bee as much as to require a statue for doing nothing: and in

the smart of the punishment, to seeke for the pleasure of revenge. An honest woman re∣formes the world by the example of her life, and not by the violence of her spirit. She ought not to proclaime warre against any; not against the most indiscreet and insolent: and if there chance any licentious or uncivill word to be uttered in her hearing, she ought to checke it, either by giving no care, or by falling into some other discourse, or by casting upon the spea∣ker a beame of modestie, that may cover his confusion, and pierce his very soule: and thus she shall use a chastising without offending. There is as well a severitie in modestie, as a sweetnesse; and which keeps insolence it selfe in awe: and a woman that carries this excel∣lent vertue in her eyes, keepes men within the bounds of their dutie, without ever falling in∣to out-rage, or into words of choler. Other vertues are hidden, and have nothing in them that is visible, or that falls under sence. This This vertue hath a body of light, and riseth up into the face, in those pretty straines, which bashfulnesse that is her usher, as Aurora is the Sunnes, sends up: into it. And in truth, the Purple, whereof the Poets speake, which ap∣peares at the breake of day, is nothing so rich and glorious, as that which is disclosed in an ho∣nestie a little bashfull; the effect whereof in noble tempers is not an over-flowing of blood, but onely one single drop well husbanded. It is not a masse of red, which sets the face on fire.

It is onely a first impression, and as it were, a shadow of tincture, that lightly colours it. This honest blush, which is so pleasing a thing in maydens faces, and which I distinguish from that, which is sottish and untoward, is a barre, and sufficient defence against the audacious∣nesse of the most impudent; and when it is seen to shine in a womans looke, there is no li∣centiousnesse that is not dazeled with it, and is not stopt from daring to proceed. And there∣fore there is no necessitie of using any straining of the voyce, any churlishnesse of words, or any agitation of gestures, to doe that, which may better be done by silence, and with quietnesse. And indeed women are bound, if for nothing else, yet for the very interest of their beauty, to shunne a passion, that makes such villanous faces, and sets so many wrinkles upon their countenance. I have heard some of them com∣plaine, that the sent of a Rose was too strong, and that Muske made their heads ake, because it had not milde sweetnesse enough: and why then will they not take that sweetnesse into themselves, which they seek for so much in o∣ther things? and finde fault with the want of it, in that Art, which proposeth to it selfe no o∣ther end? If without this sweetnesse, there grow from the most pretious odours, a certaine qualitie which offends them; and if there bee some Flowers, and some perfumes that please them not, what likelihood is there, that Brim∣stone and Salt-peter can please them, and that

their humour can have any thing common with these violent substances? It is true perhaps, that sweetnesse and mildnesse have their exces∣ses; but yet, even those excesses are more law∣full, than the justest temper of shrewishnesse and incivilitie; at least in a woman, they are much more commendable: and it becomes her better to dissemble that shee knowes, than to discover verities that are odious: and better she should be thought to come out of another world, than to carry to a man the first newes of her stinking breath; and teach another to know the infirmitio of her race, which perhaps hee knew not before. These liberties are not suffe∣rable in the freest conversations, they draw on other more dangerous liberties; and though your sex be inviodable, and have the priviledge of sanctuarie, yet prophane persons stick not to lay hands on the Saints themselves, and on their Altars, and nothing is so sacred, that can escape the hand of sacriledge. Onely those persons that can revenge offences, may venture to give offences; and a man that will give the lye, must be of a condition to fight a Duell, & maintain it by Armes. My Neece hath no great need of these precepts, nor indeed of any forraigne in∣struction; she cannot wander from the right, if she goe not astray from her owne inclination; nor can be troublesome to others, if she borrow not a vice which is none of her owne. I have therefore represented to her, the wo∣man of the other day: but after their exam∣ple,

who shewed their slaves drunke to their children, and that is to make her afrayd of fil∣•…•…hy objects, and to make that hatefull to her, which is not in it selfe lovely; to confirme her in the principles which you have taught her, and to draw her out some rules from her own acti∣ons: she is (I know) naturally good; but the best natures have need of some method to guide them, and direction doth never any hurt to vertue: she is able to keepe herselfe in termes extreamly obliging, without ever falling into the basenesse of flatterie: She is able to please without colloguing; and though shee call not every thingby the right name, nor bee so very curious to speake in proper termes, yet her stile shall not for that, bee the lesse liked, nor her companie the lesse desired. She may call them wise that want the reputation of beeing valiant; and women that are sad, she may say they are serious. If a man bee not of a quicke spirit, she may say, he is of a good judgement: and if one bee unfortunate in his actions she may say, he hath a good meaning in his counsails. But yet in this there is a measure to bee held, and a choyce must bee made, in laying her colours, that shee seeke not to disguise all sorts of sub∣jects: for there are some indeed that are not capable: of disguising. Those that are pale, she may praise for their whitenesse: but those that have a dropsie, she must not praise for their fat∣nesse: shee may say, that scruple is a bud of pietie. But shee must not say, that prophane∣nesse

is an effect of Philosophie. Shee may make a favourable construction of things doubtfull, and sweeten the rigour of parti∣cular judgements; but shee must not con∣tend against common sence, nor bee oppo∣site to verities that are publicke and manifest. Shee must make a difference betweene er∣rours and crimes, betweene a docible sim∣plicitie and a presumptuous stupiditie, be∣tweene sots that are honest, and those that are wicked. And if shee happen to bee in companie, where some weake spirit is op∣pressed, as the world is full of such that will triumph over the weake, and take no pit∣tie of any, shee must then, by all meanes, bee a protectresse of such a one, and make herselfe a Sanctuarie for all those, whom stronger adversaries would otherwise ruine. This onely is to bee observed, that shee so undertake the maintaining of weake causes, that it may appeare by the tune of her voyce, that it proceedes from excesse of goodnesse, and not from want of knowledge: and that shee compassionates humane infirmities by an act of charitie, makes not herselfe a partie by false perswasion. I am now at the end of my paper; and should have beene a good while since at the end of my letter: but I alwayes forget my selfe when I am with you, and never thinke howres shorter, than those I bestow upon your memorie. And so my

deare sister, I bid you farewell, not without great longing to see you: and if you and all your company come not hither the next week, I proclaime it to you, that I am no longer

Your, &c.

At Balzac, 10. Iuly. 1634.