The declamations of Quintilian being an exercitation or praxis upon his XII books concerning the institution of an orator / translated (from the Oxford Theatre edition) into English, by a learned and ingenious hand ...

Paries Palmatus: OR, The Wall all Bloody with the Track of an Hand.

DECLAMATION I.

The Argument.

There was a Gentleman who had a Blind Son, whom he had made his Heir, but mar∣rying a Second Wife, He made an Apart∣ment for the dark Youth, in a remote part of his House. The Father was Mur∣thered in the night, as he was lying in Bed by his Wife in his own Chamber, and the next morning his Son's Sword was found in the Wound, and all the Wall, from his Son's Chamber to His, was bloodied with the Print of an Hand.

The Blind Son and the Step-Mother ac∣cuse one another of the Murther.

For the Blind Son against the Step-Mother.

IF this Innocent Young-man (my Lords and Judges) would use the Motive of his sad distress, he might allege, that, together with his Eyes, he had lost all his wild unru∣ly thoughts, but when he has a mind to declare his Innocency rather by his Manners than his Miseries, he cannot bear so great a reproach to be cast either on his duty or his Conscience, as not to be thought to have committed this Mur∣ther only upon the account of his Blindness. And therefore he doth not desire that you should think him Pityable, unless also he be found Inno∣cent, neither would he have you Releive his af∣flicted Condition, unless he proves himself more unhappy in losing his Father than his Eyes. Set then (my Lords) an estimate upon this Young-man, by those accomplishments, as you would do if▪ he had his Eyes, I mean by his Conversation, by his Modesty, by his Duty to his Father, which if they can be made appear, as we shall under∣take for them all in his behalf, no Indictment will daunt him. And tho' this wicked Woman (for-sooth) hath pourtrayed our Calamity by blood∣ing the Wall, yet we are not abashed thereat, for by how much the more diligent and careful she hath been, that she might not be discovered, she hath thereby given a most certain indication, that (to be sure) she wanted not her Eyes. Gra∣mercy

Dame, for bringing over the Arguments of thy too lavish suspition to our side, it would have been harder to evince, that the Blind-man had not committed this Villany, unless all things had been so personated, that such a Blind-man might seem to have committed it.

And therefore (my Lords) I may fairly hope, that those Pleas will be justly suspected by you, which are so Nonsensically forged against the poor Blind-Youth.

As first, that the large space of the House, which lay in the midst- between the Son's Cham∣ber and the Father's, was full of Blood, so or∣derly drawn along even to the poor Youths Chamber, as if indeed the Parricide had been a∣fraid, that he should not have been discovered. Next, the Night was principally chosen out for the Villany, at which time no Husband is ever found abed without his Wife. Then in a Murther, no man ever uses his own but rather anothers Sword, yet here, whose, but the Young-man's Sword, was left in the Wound? That so the Step-mother might not want this Argument against him. Lastly, The Murther was compleated at one Blow, (as if it fell pat into the groping Hand of the wandring Youth.) And yet against so many unlikely things, the Mother in Law hath nothing to plead, but only her Husbands last Will and Testament: She would have that to be the Motive of the Parricide, that so by a strange Absurdity, she might prove him to have Mur∣thered his Father, even because he did not in the least deserve to be Murthered by his hands. But if that be a Crime, that the Young-man was lest

sole Heir to his Father, we acknowledge it. If when the poor Old-man was yet alive, This his Will could have come out, and have been known in the House, you know which of the Two had most reason to take Pet: And whereas she urges, that the Son was ill-resented by his Father, if we should own it, whose fault (think you) was that, but the Step-mothers? And she thinks she can prove, he was ill-resented, because he was laid up in a remote part of the House, not as a be∣loved Son, but as an hated Blind one: By this Plea she craftily enough endeavours to cloak her Envy. The Father, who disposed of his Blind Son, in a secret Apartment of his House, did thereby take off some pleasure from the Eyes of the Mother-in-law. For she, thinking to come in∣to an empty House, and reckoning that a Blind Son was as good as none at all, the indulgent Old-man devised a Way, how his poor Child might be (as to himself) in the same House, and (as to his Step-mother) in another: if the Youth had never so fain, he could not have cull'd out a secreter place for himself. If you would know the Old-man's intent herein, you may go ask his last Will: Neither can I beleive, that the prudent Father would crack of his Will to his Son, how he had made him his Heir; you cannot reasona∣bly object it against him, 'twas she rather, 'twas she, that by some discoveries, or by some cun∣ning Womanish suspicion or other had worm'd out the secrets of her Husband, and then shook hands with all Conjugal Duty. For where you Love for hope of gain, there your disappointed hope, and your pretended love end together.

'Tis true, the Young-man had a Sword in his Chamber continually, either because he got it before he fell Blind, or else because it is a comfort to one that is Dark, to have an Utensil belonging to one that can See. This id certain, his Father was never afraid of it, neither did his Step-mother ever object it to him before; The Sword lay ex∣posed to the veiw of all, it was known all the House over. You are sensible, My Lords, that a guiltless Conscience keeps a Sword more re∣gardlessly, than another; you are sensible also, that a thing, which cannot be used, may be re∣tained without any suspicion: Innocence many times occasions, that a Sword may be taken a∣way, even from one that Sees: Whether then a∣ny one of the Servants was privately dealt with, as may be rationally thought on so fair an occa∣sion; or whether the Mother her self was so bold as to take it away, which she might easily do, tho' her Son-in-law were in the Room: With∣out question (which doth most convincingly di∣scover, who was the Murtherer) That Assassin, that would leave a Sword behind, would rather use another man's than his own.

What she further alleges, my Lords, if it had been possible to have been done, yet what would it amount to? Here is a Blind-man, with∣out any Guide or Leader, pretended to have blundered along, with a Sword in his hand, from a distant part of the House, I had almost said, from another House, through a long Reach, through so many stumbling thresholds, and through Servants that kept Watch; and then to have entred his Fathers Chamber, turning to nei∣ther

hand, but going on as directly as Eyes could guide a man; and so to have come to his Bed gently and without any noise, not falling on it by chance, or arriving at it sooner than he him∣self thought. I beseech you, my Lords, Judge what a Tumult such a Criminal would have made, from the Nature of the things themselves. An Old-man fast a Sleep, whom a Blind Assassin groped after, would have been sooner. Aw••ked by the bustle, than found. They and thereto Pleas, much more incredible, as how be Mur∣thered his Father, and yet med••ed not with his Step-mother; how he finished the Parricide at one Blow, which they can scarce have the hap to do, who take Aim by the Eye; that here was no∣need of Eyes, but a man about to strike at Ran∣dom, fortunate enough, if he had hit any part of the Body, in our Case lighted upon the very Heart, and presently perceived, that he had given a Deaths-Wound. My Lords, it is the of∣fice of our Eyes to tell our Hands what is done. It had been the only security of a Blind Mur∣therer to strike often: Besides, the Step-mother says, that she perceived none of all this, tho' she lay by her Husbands side, neither doth she in∣form us, whence the Ground of so great an A∣stonishment should arise. If the Father had been killed at one Blow, and his Wife fast a Sleep, the Murtherer could not have left the Sword with Security. As to their other Allegations, they are too too Suspicious, and Impudently forged; Here is a very spacious Wall, and a large side of the House, full of Prints of Blood, which the Hand of him, in his return, might seem to have

left. Oh! How finely can Eyes Pourtray what they have a mind to. I should extreamly won∣der, if any man can beleive, that her Step-son could do all this in the Night: 'Tis pretended, that he left his Sword in the Wound, just as the Step-mother could wish; A Sword, which he could not deny, but that it was his own; next, what did he Print upon all the Wall? That the Parricide had drawn along his Fathers Blood even unto his own Chamber, and so had left a plain Path for any one to trace him: Would any man do so, that had a mind afterward to deny the Fact? I congratulate thy good fortune, Poor Youth, if thou couldst not perpetrate the Murther, but thou must leave a proof of thy Blindness be∣hind thee, thou couldst not chuse but be Innocent.

I am therefore determined so to Plead the Cause of this poor Young-man; As first, to defend him, who is only Accused, not Guilty; and when I have sufficiently cleared his Innocency, I will then be∣gin my charge against the Mother. You shall view them both by their Manners, and their Cases re∣spectively and so you may the more easily dis∣charge your Consciences in passing a Righteous Judgment. For tho' the Tryal takes Cognizance of them both, yet I will handle their Cases in several. And first, I will suppose the Young-man had his Sight, and that the Efforts of his Mind were not a jot weakned by any Infirmity of Body. I will demand, what debauched, what flagitious, what impious Fact he committed before this, by which he might give some previous Specimen, that at length he would mount to Parricide. You know, Innocency recedes not from a man, but

by certain degrees; and lest Audaciousness might be Faint-hearted in the highest Villanies, it ga∣thers Courage time after time in smaller ones. No man ever began at that height, to which it is scarce credible, that ever he should have ar∣rived at all. His Accuser must tell, what Grudges had past between him and his Father before, and how great a Breach had intervened between the deep engagements of those two sacred Names; Beleive me, Woman, even for thy own sake, for if it be an easie thing for a Son to Mur∣ther his Father, it is much more easie for a Wife to destroy an Husband.

A VVord now concerning his sad Infirmity of Blindness. All our wildness and courage are dashed by the disaster of our Body, and the briskness of our Spirit is palled, if it be not se∣conded by the service of our Corporal Members. Destitution obliges only to mourning and soli∣tude. That countenance, which is invelop'd with a continual night, and fearful besides, can∣not so much as design a Villany, which is not practicable without Eyes. He still troubles him self, lest he should miss his way and stumble, he is solicitous about the difficulty in going and coming. There is a great necessity for the In∣nocency of that man, who knows, that no man can be discovered sooner, than he: Miserable men are always watchful over themselves, fear∣ing they may cease to deserve compassion; And who ever hath lost his Eyes, anxiously labours, that he might not seem to deserve such a loss. What lesson can a poor Dark man learn, but to fawn and beg? When I hate a man, I am the

worse to see him, and it makes no small Accession to ones Fury, when he beholds him with his Eyes, whom he abominates in his Heart. As for a Blind-man, he is more to be pitied than hated, and he is more cautious than to hate.

Besides, 'tis that hath often suggested causes of Parricide to unnatural Children, which they did behold with their Eyes: For, the Eye is the Inlet of Vice to the Mind. Luxury hath put a Sword into some Childrens hands to Murther their Fathers, now Luxury is a Crime of such as have Eyes. The love of some Courtezan hath done the like for others, when she demanded an unreasonable Largess, but Love hath the Eyes for his Centinels. But in our Case, what! doth an unhappy Blind-man kill his Father? His Fa∣ther being killed, who shall now lead him by the hand with security? Whose Shoulders could he lean upon more easily? Will any one chastise the reproaches of the Servants more strictly than the Father? Will any one protect such and so distressed a condition, and so subject to abuse, with greater tenderness? Wishes go at another rate amongst Children in misery; a Blind Son prays, that his Father might survive him.

And now, I would fain know, what they will say, how so difficult a Fact could be accomplish∣ed; did a Blind-man say you, Plot Parricide? With whom did he lay the Plot? Whose Eyes did he trust? When he was to go through the whole House, whom did he chuse for his Guide? He that was alone in his own Chamber, I take it, can deliberate with none but himself; tis enough, he consults with a nimble companion, for why

should he desire anothers privity to his Design, who needed no Information of any thing? First, he can tell, when 'tis Night, then he can look carefully, whether all the family be asleep? He knows how to tread sure and yet soft, and to turn about his careful Visage towards that side, whence the least fear might come: In a state of fear, 'tis provision little enough to have our Eyes. What! Did he not say to himself, 'tis true, I would fain Murther my Father, but how shall I do it? Who shall guide my hands? I will get me out of my Chamber by Night, alone by my self, but when shall I get thither? Do you think, that our Chambers are next one another? Nay, the whole House is between the Fathers and Sons Lodgings: How easily may I mistake my way? How long shall I be about it? I must grope through a huge Reach, scarce to be footed over. Thou Nonsensical Blind Fool, what art thou going about? 'Twill be broad-day before thou can'••t perfect thy Design. Again, what would you say, if he should be awake? Nay, what if the Mother only? Go too, I'le warrant you, I'le find the Threshold, I'le open the Door with∣out Creaking, I'le enter into my Fathers Cham∣ber, while he is fast a sleep; I'le Stab him in that Condition, one Blow shall do the Deed; my Step-mother shall not stir a Wink, I'le go out securely, I'le return, and no living Soul know it.

These are the wishes, ('tis true) but of such as have their Sight. A Blind-man would despair, even though the Night did promise her assistance in so many Circumstances.

In the next place, I must needs ask, what could

reason be, why the Son should use none but his own Sword in this Fact? Ah,* 1.1 this came into his mind that he was to leave it behind him, for if he had left a strangers Sword in the Wound, some Question might have been made, Who was the Murtherer: But the Wisacre used his own, that so, if he should have escaped, his Sword might have betrayed him; Ay, but you'l say, Why then did he keep any Sword at all in his Chamber? I will tell you, first, because he had always one by him; and next, because he never intended to use it.

What? Did I provide a Sword for Parricide so many years before? And was I innocent so long, tho' the Sword was at hand, wherewith I threatned to kill my Father? Was I ready in my Spirit and with my Sword, and yet suffer'd so many Nights to slip over my head? You know, I had made you familiarly acquainted with the sight of the Sword before, it was known also to all the Servants; it hung carelessly and disregarded in the midst of my Chamber, as a Witness of my Innocency; yea it hung so openly, that any bo∣dy living might have filch'd it away. No guilt of Conscience did conceal it, 'twas as sure known as the blindness of its Owner: He that prepares a Sword to commit a Murther doth keep it so close, that he may deny it to be his.

Set now before your Eyes the Act of the Mur∣ther, and you will find the difficulty thereof. I'le grant, that he went out of his own Chamber, and that he deceived the Servants, whom his Fa∣ther had allotted to attend him; that after much ••do he sound the Old-man's Chamber, then the

Wall ended, and could no longer guide the Mur∣therer, the door opened without creaking: VVhat does he do then? Does he go round about the Wall of the Bed-chamber, or does he venture into the middle of it, and flourish his Sword in the dark Room? VVell, now he finds his Fathers Bed, and stretching out his head, overhears them both Breathe, as they were asleep; tell me, how shall he know, which way he shall take his Ayme? Or VVhich of the Two to strike? VVell, did he grope out the face and the breast right a∣gainst him, did he seek the shortest Cut to let out his dying Soul? What a dead Sleep was that, that could not perceive all this? But she says, I did not perceive it my self neither. I reply, you see what a bad Cause you maintain, which you can defend but by one Plea, and that an incredible one too; say you so, was your Husband Stab'd whil'st he lay in your arms, and you never the wiser? Thy Husband is slain by thy side, and thou not awak'd, as if thy Son-in-Law had dispatcht thee first: What was thy Husband Slain by his Blind Son, and yet not struck by him? Me thinks, if the noise of the Blow could not, yet his warm Gore might have awakned thee?

But how manifest is thy Guilt, which puts thee to this shift, that when thou wouldst have it be∣leived, That, thy Son-in-Law Murthered his Father, art constrained to say, Thou perceivedst nothing: We have enough, and to spare, the Cause goes on our side, we are clearly Innocent. What! VVhen thou wert in the same Bed with him that was Slain, and perhaps didst embrace him, dost

thou profess so deep and sound a Sleep? How came it then to pass, that thou didst escape? What good fortune withheld his wrathful hands from shedding thy Blood? To be sure, thou wert a Sleep to purpose, thou perceivd'st no∣thing of all this. Did thy Son-in-Law let thee escape, because he did not fear to be apprehend∣ed? Did ever Son Kill his Father and spare his Step-Mother? Could he commit the greatest vil∣lany of all without regret, and did his heart im∣mediately fail him in the Lesser? Had he violated all the Rights, so Sacred amongst men, and yet durst he not make bold with a Life so odious, as thine? It is an incredible thing and against all reason, that he should spare a Mother-in-law, when you dare accuse him for Murthering his own Father? What say'st thou, Young-man, did thy heart misgive thee to shed that Blood? Did she more passionately entreat thee to spare her Life? Hereby thou hast lost the Plea, that she perceived nothing, that it was Night, all husht, there was time enough to commit also another Murther. If it had been possible for thee to Commit the Parricide, thou could'st have Slain thy Father upon no other account, but that there∣by thou might'st have opportunity to Kill thy Step-mother too. Neither do I see any reason, why he should spare her, unless he would have her live, that she might seem to have acted that wicked Fact. Craftily enough contriv'd,* 1.2 but this shall presently be overthrown by another evidence. These things do not well hang toge∣ther, to spare the Step-mother, that so she may be accused, and to leave the Sword behind, that so

he himself might be discovered thereby. I have often occasion to make use of the Argument from Blindness, and in this place especially, where we come to treat of the Wound. For certainly; if a Murtherer had entred who had his sight, yea, and had carried Lights before him, yet he could never so happily have levelled his blow, for tho' the darkness had not caused him to miscarry, yet fear and guilt, which are always witnesses to great Villanies, would have put him to a loss. A Common Executioner seldome strikes but once, e∣ven altho' he fit the Neck for the Block, yea tho' his practised hand came but newly from giving the like Blow, as his ordinary Trade: But it seems, the Blind-man hit so right, as immediatly to let out the Heart-blood. Upon my Con∣science, I wonder he did not hit his Mother, when he aimed at his Father; the first Blow of the Par∣ricide doth but only shew his intent and resolu∣tion: Alas! He quivers, he is thoughtful, he Co∣lours for it, and is but one degree on this side Innocence, he only makes way by the First, so as to give a stronger Blow the second time.

And now let me ask,* 1.3 what reason the Young∣man could have, to leave his Sword behind him? Oh! the Good-man, forsooth, would not have his Mother desamed; he hath barr'd all Apolo∣gy, he hath Confessed himself to be the Murther∣er by leaving his Sword in the Wound. If he had thought the first Blow had not done the deed, he would have given another, but if he had be∣leived the first had dispatched him, he would have taken away all means of discovering his Guilt. But why do I go about to demonstrate a thing,

which is evident of it self? My Lords, if you would know, who left the Sword behind, think with yourselves, whose interest it was it should be found, where it was.

Oh, but you'l say, The wall was Bloodied with the Print of an hand even to the Sons Chamber. In the first place, My Lords, con∣sider, That he was no Simpleton, no Impolitick fellow, who tho' he were Blind, would attempt a wickedness, which was difficult even for one that had his Eyes? What! Did he not think with himself, when he put his Bloody hand to the Wall, that he should leave the Print of his Par∣ricide behind him? Whereas he might easily have wiped that hand (that guided him) in his Clothes, and so got away without leaving any Print behind him, yet he thought good to Blood the Wall all along, ana so every where to leave some Memorial of his poor Fa∣ther? He did not consider in the least, what would follow the next day after, what a great Hubbub would be rais'd thereupon at Day-break, but he laid a Train beyond all possible mistake, that so his Mother might trace him even to his very Chamber door. Wonderful hap! what, was not the Blood all wasted till then? Let us here consider the very Nature of the thing it self. The Wall was found so Bloodied with the Print of an hand even to the last, that the entire hand, and every finger thereof, were exquisitely imprinted thereon. Surely he would have exhausted all the Blood in his hand at 2 or 3 of the first Prints. Suppose his hand was Bloody, and thereupon, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to gratify our Adversary a little) dropping wet,

suppose also the length of the way, and the long Reach of the Wall (for he could not get to that farthest part of the House in a little time.) That part of the Wall next the Fathers Chamber must needs have more Blood; the next to that, less the third, as good as none; the last none at all? For the Blood, as often as it was Clapt to the Wall, sticks there, or else drys up in the warm hand of such a slow-pac'd Creeper. Now what shall we say to this, when the Print of the Blood, (would you think it) doth begin at both ends? A plain Bloody hand at the one end, and at the other. How could his hand carry along that, which it left behind? No, no, 'twas the Mother, the Mother with all her Eyes about her, she drew all this, 'twas her Right-hand took the poor mans Blood, and ever and anon dip•• and renewed the Print. We find that the Bloodied Wall hath some void spaces, it is no•• besmear'd all along, but here is a perfect Prin•• of an hand every where; Now a Blind man would have trayled his hand all along.

I Demand next, how he could have so much Blood in his hands? All the Blood doth the•••• gush out from the Body, when it Issues after a•••••• Sword that is newly drawn out of a Wound, bu•• when a Wound is closed with the same Sword that gives it, 'tis but a dark discovery can b•• made by the Blood, in that Case.

Add, that no Blood can come at that part o•• the hand, which gripes that Sword-hilt and s•••• clutches it self up whilst it holds the Wea••∣pon; the Back of the hand only must needs b•• Bloodied, but our Wall is Imprinted with th••

hollow of an hand, to which no Blood could come? 'Tis your part, My Lords, to lay all these things together, and to weigh them seriously. The reason, why a Judge should shew more dis∣cretion in finding out a Villany, than the offender did in Committing it, I suppose, is this, because ••he later is thoughtful only for himself, but the former for both parties indifferently.

Thus have I defended the poor Young-man's Cause: I pass now to the Step-mother's, and what more certain Evidence of Conviction may reach Her. I omit that thred-bare and wel∣known Topick, concerning the Comparing of Per∣sons. Another man would say, that Husband and Wife, unless endear'd one to another by having Children at first, are not mutually ce∣mented by the strongest tyes of Conjugal Union. But I shall rather insist on this; Thou, Good Woman, wert deceived in thy expectation, thou thoughtest to come into a Clear house, for∣sooth, an house without an Heir. Thou expect∣edst, that the poor Youth should have been expell'd the House even upon your Wedding day, and that his Father, cajoled by thy flattering em∣braces, should have sent his desolate Son to seek his Fortune, and so have made provision, that the dismal Misfortune of his Body might not offend the Eyes of his Coy New-Bride. But on the con∣trary, thou soundest the Good Old man affection∣ately tender of his only Son, and for that reason thou despairedst of all conjugal affection from him. Miserable is that Husband, who brings in a Step-dame over his Son, because his Wife can never think he will love them both.

In the first place therefore, I demand, where your Husband was slain? In his Bed-chamber, say you! Go too! Before thou wert Marryed, thy Son-in-law had no need of this defence; was the Old-man slain in his Chamber? What! Was not the Murtherer afraid of his Wife? How durst he, that was Blind, enter into a private Mar∣riage Chamber, and approach the solitude of a Matrimonial Bed, especially with a Murthe∣rous intent? where can an Husband be found a∣lone without his Wife? Again, who ever chose the night for the Villany? The night, good Ma∣dam, was your time. Besides, what if thou hadst another advantage for thy Design? Thou needst not come from the further part of the house;* 1.4 Thou need'st not Traverse all the Blind places thereof; Thou need'st not trouble thy thoughts, how to hold up the Door so gingerly on the Hinges, that it creak not in the opening; You lye pat for the occasion, your Design is ea∣sily accomplished without stirring a Foot: You need not fear, lest any body should snap you. Moreover the Servants lodged far off, and great secresy is afforded you by the very Genius of the place; you may strike when you list, you may know whether he be a Sleep or no. The night time, a Sword at hand, and a Snor∣ing Husband, who can desire more to do a Vil∣lanie? We know the poor Old-man could have been Murthered, when you had a mind to it.

But, says she, how could the Sword, that was my Son's, come to my Hands? Here we are put to it indeed; A shrewd point to be answered

Alas! Who will beleive me, if I say, that the Dark-man lost his Sword; his Eyes, closed with a perpetual night, could not keep it safe. I should then be thought to devise a thing of mine own head to serve my purpose, and shame∣lessly to lament a want of proof, which is too too manifest. To speak Truth, his hand was al∣ways clapt on his Sword-hilt, it was his care day and night; do not pride thy self, as if by thy craft thou hadst out-witted a lurking cunning Ban∣ditty; no, no, it was our circumstances made the way easy for thee. It fixes the suspition more upon thee, because the Old-man was killed at one Blow. Thou hadst opportunity to prepare his body for the Stroke, even whilst thou seemedst to hug him. Thou with a gentle hand couldst grope over his breast before hand, and so find by the constant beat of the Pulse, where the panting Soul resides, where a deaths-wound might be given pre∣sently, and where, by the working Blood, the best place was to give the fatal Blow. Beleive it, my Bed-fellow can kill me at one Blow.

I come now to the Prints of the bloodied Wall, which I have urged upon thee sufficient∣ly before in the defence of the Young-man; now follows what I have hitherto kept in fur∣ther reserve against thee. When thy Husband was slain in thy Chamber, thou well knewest, there could be no Plea left for thee, if thou hadst not acted something, which it is likely Blindness might have done, and therefore thou didst put the Blood on that part of the Wall,

where thou wouldst have the enquiry to be made, that so the next day the whole Chase might be guided by the trail of the Blood which was laid before. Thou layest all on the Young-man, his Calamity hath been thy Counsellor. Thou knewest, that he could not otherwise en∣ter without a Guide, but by conducting himself all along by the VVall, and therefore thou mad'st as if thou wert Blind, and to compleat thy Villany, thou hast plai'd pretty tricks with thy Husbands Blood: All these things were con∣trived and counterfeited by thee at pleasure and in all security, that so thy craft might lay the Guilt on another. For now, forsooth, thou art innocent, because thy Son's Sword was found in the Wound, and because the Wall was bloodied. Didst thou think, that either of those Indications were sufficient to discover the Murtherer? But with how easy a touch of a Ballance, are the Issues of a Cause turned? For he is often found to have committed a Murther, who accused a∣nother for the same; But, says she, he had Cause and Provocation enough to commit the Parri∣cide, because his incensed Father had packed him away into some remote part of the House. Know, Woman, that might perhaps seem an ignominy to a more happy Son-in-law, but it is a priviledge to blindness, to have retire∣ment allotted to it. Oh! The worthy and singu∣lar affection of the good Old-man! How kindly did he shut up his poor Son? How carefully did he keep him from the Eyes of his Wife, that might have rejoyced over him? How did he provide for the bashfulness of the poor man▪

••••f I had been a more happy Father, says the Old-man, I would have given up the whole House to thee, but now seeing thou art ••••ark B••ind, (Poor heart) possess that part, where none can see thee, and whither none, ••ut my self, can come: Thou shalt have faith∣ful Servants about thee, none shall hear thy groans, nor glad themselves with thy doleful miseries. And thou hast no reason to be trou∣bled for the loss of the families conversation. The recess granted to thee, Poor Youth, is there∣fore granted, that thou mightest be less sen∣sible of the loss of thine Eyes. Did ever any Father hate a Dark Child, and rest contented only with this revenge, to assign him a quiet, a remote, and even the best part of his House: Ay but, says she, I understand it as if he had disinherited, as if he had disowned, him; what doth the peivish Old-man keep his Youth in his closest embraces, doth he remove him far∣thest from the passage out? I demand, when he separated you two the length of the House; Thee, lusty and in good health; him, poor, blind, subject to reproaches, obnoxious to inju∣ries, was he angry with the Son, or with the Wife? Son, says he, I would not have thee make use of the pleasantest part of the House, least the gaudry thereof should affect thee, be∣cause thou canst not see it. Who is so foo∣lishly angry with a Blind Son, as to think it material to him, in what part of the House he is bid to dwell? Nay, Dame, of the Two, he rather removes thee, he raises up an ob∣ject of Envy to thine Eyes, He says to thee,

thou hast room over and above, thou hast the greatest part of the House, think him to be absent, leave at least a corner to a poor Son in his own Fathers House: That Father, who, in the reign of a Step-mother, assigns a se∣cret part of the House to his Son, doth plainly tell his Wife, that he cannot cast him off.

The Mother comes now to another kind of Plea, That she had no cause for the Murther, seeing the Son was found Heir Apparent of all his Fathers Estate: For who else should, that so he might take the shortest Cut to his In∣heritance. Ay, but a Son, once made Heir expresly, does not fear, That his Father will al∣ter his Will. You confess he was lest Heir of all his Fathers Estate; Well then, you see, that his Father was not angry with-him, when he allotted him a remote part of the House. Surely, contrary Pleas can never advantage thee, thou wouldst object the same thing to this Defendant, if he had been Disinherited; chuse which side thou wilt, if he knew he was Heir, he ought to love his Father the more; if he did not know it, he had nothing to hope for, by his Fathers death.

It remains now, that we consider, which of you two would most want the Murthered Old-man: I wis, the greif goes nearer to thy heart,* 1.5 Good-woman, Thy sadness hath almost made an end of thee, but stay awhile, the black cloud will soon blow over, thou wilt quickly change thy Mourning Vail, fitted for thy purpose, for a new* 1.6 Bridal Tire. But the

Poor Youth, if he compare his present miseries with those which were past, begins now, ra∣ther than before, to be really Blind. For what hath not the poor Youth lost in his Aged Father? Whilst he lived, he was his Dearly beloved; his Fathers Eyes were ready at his service to guide him, whithersoever he pleased. The Saucy Servants durst not mock him for his unhappy blindness, nor durst they in ridicule (which is the highest contumacy) de∣sire him to play the Master amongst them. But now, Good God, how many Taunts must he undergoe? Blindness and desolateness fall to his share both at once. For, Poor Youth, what good can an Inheritance doe thee, which thou enjoy'st only by Hear-say? What's Mony to thee? What Pleasure canst thou have to en∣joy it? All thy pleasure is, that thereby thou wilt be an easier Prey to the Pillager. But how carefully did thy Fathers Eyes keep up all for thee? Oh! how easily may'st thou now be deceived? How quickly stript? How soon choust? How suddainly be made not worth a Groat? 'Tis thy Fathers Death, that Disinherits thee. What canst thou now expect, but perpetual Mourning and Abhorring even of Life it self?

This Poor Youth hath lost at last even his very Tears, neither can his Eyes bear a part in Mourn∣ing for his Father. Now thou wantest the Sword to be used on thy self; Lo, he seeks for it, he gropes after it, give it me again, says he, it was innocent as long as it touched no hands, but mine. If I must needs dye, I

make it my choice to fall upon it. That burden'd and unhappy Soul did long-since ut∣ter such complaints as these; Where is now the strength, that you talk of? Where's my sprightlyness and effort? Where is my Arm, formerly (as you say) to springy? At one Blow, I beleive, I can hardly now kill my self.

Coecus pro Limine: OR, The Blind Son standing at his Chamber-door.

DECLAMATION II.

The Argument.

A Toung Gentleman snatcht his Aged Fa∣ther up in his Arms, and carryed him out of his House, when it was all on Fire. Aud running back to save his Mother, he could not find her, but had his own Eyes burnt out. The Father Marries again. His Wise comes to him one day, and tells him, that his Blind Son had a design to Poyson him, and that

the Poyson was hid in his Bosome, with∣all informing him, that he had promised her one moyety of the Estate, if she would undertake to administer it. The Father hy's him presently to his Blind Son, and demands, whether this were true? Ʋpon his denyal, he searches, and finds the Poyson about him; where∣upon he asked him, for whom he had provided it? The Youth made no an∣siver. Out goes the Father, alters his Will, and makes the Step-mother his Heir. The same night there was a great Hubbub in the House, all the Ser∣vants rush into their Masters Chamber, where they find him slain, and his Wife (the Step-mother) snoring by his Corps, as if she had been fast a Sleep; and the Blind Son was standing at the door of his own Chamber, his Sword, all to be Gored with Blood, being laid under his Pillow. The Blind-Son and the Step-mother accuse one another of the Murther.

For the Blind Son against his Mother in Law.

I Am sensible, (My Lords) that this bashful Youth is much agreived, not that he is guilty of the Parricide in the least, but that he is put to clear his Innocency against his Step-mother. I know also, that much of the Reverence due to our Blind Defendants Virtues will be lost, when he urges no other Plea for his Superlative Duty, than what would ••pring off another man, as well as himself. And therefore in the first place, be it known unto all affectionate pesons, that our Client scorns to make use of the Argument of his Blindness; ••e, of all men living, will not allow himself the priviledge, to be thought more unlikely to have committed this Murther, because he was Blind, ••han he was, when he had his Sight. This Youth, one of the most innocent that ever Virtue made an object of Pity, proclaimed to all the World, he could not design the Murther before ••is Father was slain; and that you may not think ••im unconcern'd in this days Solicitude, he act∣••d so, that the highest wickedness in humane Life might not be beleived, no not in another. ••ardon the Young-man, I beseech you, My Lords, if he scorn to be acquitted, only in com∣••iseration or guerdon of his woful condition;

Son, that saved his Father out of the ••ire with the loss of his own Eyes, tis an in∣••olerable absurdity to think, that he should be ••nnocent of Parricide only upon this account, be∣cause

he was not able to Murther him.

As for the Woman, My Lords, who hath no Plea to defend her self but this. That the Blind Son Murthered his Father; I had rather see her put to so impudent a shift of accusing another, than if she had only denyed the Fact. Let him look to it, who thinks it to be her Confidence in the goodness of her Cause, that she charges the Blind man with the Fact; No, no, the Impuden∣cy of the Woman is clearly discovered hereby, who can by no means be Defended; but by the suggestion of things wholly Incredible; he that accuseth a Blind-man, when he himself is suspect∣ed, must needs be the only Person, Guilty. She stood in need of other manner of proofs against so great unlikelyhood, a Dark-man ought not presently to be suspected in a Parricide upon eve∣ry blind Suggestion, no, he must be taken in the very Fact. And therefore, Good my Lords, look upon these things to make highly for the Young∣man, which are so solicitously pack'd together, as a nimiety of Proof against him. There is nothing can contribute more to the Blind-mans Innocency, than that so many things are to be framed and forged against him. There is suf∣ficient Evidence of the Piety and Harmlesness of the Party, who was to be attaqu'd with the Pro∣bability of a Parricide. Weapons, Gore Blood, Poysons, are all amassed against his woful con∣dition, and whatever else might not argue any neglect, but where there is ignorance. For there is no man, I say, no man, My Lords, that ought to have a more heedful regard in acting a Wickedness, than he that can Murther his Fa∣ther,

wanting, Eyes. This Young-man, of whom the monstrousest Crime in Nature is pretend, bore always such an affection to his Father, that none of us can hardly expect the like even in our Own Flesh and Blood. When the House was all of a flaming Fire, and no hopes of safe∣guard for the Poor Old Folks, this Young Gentle∣man ran full into the midst of the Flames, with as much hast as we use to run out from them. In what a great hazard was he then, with such extraordinary Piety to his Parent? Whilst he was long doubting, through astonishment, casting his Eye on them both, and running from one to 'tother, his equally-poiz'd Piety had almost cost him his Poor Father and Mother too. But at last, when the Fire drew near and enclosed the Old Couple, (let the dutiful Youth hear this, tho' a∣gainst his will) he chose the Father, and tho' he equally loved them both, as they were a burning, yet his hovering affection pitched on Him first. He had scarce set the Old-man down, (it being in∣deed a miracle, that even He was preserved) but away he goes back, and breaks thro' the Flames again; and being engaged in the thick Globes of Fire, closing and streaming round a∣bout him, without question he had been Burnt, but that he lost his Eyes a little before. 'Tis ob∣servable, My Lords, that his great undertaking had not that success to rescue his Mother. Yet he had done less in Both, except his Eyes had been burnt out. Let them look to it, who most admire the Son upon the account of that Parent, for whose safety his Face was disfigured, and his Eyes lost; For my part, I am of opinion, that

he obliged his Father (principally) by his Blind∣ness, who spent his Eyes in quest of his Mother, that he had, just then, left behind.

I know, My Lords, you don't expect any Apo∣logy for the Old-man's Marrying again, it was done at such a time, when 'twas evident he could not manage his Estate for his Son's use. Nay, I might lay a wager on't, that it was don by the Young-mans own advice. That his Father, whom the Fire had bereaved both of his Mother and Himself, might ease the remainder of his years by a second Marriadge, and that the House, which held only an Old Father and a Blind Son, might have the Servants watch't over and kept to their duty, by a New Bride. 'Tis ordinary, My Lords, for Stepmothers to deceive honest Sons-in-Law with a great deal of ease, and yet hate them nevertheless. To how many Treacheries, to how many Artifices is a Blind innocent per∣son exposed? A Woman, to whom the weakness of her Son in Law, and the Old Age of her Hus∣band, gave hopes to invade the Inheritance, un∣derstood well enough, that was the only thing wanting to the occasion of the Villany, That the Blind Son should first be blemished with the Accusation of Parricide: When this then was perceived by her, that the Young-man thought himself in the condition rather of an own Son, than of a Son in Law, she told the Father of the Poyson that she had stole into the Poor Youth's Bosom, as if he himself had provided it to Mur∣ther him. And because the Cheat might easily have been discovered if she had named any Com∣plice, she laid the whole train of the Accusation

so, as to have it beleived, That one Moiety of the Estate was promised to Her, if she herself would have administred it. You see, My Lords, by what previous steps she made her approaches ••o the last Will and Testament of her Husband, a Woman that, he beleived, would not take such a part of his Estate to Poyson him, must of ne∣cessity be so rewarded, as to be made his Heir. O how much otherwise should that Parricide be proved, whose Author is now clearly discovered. A Woman that said she was made privy to the wickedness, did not first desire the Father to de∣mand, who got the Poyson for the Poor Youth? ••r, who gave it him? Nay rather, where she knew the greatest Intrigue of the Question to lye, ••he contrived, that the innocent Youth should be ••nterrogated on a sudden, and was ready to ••harge his Trepidation, as if he had been taken in ••he Fact, whether the Party had held his Peace, ••r had denied it? The Old-man, being brought ••o his Son, told him what he heard; was it ever ••nown, My Lords, that a man of such plain∣••earted innocency would deny the Fact? The ••outh durst not lye before Her, who discovered ••he Poyson, and knew where it was. But when ••he Poor Youth perceived, that his Step-mother ••ush'd on the thing, and was urgent that his ••osom should be search'd, then he was all in a Quandary, and wofully astonished and perplexed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his thoughts, for now he understood, that was her devise to lay the Poyson there, where it ••ight be found. Whereupon the Young-man in ••reat hast felt all over his Body, and thrust his and deep into his Bosom, searching and grop∣ing

every part that might be suspected, till he found the Poyson first himself. My Lords, I com∣mend the Innocency of our mute Defendant, I commend his confidence, that, being Interroga∣ted, For whom he had prepared it, thought it needless to ward himself against the heynous Accusation of Impoysoning. He acted the part of such an one, as knew his Father could not be∣leive it, and (such is the great resolution of' Inno∣cency) he would not rebate the Old-mans Belei by any kind of Excuse whatsoever. Alas! This was far from a guilty Trepidation, neither was it any thing of a silent Confession: He that deals in Poyson, is as well provided of a ready answer too, in case he be discovered.

Upon this, the Old-man acted so, as if he had not been at all concerned in what he had found▪ He did not put the Servants of his Blind Son to the Torture, and in a Villany, wherein there must needs be more Accomplices than the Parri∣cide himself, he did not enter upon a Formal Ex∣amination, but, which is more than to Acquit, he did not call the Young-man to his Defence Now whether it were, that afterward, whe•• he understood the Craft of the wicked Woman, he was willing to protect his Son by Disinheriting him, and other while intending to dispose of his Estate with more deliberation, in the Interim made use of the occasion, that the Step-So•••• should not seem to stand in the way, as a Bart to her desire; or whether it were not far more easy for her to obtain the disinherison of the Dark Youth from a man, that she had cajoled to so many things before, I leave it, My Lords, to your

Wisdoms. I shall content my self in saying This, That he immediately altered his Will, and ••hat you may not wonder at the haste, present∣••y thereupon he was Murthered. Judge you, My Lords, whether it concerned the Young-man, ••hat his Father should live, who now died with ••nother Heir? Without dispute it was not for ••is advantage, that he should be slain.

My Lords, The whole House was sensible of the ••omicide, which that very night was perpetrated 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their Masters Chamber, yea in his very Bed; e∣••ery one thought, that he was upon the very ••ace of the Murther, only the Step-dame, for∣••oth, could not Wake, tho' in that place whence ••l the noise came. The whole Family ran, as ••••e man, in a trembling posture and a very pi∣••ful taking, whither the noise led them, and ••ere they found the Old-man Kill'd and the Step-••other lying so close to his Body, that they could ••••t presently ask, who slew him? At last, the ••••ws was brought to the Son, who was not ••nd (which is a sufficient Plea for his Innocency) 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his retreat from committing the Murther, but ••nding at the threshold of his own Chamber, the same condition with those, who had Eyes, ••d were running up and down.

Next, that the Young-mans Sword was inquired ••er, 'twas done by no other, but Her com∣••and, who had caused the Poyson to be sought 〈◊〉〈◊〉 before. That the bloody Sword was found in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Bed, I shall not be against it, My Lords, but you ••••y think it no less an Argument against the ••••••nd-man, than that Poyson could be found about ••••n, in a suspicion of Parricide. A Sword bloodied

all over ought to be the last not the only Proof.

Pardon us, all you that are aware of unlucky haps, pardon us, I say, you that know how ob∣noxious mans Life is to infinite dangers, That we begin the Defence of our Client with tears and groans. Alas, the Poor Youth hath lost his aged Father, and such a Father 'twas, that his kisses and embraces did as it were foment the wounds of his Eyes, and for whose sake alone he was willing to live. 'Twas a miserable ig∣norance, and an woful weakness, that thy Mo∣ther did not rather deceive Thee, and make thee drink the Poyson, thy self.

'Tis worth while, My Lords, to compare cir∣cumstances, for thereby this Parricide will ap∣pear even past beleif. Do you think that Nup∣tial endearments, and affections that have their rise from Emblandishments and Chucks, can a∣vail as much with us, as the Natural reverence of our own Flesh and Blood? For my part, I am of opinion, that no Tyes are knit with a looser knot than sensual obligations, these later are the shortest-liv'd of all. And tho' I'le allow, that a certain reverence and grave respect ac∣crows by little and little to a Conjugal state, yet marryed couples may be severed with as much ease as they came together. A Wise is one, whom Interest both joyns and parts too. The respect of a Female seems only to lye here, that she was sought after for Procreation's sake. We hear the squabbles of some Married Couples every moment, they part habitations every day, and run out of one Bed and Embrace to another; yea, tho' a Woman have Children by her Husband, yet she

can fancy another; and we may perceive how easy Women are to all that's unworthy, in that sometimes they love not their Husbands, even when they are alive; but what if you add the name of a Mother-in-law to the selfishness of the Sex? The Woman, that is brought in as a Step-mother over a former Wif's Children, can never look for the absolute respect due to a Wife. O, how doth the love and reverence due to my Father, that begat me, surpass all lesser endearments? The Affection between Father and Son seems not in∣ferior to that, which unites the whole Frame of Nature, and knits the Universe together. Can Flesh and Blood Stab that sacred and venerable Person, which he ventured to snatch out of the Flames? And for whose sake he thought his own Eyes well spent? I cannot see, My Lords, how we can salve Filial Reverence, it cannot be difficult at all for a Wife to Mur∣ther her Husband, if it be not far more difficult for a Son to cut off his own Father. Don't think, My Lords, that the Debate lies between a Silly Wo∣man and a Lusty man, nor can the Mother ad∣vantage her self on the account of her Sex, let me tell you, that the Infirmity of Blindness is a stronger Plea than any she can have, for if a Woman thinks, she hath cause enough to kill a Man, she can find strength to do it as well as the stoutest He alive. Moreover, 'tis a plain case, that the Passions of Tears, Hatred, and Wrath, do with more facility seize and over∣power the Female Sex, and because they have not strength enough to conquer the Vices of their minds, sometimes even their very weakness

prompts them to mischief. Ple grant, that Wo∣men are not sufficient for such wickedness, as requires much toyle and laboriousness in the Acting; But what can be more in a Womans power, than to Murther a man, lying by her side? To assault an Old man, who gave himself up to her Embraces? And who did order and watch every nod, he took. Another Murtherer may be discovered before he gives the Blow, but a, Wife cannot be taken, but in the very Fact, nor before she hath done the Do. 'Tis no ways incredible, My Lords, that a Woman should Murther a Man, when a Poor Blind-man is ac∣cused upon the account. It may be so, My Lords, if we beleive Blind men to be innocent only out of Necessity, but there's more than that in the Case, the first incapacity of Blindness is, to refuse a mischeivous deed, when presented to it: We are much mistaken, if we think, that the loss of Eyes reaches our Bodies only, not our Minds; the whole man is disabled thereby, for if we diligently consider all humane Acts, we shall find, men are at the disposal of their Eyes. A Blind man is not so prone to chafe, to hate, or to cover, for seeing our Bodies draw activity from our Eyes, our Vicious Passions cease too, when their Causes faile. To what purpose, I beseech you, should those Hands be imployed upon any attempt, which are so long in ventu∣ring upon what is next? Those hands, which cannot do their own business? Can that weak Body undertake any exploit, which is ready to fall every step it takes? And who thinks eve∣ry thing before him a Precipice, till he gropes

out the contrary? Can he be guilty of a Villa∣ny, in which he can act nothing himself, but must trust wholly to another?

But what will you say, if his Blindness came by Fire: In such a case, a Man loses more than his Eyes out of his Head; his whole Visage is defaced, while he is scorching, every step he takes failes him, neither can he hold up his hands to guard his Eyes, but he is fain to yeild them up to the Flames too, after his other Mem∣bers are disabled. Even this is enough to ar∣gue a Blind mans Innocence, that tho' he may have strength and audacity, yet he hath not the Confidence to think, that ever he shall lye un∣discovered. 'Tis not proper, My Lords, to Apolo∣gize for this Young man, by the same Pleas as would defend another Blindling: How incredi∣ble is it, that he should ever Murther his Fa∣ther, that could not endure so much as the very thoughts of losing Him? Pray what need was there of a Sword: What need was there of Poyson to make him a Parricide? Might he not with more ease have saved his Mo∣ther? Might he not have catcht her up, being the weaker of the Two, and less able to help herself? By such a trick, thou mightest have committed Parricide, and yet have been ac∣counted one of the best Sons in the World. Be∣sides, you cannot but think, that his Fathers yernings were increased towards him after this disaster; The surplusage of his affection might now make up the loss of his Eyes, that were spent in his service; and that Piety must need be boundless, when we love that, which we our

selves were the occasion of: What say you, My Lords? Can a Blind Young-man, that the whole Town flocks about and admires, whom all Children love, and all Parents revere, can such an one, I say, take encouragement from his Father's indulgence to do him a mischeif? What, will he make himself a pattern of Piety and of Villany too? 'Tis easier to Murther a Father that sa∣ved Thee, than a Father, that thou thy self hast saved.

My Lords, we should inquire into the Impul∣sive Causes of no Parricide more strictly than of This. 'Twas Covetousness, (says she) that put the Young-man upon the Fact. If that be credible, much more if true, it may be considered, whe∣ther a Woman, made Heir, be not more likely to kill her Husband, than a disinherited Blind Son, his Father? Such hast, My Lords, may they make, whom nefarious Avarice doth excite, and love of Vice and Luxury doth precipitate dayly and push on. But to what purpose is an Inheritance given to a Blind-man, tho' never so deserving? 'Tis our Eyes, our Eyes, I say, that make us im∣patient to bear a mean condition; 'tis to them, that we ow all our superfluity: 'Tis they, that continually hurry us into all Vice, 'tis they, that open the door to admiration, to love, to concupi∣scence; A man may sooner fulfil and satisfy the desire of his Mind than of his Eye. To what purpose are Riches to a Blind-man, who can make no gay distinction of any thing? Thô you surround such a poor Creature with all manner of pelf and gawdry, yet he then wants most when he has most plenty; neither can you find a defect more sweetly allied to Poverty than Blind∣ness

is? A man that lost his Eyes for his Parents sake, will take more comfort in his Estate under his Father, than without him.

But what way of Parricide, I beseech you, ••id the Youth pitch upon? 'Tis said, he provided Poyson, If that would do the deed, what need,* 1.7 I pray, of' a Sword? Doth Impoysoning require an ••ccomplice, an attendant, but a Sword neither? Or did it not come into his mind till afterward, what his Hands could do? And having found the Poyson too weak, did he take heart and resolve ••o try by dint of Sword? Beleive it, My Lords, ••here is no man living but knows, which way to ••ill another, if he have a mind to it.

My Lords, our Step-dame knew well enough, ••ow incredible it was, that a Dark-youth should ••emper Poyson; and therefore she makes up the matter by telling you, that she was tempted to ••dminister it. I beseech you, My Lords, let her ••elate what tempting words he used. Here's a Mother in Law and a Step-son caballing together a∣bout a Parricide. What? Might not one think himself to be tempted as well as 'tother. My Lords, pray speak, what your thoughts are? Was there ••o other person in the House that the Parricide could corrupt, but Her? To be sure, 'twas more hard to trust her than any body else. Might he not imagin that his Father, and all his Freinds, did whisper in his ear, and give him this kind in∣timation first of all; have a care of a Step-mother ••hat hath power to deny Thee. 'Tis not probable he would disclose the Parricide to one, that he knew would betray him, unless he had obtained her Consent.

I beseech you, My Lords, compare diligently these Cross-Pleas together. Here's a Woman says, she was tampered with to have a hand in the Murther. Do you think, that a Son in Law would ever have done so, if he could have got any o∣ther Accessory? Oh! But, says she, he had bought and tempered the Poyson already; 'Tis impossi∣ble the Blind-man could do it of himself, tell us then, whom he intrusted to chaffer only for the Implements of his Parricide? And why did not the same person give it to the Old-man? Or if the Husband cannot be deceived but by the hands of his Wife, why then did he design the Murther, before he knew his Mother would con∣sent? And whereas she alledges, That half of the Estate was promised to Her; that's no Argument as yet, till it be proved. A Woman solicited to a Villany, how doth she cast about, lest her Accom∣place should leave her in the Lurch? Besides, she should have provided her self of Positive Proof, whether she hearkened to the Proposal, or reject∣ed it. I shall add, 'tis a very plain Case, that the Blind Youth did not hate his Mother in Law, seeing he intrusted her with his Design against his Father, neither did he gape after the whole Estate, for she her self says, he promised her one moiety thereof. My Lords, no man living will ever commit a Parricide, that another is to have the benefit of. Woman, I shall put thee to it, who wert (by thy own allegation) an Accessory and a Complice, to bring clearer Proofs of the Young-mans Guilt. What need was there now, that the Youth should have any Poyson in the case? Come, come, produce the Witnesses to the dis∣course

betwixt you, and to the words pretend∣••d to be spoken before some Servants, or some Freinds, or even in his Fathers own hearing. 'Tis he easiest thing in the world, to deceive the Pri∣••acy of a Blind-man. Go to, Woman, make your ••dvantages of the Youth, who trusted himself in∣••rely to your Eyes, who spake not a word but ••hat you did indite? And whose hands were but ••our properties, to move as you pleased. Sup∣••ose, I grant, that he himself tempered the Poy∣••••n, and that he himself was to administer it; sup∣••ose likewise, I grant, that he solicited thee a∣••••in for thy consent, and that by larger proffers ••••an ever. Alas! The Parricide might have ••een discovered, whilst there was such ado about 〈◊〉〈◊〉 betwixt you Two. But, says she, He was ••ound with the Poyson about him. A slight evi∣••ence, Madam, and grounded upon as weak a ••undation; This is no accusation against the Blind ••outh, but a Proof only that he is Blind. A man ••••at lies open to every opportunity, and is ex∣••osed to all kind of Mockery, whom his very Fee∣••ng, and all things about him, cause to mistake, ••hat great matter is it, what you find about him? Or in what dress you leave him, that you have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mind to betray? He from whom the Mother par∣••ed but just now, whose Apparel she had right∣••d, whose Bosom she had ordered, whose Limbs ••he had put in equipage, he, I say, might have Poyson about him, and yet he himself know no ••••ch matter; he might have it, and yet think it any thing else Alas! If you had been so mind∣ed, he would have shewed it openly; if you ••ad but spoke the word, he would have hand∣led

it before Servants or Freinds; and if you had not said, 'Twas Poyson, he would have drunk it all up. My Lords, There is no Argument more Forceable to clear our Blind-Youth, than that, to all seeming, he was as it were surprised in the Fact: If he had a mind to have been a Parricide, and searched thereupon, he would have pretended to so much Innocency, at least, as not to have had the Poyson about him.

No wonder, My Lords, that the Young-man, be∣ing demanded, For whom he had procured the Poyson? returned not a word in Answer. It pro∣ceeded not from his Fathers wrath, nor from his own greif, 'twas the thing called Poyson, that the Youth was astonished at; when such crimes are objected to us, that we think impossible to be don, our very speech is taken from us; and sudden admiration strikes wretched persons, Dumb. No man can hold his Peace, when plain∣ly caught in a Villany, he is every jot as ready with his defence, as he was to commit the Fact. 'Tis easier for those who are surprised with false accusations, to hold their peace, than for those that are really Guilty. Pray, what would you have a Young-man doe, when his Father, whose life he had saved, propounds a Question to him concerning a Parricide? For my part, I wonder he did not reply, 'tis true, I would have Poysoned Thee, I am a Parricide; I should have thought, he had but upbraided an unworthy suspicion in him, if he had thus answered: 'Tis well, the Young-man had not learnt the Art of denyal, 'tis well, he did not use so many Put-offs as the Guilty do. The Poyson which the poor Blinding had about

him, would have been His indeed, if he had gon ••ut to excuse it.

But, says she, he was disinherited by his Father; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Lords, I should think this was a close and ••p design of the Old-man, and not at all le∣••••ed against the Son, as if he would have the ••thers accusation beleived. No, no, 'tis a ••wn and common custom, My Lords, that ••ves are loved to the prejudice of Children, ••••d the affection of a second match ariseth from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 abatement of Natural love to the Off-spring 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the First. An Old-man that Marries again, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pitiful kind of Creature, for the more ar∣••tly he loves his New Bride, the less kind he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to his Children; besides, that Husband must ••eds love his Wife more passionately, who bad ••••ieu to his Son before: 'Tis very easy to be∣••••ve a Blind Son guilty of Parricide, after you ••••ve so far mistaken, as to put it to the Que∣••••••n.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 would willingly know, My Lords, what the ••••••••d-man did, after he knew his Son was a Par••••••ide. He did not prepare the* 1.8 Culeus for him; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 did not make him take the Poysonous draught, ••••mself; he did not so much as turn him out of ••••ors: No, he only went and altered his Will, ••••d so, if he would be a Parricide, he would ••ake him but a Pocr one. I ask again, why ••ch Post-haste? Who spurr'd him on? What! ••ould he not have staid, till next day? No, no, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would never have done it, had it not been to ••atify his Wife. Methinks he did it so calmly, ••••d so composedly, as if he had a mind to pat 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Trick upon Her. What say you in the Case, all

poor affectionate Parents? Here's a Father about to disinherit his Son? He calls none of his kin∣dred, he sends for never a freind, he dispatcht the Writing without a Tear, and without any Out-cry at all: Alas, Old-man, the altering ones will must be done by good advice, especially if a Son be Disinherited, that deserves rather to be pitied, you must not think, My Lords, that the Schedule of the Youths Crime was not annexed to the Disinherison, because it was apparent without it. No, no man ever forbore to object Parri∣cide to his Son, therefore, because he was sure of it.

I beseech you, My Lords, let's consider, how each of these Two, that are indicted for the Mur∣ther, did behave themselves the next night af∣ter the Will was altered? As for the Youth, In∣nocent or Guilty, he stands still mute, and 'tis hard to say, which troubled him most, if he had the Poyson for himself or for another. And for the Step-dame, she had a nice and ticklish game to play, 'Tis very hard to defer a joy, which you know you do not deserve, she is quickly perswaded, that she is preferr'd before the Son. Now she expects, that her Son should plead his Cause the day after, and that all his kindred, nay the whole Town too, might find fault with the credulous Old dotard; and indeed, the Mother was sensible, that she was the Heiress only of one night? For no body living can beleive, but that mans Will is suborn'd, that was Murthered the same night, he Disinherited his Son.

My Lords, lets now compare circumstances of both sides, a Blind-man cannot know, where the

Old-man lay, or whether he he were a sleep or no; and was it not very unlikely he should think, that his Father could be a sleep, who so lately had suspected, that his Son would have made him away? But you, Woman, can observe presently when he falls a sleep for heaviness: Who tells a Poor Blind creature of any. secret of day or night? You can also know, whether your careful Servants watch your Chamber-door, when you are both a bed together. You can create yourself an occasion, being Wife and Mi∣stress too. A Blind-man perhaps might have wandred to the wrong threshold; but you had nothing else to mind, but give the Blow. A Blind∣man must needs have disturb'd his Fathers rest, in the very Act of chusing, which part of the body he was to smite, but you, could feel his Gullet and his Breast all over, even in your very embraces. After the Murther, we must fall to groping again, we are at as great a loss, as we were before; as for you, you had nothing else to do, but to lay yourself down, and away presently to sleep again. Inward Plottings are not enough for one that would actually commit a Villany, there are so many other requisites, that a man, with all his Eyes about him, can hardly fetch them in. I beseech you, My Lords, of which of the Two is it most likely the Old-man was dispatcht? Of the Step-mother, who took care to cast the suspition on another? Or of the Young-man, by whose presumptive Guilt, he was to Dye, even tho' another kill'd him.

Consider, I beseech you, My Lords, the Gate and Treading of the Parricide. Such shufling steps

as his, what sleep so sound, but they would have disturb'd? Blind Buzzards take many a step, be∣cause they cannot ballance their Bodies by poy∣zed and fore-essayed paces, so that being long a faultring they must needs make a deeper impres∣sion on the ground they tread upon. Besides night-repose and quiet cannot but be much broken hereby, for a Blind-mans hands are never at rest, but are held before him to grope things out, so that they give notice when they are a coming. Soft steps to nocturnal Embraces cannot be made by a Blind-man, he would discover himself strait by his rude and stamping noise: Blindness can∣not avoid what lies in his way, unless by stumb∣ling upon it first; If we would enter a Room, and walk up and down in it in the night, we should view it first by day-light. In the next place, how many things were there to do, after he had arrived at his Father? First, he must grope out the difference between them both, as they lay abed together: Then, he must feel their Faces, touch their Mouths, take off the Bed-cloths, that so he might find a sit place to give the Wound▪ Would not all this adoe wake one of the Two 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I'le add, that the right hand of a Wanderer makes an heavier touch: Afterward the Point of the Sword is softly to be directed to the Breast 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and lest a Blow, given at random, might miscar∣ry, the hand had need make way for the Sword How, I beseech you, should a Blind-man have so much strength, as to complete the Murthe at one Blow? That Wound must needs be uncer∣tain, whose impetus is not guided by the Eye in such a case, one cannot keep the place h••

aims at, no not while he is drawing over to give the greater Blow. Now, did the Young-man pre∣sently fly for it, after he had given one Stab? How could he know, whether he had fully per∣formed the Exploit? Should he not rather have stayed, that he might have felt by the Carkass, whether he had made sure work, or no? And, as I said before, when all was done, he must re∣turn with the same hazard; all things were to be essayed with as much danger as at first. Now I appeal to your Consciences, My Lords, whether the very Inditement it self, as it is laid, doth not make for us: If a Blind Son could neither go nor come without such a noise, neither could he so act the Murther, that his Step-mother should not know it. This Question, Woman, I put to you a∣gain and again, what sleep can be so dead, that the slaughter of one so neer would not disturb? Men are quickly awake with a small thing in the night; never so little a stirring, an uncertain found, afar off, yea sometimes silence itself, break our sleep. Perhaps you may not perceive the last Farewel of those, who dye for pure Old-age and weakness, but the end of a man, that is slain with a Weapon, makes a bustling noise, and is like the end of one, where there is a violent resistance: Besides, 'tis evident, that no death can be more disturbing than that, which is act∣ed in a trice. Grant, he was slain when he was asleep, yet we must at no hand think, that he pass'd over immediatly from that rest to abso∣lue Death. There must needs be some medi∣um between Slumber and Death: Two such op∣posites cannot easily meet, seeing Sleep it self is

an Action of Life. 'Tis no great matter here, whether the account of Life or of Death do break our sleep. Death it self doth awaken him, who is killed sleeping; perhaps he speaks no Fare∣wel words, yet instead thereof he hath his pal∣pitations, he hath his tossings and tumblings, such as shake the whole bed, he lies upon. Now you, good Woman, pray, when did you lye more sweetly incircled with the embraces of your Old Husband? How could you sleep so sound, who just now madst such a rout in the House? Whose Son-in-Law was (in thy account) no less than a Parricide: And thy Husband, a lost man. Behold, how after the deadly Blow, his hearts-blood gush'd out into thine Armes, and his Soul, flitting out of the Wound, carries ma∣ny a Groan and Sigh before it: Behold again, how that large streame of Blood doth congeal about your limbs, so that they are stiff and una∣ble to perform their offices; yet you do neither stir nor flinch, you fear nothing, but, in so strange a condition, sleep on still. There is no other Plea left for a Woman to pretend to, that must be found lying by him, whom she had Murthered. 'Tis not a whit incredible, My Lords, that one should act a Counterfeit sleep, tush, nothing is more ea∣sily imitated by a Womans craft. I will tell you, some have Counterfeited the paleness of dead Car∣kasses, yea, have held out with the Patience of death himself against blows and dint of Wea∣pons. 'Tis much easier to Ape a matter, the counterfeiting whereof requires only to close the Eyes, to stretch out our limbs, to stint our sighs, and to make as if we did not breath. There is

no difference between one that really sleeps, and one that Counterfeits, but the Parties own knowledge. Don't wonder therefore, that at so many mens coming in, at such a noise of hand and foot, at so many out-cries, she still continued in the same posture, you would sooner have, awakned her, I'le warrant you, if she had been asleep in earnest. 'Tis the general guise of Nature, a mans holds out longer in nothing, than in that, which he imitates. To Counterfeit sleep hath also this easie part in it, that he, who is taken in a Fact, behaves himself as if he were awoke out of sleep. Tell me, Woman, what's the meaning of this, that what disturb'd the whole House, could not awake thee? The noise made in the night did rouze all the Servants out of their nests, tho' they are wont to be negligent enough, and to sleep securely without care or trouble, neither doth their fear ordinarily take first Alarum. Afterwards, how was the noise encreased by peoples running up and down all the House over. The first refuge of those that wake, is to call Help, Help, now we know help cannot be afforded in the night time without an Out-cry: When you were once up, there was less Schreiching. Look, your Chamber-doores are broke up in trembling hast, and many lights are brought to your Bed-side, and the whole Cham∣ber was full of Out-cries, as if you had both been stretched out for liveless Carkasses. Yet you lay still, as if you had been quite dead. Do you call this sleep? No, 'tis dissimulation, that holds out to the last. My Lords, I leave it to your Wisdoms to determine, whether the noise,

which they, who first entred the Old-mans Cham∣ber, own'd to be there, was made by the strug∣ling of the Dying man, or by the Womans hur∣rying to carry back the Sword, after she had perpetrated the Murther. May not this also be reckoned amongst the Artifices of the Step-mo∣ther, that, after she had methodically contrived all the other parts of this Villany, she was to make a noise on purpose to raise the Family, ha∣ving only this to do, to be found (forsooth) a∣sleep? If the Hubbub, that raised the Family, had been made by the Blind-man in his return, he would have been apprehended, before he had carryed the Sword quite home to his Cham∣ber.

Now, My Lords, to satisfy you, that every body in the House was astonished at the noise, our Poor Blind-man was also found at his Cham∣ber-door, as he used ordinarily to pass up and down. If he could easily have gon to his Fa∣thers Chamber, why did he make such a stop at his own door? Oh! he has escaped all, he is got free, he has laid up his weapon safe; sure, 'twas much easier for the Blind-man to make as if he had been a sleep, his Eyes were clos'd already? I beseech you, what greater Argument can you have of the Blind-youths consternation, than that he started up and stood expecting the issue? Such a lonely person must needs he more affriglited, whose Eyes acquaint him with nothing, and whose mind, being pent up in Darkness, can make no prospect at the Window of the Eye, he can have nothing to bear him up under his Fear. The Young-man was surprised, where the hurry

of his Fear left him. A Blind-man may need no Guide in his own Chamber, which he tra∣verses up and down night and day, and hath learn't the way perfectly, by many knocks and stumbles: But take him without door, over his own Threshold, he is as Blind as a Beetle, and can't stir a Foot, without missing his way. None in the world can be more Innocent than our Poor Blind-man, who was neither taken in the Fact, nor in the pretence to excuse it.

Heark, what the Young-man says in the case O my Dear Father, quoth he, assoon as ever the noise in the House, and your Dying Groans did seize me, I presently starred up, as 'twere to deliver you again out of the Fire. Then, and not before, wretched I found the disadvan∣tage of Blindness: I stood stock still, till I was told, you were Murthered, and whilst others in their fright ran hither and thither, I, Poor man, found no other thing to do, but to be in a per∣manent fear. O that some good Deity or other would have lent me Eyes for a moment, I would then have entred the first man into my Fathers Chamber, perhaps I might have heard some of his dying words, I might have spoke to and asked him a Question, tho' I could not see him. Ser∣vants are dilatory and timorous in doing their duty. I should have found you, Good Madam, in your waking posture, before you had com∣pos'd your self to personate sleep.

Ay, but what says she, The Blind-mans Sword was found all-Bloody. My Lords, no Blind-man is so audacious, as to bring back a Sword, when he had just then committed a Murther with it,

and a man, whose bosom was searched just be∣fore for Poyson, would never carry back his weapon to his Chamber, which he could not put our of sight, nor conceal, tho' he knew it was all Bloody. My Lords, this seems to be a peice Impudence scarce tolerable. The Woman says, she could not filch away the Blind-mans Sword, when he was asleep, who has nothing to say in her own defence, but that she was asleep. 'Tis far easier to cheat Blind-men, when asleep. They sleep more soundly, who go to it in the bitter∣ness of their tired Spirits. As for one that is Dark, one may easily conveigh away his Sword, tho' he be awake. But how finely doth this Plea frame now: The careles••est person in the World would never act at such a rate, 'tis far easier for them that have Eves, to Imitate the Blind, in laying up a Bloody Sword so safely. These are all the pretences and excuses he can have, that uses another mans Weapon in a Mur∣ther.

I find, My L••rds, that our Poor Youth is very much offended, that he is put to his defence by dint of Proof and Argument. We owe this Wor∣thy person our Patronage for his Piety in the loss of his Eyes, the rest of our Plea must be spent in admiring him. Methinks, My Lords, I see be∣fore my eve a fresh and rennew'd prospect of his incredible adventure. The Youth snatch't up his Father in his Armes, and marches with him throw the raging and encreasing Flames. Per∣haps, you think, I am going to say, he hastned to get out, and to make his Escape; no, the p••or Youth is in haste to go again; his Limbs

were shreiveled by the smartness of the Fire; yet he covered his Father with all his Embraces, and thô his own Eyes were almost burnt out, yet he covered none but his Fathers with his hand. Think not now, that I am astonished or wonder at this; That he was able to carry so great a bur∣then throw the midst of the roling Flames, and thrô the ruins, ready to fall about his ears. No, so hard a thing as it was, yet I will tell you what exceeds all human belief, it seemed to him ve∣ry easie. Bless me! What an hardy piece of Piety was here, to rush a second time into the Flames, where he had almost lost his Father be∣fore. Now there was no such thing as a Closet, there was now no House standing, yet where was it not, that he thought not his Mother a burning? The Poor Youths Limbs were now all on Fire, the Flames had inclosed him as he ran up and down, all that sort of strength, which he had remain∣ing, was to seek out his Mother, but with his Eyes only. This was not the First and cheifest damage by the Fire, to destroy his burning Eyes, his hands could nor protect his scorch'd Face, but while they were searching for his Mother, his Eyes and all were burnt out. Yet again, the unhappy poor man gropes all over the Fire, and and where the greatest cracks of the ruins were, thither the Poor Gentleman hastned, in hopes to find her. Which leading him out of the Fire, he was the only man preserved alive by means of his Blindness.

If you think fit, My Lords, let the Accused Person be set in open Court: We use to fetch much of our Proof from the grim and threatning

Looks of Prisoners.* 1.9 But see here, My Lords, This is the man, that, they say, ran up and down all night! This is that wary, and successful Parricide! All his Attendants have le••t him in his distress, and he, that is now to implore your Favour and Mercy, hath no body to guide him to your Knee, not a Servant lest, not an House to put his head in; Speak, I beseech you, all you that hear me, speak, whether a man, in his circumstances, destroyed his Father or lost him? What must we do now, thou unhappyest of youths? We must fall a begging, yet we can∣not crouch or bend, as a perfect supplicant should do; so that, we fear, your favour and compas∣sion may be withdrawn from us; yet 'tis a thou∣sand pitys that our poor defendant should suffer under the disadvantages of his woful plight. Come, take me by the hand, Young man, lean upon my wrists, Il'e lend thee Eyes. Why do'st shrink back, poor Youth? Why so unwilling? I know, thou wilt not beg thy life, yet prithee stay, stay a while, be contented to live, at least till thou art Acquitted. As ready as thou art to dye, tis sit thou add this Crowning one to the rest of thy Vertues, to take thy Absolution with thee before thou go hence.

Miles Marianus: OR,* 1.10 A Soldier under Marius.

DECLAMATION III.

The Argument.

A Soldier under Marius, in the Cimbrick War, slew his Tribune (or Colonel,) a Kinsman of Marius's, for attempting to abuse him by unnatural Lust. He is tryed for his Life before the General for Killing his Superior Officer.

For the Soldier against the Colonel.

OUR Campe was injur'd and disgrac'd enough, when it came into the mind of my mad Colonel, in the very heat of the Cimbrick War, and that before out En∣signs (with reverence to your Sacred ears, be it spoken, Mighty General,) to hid one, that had a Sword by his side, to prostitute himself, that so he might offer soul and beastly violence (to say no more) to one, that was able to repel his attempt. It carries with it a Blot, that will never be forgotten, and such a new practice, when it comes to be known, will pass into an Example, to which Vice cloth too too easily ad∣vance. And thô our virtuous defendant should escape unpunished, yet in this degenerate Age, I verily believe, that more will be apt to imitate the Commander than the Soldier Noble General, I grant, That nothing is more unbecoming an Advocate, than to bereave his Client, when tried for his life, of what mercy can be afford∣ed him; yet when I call to mind For whom, and Before whom, I speak, I hope I may boldly, and not insecurely, profess, That your Soldier here stands fearless of the threatning Issue of this days-Trial, whatever it chance to be: For either you will acquit him, or Innocent, or condemn him to death, as a man of Gallantry, 'Tis no news for a man to be accused for his Life, who remembers that he was born under a Law of Mortality. Neither was he ignorant, when he

first listed himself a Soldier in this Feirce and Cruel War, that he must still look Death in the Face: Nor is he such a Puny, but that he can bear any brunt, provided it be not upon an imoral account: I dare be bold to say, Great General, he had never made such resistance against his Colonel, if he had attempted his Life, as he ••ately did, when he would have forc'd his chasti∣••y. Nor was he unmindful of what danger he ••an into by repelling the soul embraces of this fu∣rious debaucher, with his Sword. 'Tis not praise-worthy in a Soldier, especially under so severe a General as your self, if he be chast only because ••t concerns him so to be; and if he were never so willing to live, yet he would nor repent of what he hath don. When a Soldier kills u Foul Ra∣visher, if he be his Superior Officer, you make a great adoe concerning his Punishment; this I know assuredly, that if the Soldier had been the Accu∣sed Party, you would have made no bones of his. It will not repent him, Caius Marius, althô you condemn him, (give me leave to make as valiant a defence for the Soldier, as he did acquit him∣self.) If Providence will have it so, he will go to his Execution with a resolute march, for he is as ready to dye for his Chastity, as to stave off the Ravisher by killing him; and thus he will carry along with him the Eternal Praise of a Chast Gallant. Come as many Informers as can be, yet they will never make your Soldier more a∣greived for being Accused for his Life, than for being Assaulted. Let not our mother-City Rome, ••••t not our Military Ensigns, let not our all-con∣quering Eagles, let not your own Godlike ver∣tue,

Noble General, ever suffer, that even by your Sentence, a man of Worth, nay a Roman, and a Soldier to boot, be accounted too Chast, who is to plead his Cause in the Head of the Army. The chief thing now in debate, is, Whether it be lawful hereafter to levy Foul Pathicks amongst the Bands of the Roman Legi∣ons, and drag Soldiers, who have taken a So∣lemn Oath, to unclean villany, by your Autho∣rity? Neither is the Accuser ashamed even be∣fore C. Marius, (who seems to be a pattern sent down from Heaven, to shew, to what an high pitch Valour might advance a man) and before his Assessors, Embassadors, and Commanders, who wholly disavow such prodigious Facts, to object to a Soldier, before a whole Court of War, tha•• he was a man of courage, and not so much rough•• hewen and rustick, as that he is but little ac∣quainted with Arts of Impurity. As for my self; if you will beleive me, I am almost asham'd to praise Chastity in a Soldier; it is a Vertue pro∣per to the Female Sexe. A man of courage i•• to be extolled otherwise, as that he is fit so the War, that he values not his Flesh, that h•• is of a noble Spirit and, if I may have leave 〈◊〉〈◊〉 speak, worthier of the Two to be the Com∣mander; For of such a Kinsman, Marius, yo•• had no reason to be asham'd.

This man's Father was a Soldier, discharg•• for Age, in the Wars when we worsted Jug••∣tha bolstred up with all the povver of Numidis vvhen his hands vvere dismiss'd of Arms, he u•••• them to Country-Labour: His Mother vvas a good sturdy Old-fashioned vvoman, pinched vvi••••

Cold, and tann'd vvith heat, and shared vvith ••r Husband in much of his Country-day-labour: his I dare say for her, no man living could have ••ade bold vvith her Chastity, but he vvould a∣••arted for it. Being thus descended, he vvas 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from any unchast Embraces; besides, he pass'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Childhood in continual hardship, his first ex∣••••cise was to keep Cattle from being devoured 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Wild-beasts, somthing alvvays he did above ••••s Age; his recreations vvere to hurle huge ••reat Stones, to throvv the Bar, to beat Thick∣••s for Game; and when he grevv a little strong∣••••, he vvent to Plough, and grub'd up Trees, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 make Land fit for Arable; by this means which some think the only vvay) he was ••••ickly hardned for the Wars. Mean vvhile, ••om••••he farthest parts of the Ocean, and from the ••igid Zone, and as it vvere from another World, ••••me a Nation, Fool-hardy, Savage, Wild, pufft ••p vvith Victories and like their ovvn Beatsts for ••••rength and Courage, and over-ran all Italy: ••et they vvere raised not so much by their own ••••ovvess, as by the debauchery and senselesnes 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our Commanders; for our Party followed the ••••ices of Peace, even in a Time of War; we ••ere nice and delicate, when our State was ••iserable, and by this means our Feilds were de∣••late, our Youth exhausted, and our Empire in ••••anger to be totally ruin'd: In such circum∣••••ances 'tis very evident, the People of Rome ••ad never more need of Gallant men to ward ••t their destruction. Upon this, when it was ••••pparent, That the strictness of Military disci∣••line was neglected and diluted, so that we must

stand as much upon our Guard, to keep off our own debauches as the Enemy, we betook our selves to you, O Marius, whose Greatness, Sanctity, and Severity was our only refuge. Let me speak freely, at the mentioning of your very Nam•• Parents made haste to send in their Children 〈◊〉〈◊〉 get them listed under you, and thô they knew it would be a very sharp War, yet they embra∣ced it as an Opportunity to learn the Art o•• Soldiery under your Conduct; where they migh•• dayly be shewed an Example of God-like Virtue and have you an Encourager of their toyle an•• a witness too. Thô this was an happyness com∣mon to the whole Army, to have such a re∣nowned General, as Marius, yet those seem'd t•• have attain'd an higher pitch thereof, who had th•• honour to be of that Regiment, whose Colon (an high aggravation of the man's unworthy∣ness) was your Kinsman. What care you used Noble General, to pick out choise Souldiers fo•• your turn, that so you might cope with an Ene∣my, scarce thought conquerable by human Power, with as brave a Militia, appears by thi•• that you, knowing Valour does nor go by Estate overlook'd that consideration, and respected only Strength and Courage. But to what purpose Men will find fault with your Muster-roles how ever; Those that envy you, will say, that yo•• lik'd only a Boy to go against the Cimbrians; An•• yet his military age did not deceive you, th•• surest standard of that, is an ability to do Va∣liantly. Neither was that a common Lust, such as takes fire from beauty to wanton and venere∣ous efforts, no, 'tis rather a desperate and de∣bauch'd

••uch'd desire of abuse, and a pleasure taken in ••••lany, to vitiate the spotless: This very thing, ••at he ran formost before the Ensigns, that be∣•••••• but a Tiro he was more forward than the ••••errans, that he used to return clotted with Blood ••••d Dust, This, this, I say, was the reason, why was so gallant a Stripling. Beauty and Age 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ordinary lures and incitements to Lust, but Ganymede, that's Valiant, is one of a thousand. ••y should I speak any more of those Scars and ••••unds which he weares, as so many honou∣••le Badges of his hot Service? I am ashamed, ••••ble-General, you understand them so much ••••thout me. I pass by his offering him to be ••e from Duty, when he found him not pliable ••his will; and how the Officer treated the Sol∣•••• more kindly (forsooth) and with greater ••••iliarity than the Laws of Military discipline 〈◊〉〈◊〉 admit; how that he should be excused from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hardest service lie was commanded forth up∣•••• he oft valued himself to him on the accompt 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his Place, and oft on the score of his near ••••••tance to your self confess, Cains Marius, ••••••s filthy Ravisher lived the longer, because the ••••••ocent Soldier did not understand his drift in these ••••olings. I dare sa•• no more, Great-General, ••ay conceive in your mind all the circumstan∣•••• of that time, think upon them again and ••••ain: Perhaps in other Cases, it may be allow∣••••••e to aggravate the indignity of a Fact by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but here we must not complain of our ••••ry in our. Broad-Mother-Tongue. No, we 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be shy of speaking; we must stiffle the ••••••th, in great part. I must play false, and

baulk my Client's Cause, if I have but comm•••••• modesty.

When our Camp was even joyning with a ter∣rible Enemies, and the whole War was just a•• 'twere come to an upshot and push, all men•• thoughts were solicitous about the issue of th•••• Fight just then beginning, the Shouts and Bar∣barick noyses striking and hollowing in our ea•••• from all quarters. Would any one comman•• a Roman Soldier, one that stood Centinel, to pr••∣stitute his Body to his Filthly Lust? Every ma•• may think as he please, but in my opinion, th•••• Soldier is not chast enough, who, when had Arms in his hand, did only say him, Na•• For this part of the Plea, I could with, N•••• General, you would beleive our Accusers. The own Breviats declare a matter, worthy of a m•••• who is a Roman, and Marius's Soldier; and the•••• in they have even drawn to the Life the spa••∣ling of his Eyes, the staring of his Hair, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 outragiousness of his Passion; upon the very 〈◊〉〈◊〉 overture of his obscene resolve, as if he h•••• sounded an Alarum against the Enemy, he dre•••• out the Sword he wore by his side, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 received from you for the defence of all ch•••••• Roman Ladies, and ran it throw the Heart of abominable Ravisher, yea he ran it above a so•• into his side. Ah! Marius, if all our Soldi•••• had been like him, we had been made for ev•••• For my part, I was afraid that he stood 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his Guard, only to fright away the Ravish and (as it is sometimes happens) whilest thinks he will retreat, and the other won't strik•••• such a glorious Fact had been done only 〈◊〉〈◊〉

Chance-medly. For, I hope, you would not re∣••uire this of the Soldiers hand, that when his ••fficer, blinded with mad lust, ran upon the point of ••••s Sword to make sure his Embraces, he should ••••en have put it up. For my part, I think, he ••••ad scarce had the Indignation, that became him, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in so great an assault, he could take any no∣••••ce of his Colonel. He runs to no Excuse; all ••••at he says, is, Thanks be to the Warlike God, ••nd to the Protection of our Eagles, I did his ••••uisiness for him, I slew him, I let out his noxious ••lood with my just hand; right or wrong, done 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is. Would he had been capable of being kil∣••ed often, that so renewed punishment might have ••ortured his soul Spirit. Our Military discipline 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not severe enough in punishing offences as fast ••s they come, if after this Fact the Tribune shall ••ave any advantage thereby, I shall not there∣••••re defend my Client by the denyal of the Fact; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 man that is Valiant and Innocent must do no∣••hing, which he means to deny. I deny not the ••act, yea if my Accusers had been silent, I would ••ave told the tale my self: Make your best of it. ••et, as Informers use to do, tell all. For our ••odest Soldier is less ashamed to confess his Fact, ••efore the Sacred Eares of his General, than to ••omplain of his abuse. Are we not sufficiently ••isgraced already, that no enquiry is made ra∣••her, what honour should be bestowed on so brave 〈◊〉〈◊〉 man, and, that we may wish for something ••ear our merit, shall the Soldier, that hath done ••o renowned a Feat, be rewarded only with ••mpunity? No, let him be Sentenced too, and, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you think good, let him be put to death for

daring to be chast; Assemble together, all ye brave Legions, bring your devout assistance from all parts; The Law of the Camp is thus, and the Major part of you would have one part Law∣ful, 'tother not. Upon my word, I can hold no longer but my greif must vent it self on my Ac∣cuser. Answer me, if you had been an Officer, would you have done thus? Or if you had been a Soldier, would you have endured the 'tother? Give us your opinions, Gentlemen, settle rules of Martial discipline. The Soldier is as good as kill'd by this reproach; now he is thus bespattered with such foul reflections, what shall he do more, but say, nay? Who would not account him as in∣famous a Prostitute as any, if he had acted so, as to suffer himself to be attempted the second time?

Oh! But you'l say, he should only have de∣nied his Officer, and put off his revenge to some other time. Yes forsooth, what shall he make his complaint, after the filthy Tribune hath had his will of him? He laid violent hands upon him, he drew him from his assigned Post and Station, to make him a beastly Prostitute. I ask his Ac∣cusers, pray, Gentlemen, what shall he do in this Case? Shall he indure those lustful hands, that treat him so sorely? Shall he lay down his Arms, or use them in his own defence? He is a stout man, he hath Authority for what he doth, the Law of Arms commands it. You'l reply, 'Tis fit a Sol∣dier should obey his Officer, for hereby he may, in good time, hope for preferment, this merit may make him a Centurion, so as to march before the ranks, and have others sight under him. If this

be the state of the Case, that a man may not plead in his own defence, speak out, tell us a∣forehand if a Ravisher must not be repelled by force, he must even take what follows, for he cannot be kept off by an unarmed hand. Re∣member, our Ravisher came armed to him, and when he was held fast in his filthy grasps, what, think ye, could he do for himself? Must he stand to consider, or, pray, must he endure it, in hope, upon his complaint, to have Justice done him afterward? But let all Villany be blasted in the attempt, for if the Lust of the foul debaucher had proceeded as far as his wish, no less than Two had been undone for ever.

I shall therefore use freedom of speech before you, Noble General, It concerns You most of all, what Sentence to pass upon our brave Soldier. The truth is, nothing more can be added to his renown, save only to dye for so glorious a Fact. Gray-hair'd time, the only incorrupt Wit∣ness of Vertue, will admire this man, and Fa∣thers will charge their Children to do the like, thô the punishment of Death were incurr'd there∣by. Pray, Sir, consider with your self, what Principle would you have men judg you to be of? This Example cannot be concealed on neither side: 'Tis certain, that when a man makes a judg∣ment upon it, he will think that best, which he himself would have done, in the like case. All men past thrô Childhood to Mans-Estate; and 'tis no thanks to forsake Lust, when Lust forsakes us. Reflect, Sir, upon your own Rise, and call to honest remembrance your former mean Estate, and your present Greatness: Without doubt it

was nothing, but your divine Valour that ad∣vanc'd you to so many Consulships, and to so many Triumphs, either born by you, or design'd, for you. Remember also, that even you your self once serv'd under your Officer, nor could you ever have arrived at this height of dignity in so short a space, unless you had begun betimes. Must I not now tell you, that the Romans had always a great regard to Chastity? Shall I mind you of the Story of Lucretia, who ran a Sword into her own bowels, and took Vengeance on her self, thô the Act was forc'd? That her chast Soul might soon be severed from her defiled Body, she slew her self, because she could not kill her Ra∣visher. Now if you approve what the Soldier hath done, 'tis needless to add the Story of Virginius, who secured the Virginity of his Daugh∣ter, when he could do't no otherwise, even by her Death, and ran the next Sword, he could catch up, into her Body, and she also gladly re∣ceived the wound. His design was only to deli∣ver her from Appius, but the People of Rome went further, and prosecuted him with an Ex∣clusion from the Senate, yea, ventring almost a Civil War upon it, they Order'd him to be cast into Prison: Neither did any thing move the In∣dignation of the Commons more than this, that he attempted to dishonor a Soldiers Daughter. These are eminent Examples of Women, and worthy always to be remembred. As for Men, pray, what Chastity have they unless it be, not to attaque another.

'Tis bootless for me to complain in this degene∣rate Age, (for whose ears are open to hear me?) How Nature it self is overborn by obscene Lusts, and polluted Males supply the place of Females, so that Lust runs mad even upon its own Sexe. But vice it self (we see) puts some stint to its own progress, and his villany could proceed no further, when he had debauched so likely and hopeful a Youth. Now what a mad bui••••nes is this? Young Soldiers are ••••sted for Concubinate, and he, who is himself perhaps a Married man, is called forth to act the part of a Woman. For my part, I rejoyce in behalf of our Martial disci∣pline, I rejoyce, I say, in the reputation of our Camp, if this were the First Customer, that a Tribune, of his humour, met withal. Is it so in∣deed, (for I chuse to inveigh against his Fury, as if he were alive before us,) must thy Prostitutes take pay as Soldiers, and must Wanton Game∣sters be haled under thy Colours? Was it for this that Harlots were cashiered our Army, and that no naughty Huswife must come there? 'Tis just so, for what need of Females, as long as thou canst attaque a Soldier, (i) one more than a man, yea and one too, that was just rea∣dy to charge the Enemy, whom his Country had trusted with her safety by reason of his special Valour. Perhaps it was for this, that wherever an Alarum was given, thou didst walk the Rounds, and Visit the Corps du Guard. Ah, you would have made a goodly Colonel, if none but Young Gentlemen had been under you. Is not this down-right fury? Is it not apparent madness? Here's a man, with a Sword by his side, fenc'd

with an Iron Coat of Male, his Head lock'd in an Habergeon, and, to strike a greater terror, his Crest waving up and down; thou feest Marius his name engraven in his Buckler; in a word, a S••ldier all over, armed in Martial habit Cap a pèe. Do's this Dress make him look like a Prosti∣tute? Do you think such a one is for your turn? If you offer violence to him, what can you ex∣pect thereupon? Shall he remember you to be his Captain, when you don't remember him to be your Soldier?* 1.11 For we have time, I wis, to be wanton; we have nothing else to do, when all things go so well, according to hearts desire, and our Common-wealth is so little concerned, that it may easily be restored, if our Soldiers be but Civil. At this juncture our business is, not so much to enlarge our Empire, nor to reduce more Outlandish Provinces, (as of late we did) we are disputing now for Italy, our Native Coun∣try, we stand up for our Religion and Liberty; whether we shall be destroyed by Fire or by Sword; whether a Barbarous Enemy shall cut us off r••ot and branch; whether we shall change our Italian Dialect for Cimbrick Gibbrish. All our Liv••s and Safeties are at stake, (for we can suffer nothing else, no not from an Enemy. An incredible multitude of People is fallen down upon Italy, so numerous, that even their own v••••t Land could not maintain them; Their bodies are of a monstrous bigness, and their hu∣mours Savage, even in the accompt of the ve∣ry Germans. The feilds are covered far and near with the multitude of our Slaughtered Bo∣dies. Those, who were discomfited under Carbo

and Sylla, compared with us, are in an happy condition. Scaurus is fallen, having lost his Ar∣my before; Servilius and Manlius, each of their Armys consisting of so many Legions, have been lost. A People, that had over-run the greatest part of the World in Triumph and Victory, is now at last stopp'd by Marius alone. Pray, let me put a Question to you, Great Sir, in this State of Affairs, which had you rather, such Soldiers, or such Officers? In such a hurry of War, you would scarce give leave even to Lawful Dalliances; For the higher a man is advanc'd in Honor, his Example is the more conspicuous to all that be∣hold him. When some lye Perdue in their Arms, others secure Avenues and Passages, and some Man the Works, scarce eating their meat but on their sheilds, and that standing too, what! shall a Commander mean while tumble with his Whores? Is this all the watch he keeps? Can he not forbear, and put on a Guise of Tempe∣rance for so little a while, for fear his Soldiers should scent his Pranks? Besides, if the Tribune were yet alive, and this Fact came before you, Noble General, with your whole Army about you, how would you determine, that they might not think it an Abuse of a single Soldier only, but even of the whole discipline of War? What Sen∣tence would you pass? 'Tis a Courtesie done to you, O Marius, 'tis a Courtesie, you are now Excused from passing the Sentence of Death upon your Kinsman.

For, Sir, if we reason right, the whole Em∣pire of Rome to this day stands by Martial disci∣pline. Our Soldiery is not more numerous than

That of other Nations, nor are our Bodies hardier than those of the Cimbrians, we talk of; There are diverse Countries richer than Ours, and many Barbarick People can look Death in the Face more sternly, than We, because they have not such Temptations to desire Life: 'Tis only the severity of our Orders, the managery of our Militia, a Love of hardships, and a dayly Practice of War by continual Exercise, that makes us Masters. We overcome more by our Demeanor, than by main Strength: 'Tis reckoned an Irreligi∣ous thing amongst us, if we take any Female Pri∣soners, to offer violence to them, and ther's no such thing as Abuse, no not to an Enemy. I grant, Sir, that these Regulations have been intermitted by the debauchery of your Proud Nobles, but they are again revived in your Conduct. Beleive it, My Lord, the Gods themselves tender and di∣rect your Greatness in this, that, as an accession to your ••ther praises, they have offered you a New occasion to pass so just a Sentence. If you acquit your Soldier, for acting so Valiantly, the Example is wholly yours; unless perhaps, you think I check at this, that he was s Tribune; up∣on my word he was so much the worse for that, and worthier to die more than a single death. For this is the Case of Superiors, what they do seems a Command, and the Greater the Author in a bad matter, the more pernicious his Example. Who shall now restrain the Soldiery? Who shall give out strict Precepts for Camp-discipline? When you, My Lord, are taken up with grea∣ter cares, I ask, who shall execute the Law upon faulty Soldiers? Who shall Chastise and Punish

the Offences of a Commander? To whom can I fly for refuge? To whom can I complain? You see, at last, there is a necessity laid upon us, we must avenge our selves. Oh, but he was a Commander, and (say I) so was this a Soldier. A Commander, you say, you mean such a one, that the Law enjoyns a Soldier to obey; one that has Authority not only over Common-Soldiers but Captains too, and shares a part with the Com∣mander in Cheif. I warrant, you think, the Sol∣dier had done something against the Law of Arms, if he had only said his Tribune, Nay. * 1.12 Poor Novice, he did not know, what such Great Com∣manders could do? He was not acquainted with the Privilege of their Places. Give me leave, Noble Marius, if a shameless beastly Soldier should have been brought before you, would you have endured him to have said, My Colonel Command∣ed me? But if the Fault be equal on both sides, yet this Crime doth not misbecom your Soldier. 'Twas a Commander that offered the Abuse.

I seem to be transported, Noble General, and to forget my weak Parts, that, being scarce a∣ble to defend one, go about to plead for a whole Army. Imagine, All these Legions, that stand about you, the Flower of Italy, the Choice of our Countrymen and Allys, do cry out with one voyce before your Tribunal, We neither can nor will submit to the unclean Abuse of a Tribune. Not a man of us refuses the Toyle of hard marching; we'l carry our snapsacks or any other heavy luggage upon our Armour, with all our hearts; we are willing to abide the parching heat of Summer, and the pinching cold of Winter, under

our Leathern Jackets. Weary, as we many times are, we'l scale Trenches, we'l lye Perdue at Walls and Works, we'l fall on Valiantly in the hot∣est skirmishes; As for our Wounds, we'l count them our Honour, and we'l embrace Death it self before an ignominious Abuse. What we suffer in Fight, is noble. Let our Tribune command us the cruellest marches, where the Enemy's to be beaten back, thô he have the advantage of an Hill, and where we are to scout thrô Woods that the Enemy hath possessed before us; In a word, let him lay it on upon our backs, let him inure us to the Patience of Slaves; even a Slave hath some Exemption from a Bawd and Pandar, nor can you sell your Captives, but upon such conditions. If we are under a Command only to be obscene, if we take up Arms, and yet may not repress the Abuse of a Foul Aggressor, let's deliver up our Quarters, and let the Cim∣brian stop the Tribunes Fury. The Germans them∣selves are unacquainted with such wickedness, and there's more Religion and Conscience, even amongst the Laplanders. What will the end be, My Lord, if a Soldier must be Conquered, before his Chastity can be secured? Doth not your Ex∣cellency remember what a great Sedition arose heretofore amongst the People of Rome, when a Slave rushed out of a Usurers House with his Back all torn with stripes, and in his complaint told the People, he bore those marks of punish∣ment, because he would not suffer himself to be unnaturally abused? Yet he, thô he was so vile as to attempt so foul a Villany on a Bondman, one almost a Slave and scarce Free, was somewhat

mindful of the Roman sanctity in not assaulting any, but one that had his hands bound. Yet the Revenge of the People of Rome proceeded so far, that, thô War was at the door, yet none of them would be Listed, till satisfaction were given by the punishment of that corrupt Aggres∣sor, and the Abrogation of a Law. They refu∣sed to serve, thô he was no Soldier, who recei∣ved the Abuse. What should I speak of Fabius Eburnus, who put his own Son to death, when, upon a private Examination of his Cause, he found him Guilty of Uncleanness? So that now, Brave Comrade, whatever the issue be, thô the General perhaps may condemn thee to dye, 'tis better still, than to be dispatch'd by thy own Father.

But, (say you) he was Marius's Kinsman. Now, you goe to tamper with the Judge, and to hang the motive of Kindness to his Kindred upon his mind, that is otherwise unbiassed. You say, he was your Kinsman. 'Tis fit, that every Body in the World should hear your Sentence, if you give it for your near Kinsman. For if, as a Judge, you allow your self to do any thing par∣tially for your own ends, think with your self, what Envy this will raise upon you, amongst those who already carp at your Merit, when you shall seem to adjudge the Ravisher of a Sol∣dier, Innocent; or shall vindicate your own Kins∣man, as long as he is Nocent. This is not the first time, My Lord, that base Envy seeks an advantage to snarle at your Exellencys illustri∣ous Vertue; and the Nobility, who are natural∣ly averse to all that are raised on a sudden, thô

at present they are husht and quell'd, as being overborn by your deserved praise, yet peepe narrowly for an opportunity of Fault-finding. And if I understand the nature of Envy, they will also cast this in your teeth, that 'twas your own Kinsman, forsooth, that was found tardy. And therefore a necessity is laid upon you, to abdicate and renounce that Blood, which is none of your own. For certain, you can do no less than revenge the Villany on him, who, among those that malign you, will seem to have acted it by your Connivance or Permission. For should not he, if ever he called to mind he was your Kinsman, have striven with might and main to have Copyed out all your Vertues, of which your Fortune is the Lowest, especially having the ad∣vantage to be so near in view of Them and You? Should he not have made this return for the hap∣pyness of being your near Kinsman? I am sure, your Soldiers imitate you better. If the Tribune should have scaped with his life after his foul re∣solve, Envy must needs have twitted him too with this, that 'twas no other than Marius's Kins∣man had plaid such a filthy prank, and that a naughty Cyons shot out from so Virtuous a stock. But when any Family is well rid of such an In∣famy, what boot is it every foot to be objecting it to Marius? It had been very well, if our Ge∣neral had never had any such Kinsman at all, and 'tis as well, that he parted with him so willingly.

May it please your Excellency, I have now done with my Plea, as well as my mediocrity was able to manage it, The Commendatory Part is

yet behind, but that is utterly needless before such a Sanctity as yours. For what need I fear, That meanness should be prejudicial to a Defendant, before you, who look upon disrobed and naked Virtue, as acceptable of it self, and who counts this the greatest Glory for a man to raise his own Fortune? I commend to you the state of a Private Soldier, that you may glance upon him from an high, as one wishing to grow Great by your own method. Hitherto perhaps Nobility bore the greatest sway, but you have improved that Noble Estate, which challengeth such a long Train of Ancestry. You could not expect, that a Youth, of his years, should have done more bravely. Yet when I have set before you so Gallant a man, one so fit to serve under you, and worthy of all the Preferment, that attends your Service, still I offer to your further con∣sideration, that, for ought I know, he is a Ge∣neral in posse. I know you don't expect this from him, that at the Close of my Plea, he should come and fall upon his Knees, and beg his life with pitious mone, and all-humble supplications. You do not expect to be Entreated by the Inno∣cent, nor has a Valiant man (as such) any need of Acquittal. All that he desires is this, that if you demur on his Case, you would respit the matter to the next Battel. There put him in the Fore-Front, place him, I say, not among the Punys, but (let me speak a proud word) even before the Standard, where most danger is, and where the greatest throng of the Enemy pres∣ses the sorest: Do but look then and there how he behaves himself; now, I dare be bold to

say, you will have less kindness for the Tribune. Nay, pray, let him Charge, let him Grapple with the Enemy hand to hand. If your Soldier must needs be slain, I beg of your Excellency, that you would be the better for his Death.

Mathematicus: OR, The Astrologer.

DECLAMATION IV.

The Argument of this Declama∣tion is a CASE grounded on a double LAW.

LAW the First, A man, that had done good Service for his Country in the War, might chuse what reward, he pleased. LAW the Second, He that intended Self-Murther, was first to render a Rea∣son of his Resolve in open Senate, or

else his Body was to be thrown out, with∣out Burial. The CASE. A certain Man went to an Astrologer, to know, What manner of Person, his Wife (then big with Child) went with. His Answer was, That He should be a Valiant man First, and afterwards a Parricide. It hapned, when the Touth was grown up, he fought brave∣ly for his Country; But upon his re∣turn from the WAR, he gives Reasons in Court, why he intended to make himself away; His Father appears a∣gainst it.

For the Son against the Father.

NOble Patricians, I am plac'd in the midst of Two such sad Extremes, that I am neither worthy of Death, unless you judge me a Parricide; nor of Burial, unless you think me Innocent. Being thus intangled and held fast in the mockery of so miserable a Dilem∣ma, I sue for your Hatred, as the greatest Favour you can do me; and I beseech you, above all those particular events, which the succession of Truth predicted concerning me, hath evidenc'd and declar'd, you would beleive, I now bring sufficient Credentials of the Calamities, that over∣press me. 'Tis by reason of Parricide, 〈…〉〈…〉 would kill my self; but 〈…〉〈…〉 ••••••ms, s••••ps in, and says, I must n••t▪ 'Tis not the 〈7 letters〉〈7 letters〉ger a∣lone, hath told the World ••nd th•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to come, that these my hands shall Mu••th•••• my own ••••∣ther, my own mind misgives me the same. I carry an Heart about me, that presages more dire mischeifs, than the Response of that Sacred Artist. Like an unhappy man, I have nothing in my thoughts, but what is a terrour to me: Yea, That Villany, which the Piety of my Father and the Innocency of all my other Relations presume against, That, I say, do I feele, groan under, and cannot deny.

Yet, lest any should think me to lie under a great mistake of judgment, be pleased to hear my Reason, why I cannot doubt in the least of my hard Fate. He that is Born to commit a Parricide, be∣lieves he shall do it, yet he is not afraid to pre∣vent it, by dispatching himself. In the first place, then I beg this Boon of your Publick Wisdoms, that you would not be contented with this, as the Sum or All of my Innocency, that I would fain make myself away. Tho' I seem to contend with Art, to master Necessity it self, and to bafflle Fate, I would not have you therefore think, that I may be safely trusted with my Life. Tho' I am wil∣ling to Dye to prevent it, yet, I cannot say, but I should commit it: Nay, (if you will believe me) that which you call Constancy is but Infirmity; the reason I flie to this last refuge, is, because I know my own Heart too well. The intire delive∣rance of my discourag'd Mind is yet in my pow∣er, but Death it self will shortly be out of it. I be∣seech you, Noble Senators, hope no better from my miserable Piety I, that am willing to Dye, that I may not commit a Parricide, don't see but I must commit it, if I be suffered to live.

As for my Father, who would have me live against my Will, I don't wonder at him, because he's still over-joy'd at the acquist of my Marti∣al Glory, which is yet fresh before him, his Eyes and his Mind are wholly intent on my brave At∣chievments, so that he cannot see the Parricide through the Champion.

This is the Ground, why he would save me, tho' I am predestin'd and ordain'd to such mis∣chief, and when he has done thus much for me,

as to bring me up, when my Virtues were yet dubious, future, and presumptive, now he would do more for my actual gallantry, that I should not Dye. And, because I may seem to put an end to my Life, for the Piety and Reverence I bear to Him, he charges himself with the Parricide; and in the loss of his Children, which he thinks he is the Author of, he regards not so much my safe deliverance, as his own natural affection. A Son, that desires to Dye, that he may be no Parricide, thinks he cannot otherwise be rewarded, than to let him Dye. There was reason, great reason, why his sad Thoughts, and foreboding Fears should send the Poor Old Man to the Fortune-Teller. 'Twas my Fate, that I should be decla∣red a valiant Man first, and then a Parricide: Whether it were, that the extraordinary fruitful∣ness of his Poor Wife did disturb his Nights-rest by troublesome Jogs; or, whether the Old Man's careful Nights and direful Sleeps, caused by sad and dismal Apparitions, sent him to the Cunning∣man, the very Chief of that mysterious Art. Go he did, and to Him he carried not hopes or greedy desire, but sight, fears, pale looks, constant presages of some dismal mischief or other to ensue: What can you call this, Worthy Senators, but the first insuperable necessity of a Fatal Instinct? He was driven to enquire of the Astrologer concern∣ing his Wifes Issue, and when he had so done, he did not believe the Oracle.

Let me tell you, my Lords, of what Authority the Astrologer was, whom my Father, in his great Fear, thought fit to consult. He was a Man, I speak what I know, that by many good Proof,

and Experiments had merited, that People, in their Cares and Fears, should flye to him as to the Ora∣cle of the Gods, and a Breast full of Divine Spirit: 'Twas said, that he inspected the Nature of the whole Heaven, digested and ranged the Constella∣tions into their Number of Stars respectively, and was amazed at the Prospect of his Fate, as to both Publick and Private concerns: With such an heap of good and bad Events, he was frighted more than the Quaerent himself, and 'twas long before he could put down in Writing, what he saw in the Scheme. But see, what a venerable Old Man this was, and worthy to whom the Fates should reveal their Secrets. When the Child, he was consulted about, had many joyful Omens for his young and tender Years, he was not content to foretel the best only, but (which is an unde∣niable Evidence of his veracity) he told All that the Figure held forth, and declared openly, that he should first be a brave Warrior, and then a Par∣ricide. What a daring answer was that? When he was to presage the highest Villany, he told us we should believe him in that, as far as his other pre∣sages had ••••ld good before. For you may be sure, his Father would never have been at the charge of bringing him up, if the Astrologer had told him the melancholy part only, and had not said, his Lot should be first Victorious. Neither did the Astrologer's Judgment fail him a Jot, no, not in any one Circumstance; he said, she should have but One, and that a Male, and that he should live to be a notable robust Youth, all true to a Title. Besides, his Answer did as well hit even foreign Circumstances, as that there would be a War, a

potent Enemy, and an Army levy'd to be kept on Foot, till he was able to make no mean Figure in it. And my Father was so far from being deterr'd by the Prediction of his own danger, that he him∣self, he, I say, (such is the inevitable force of Fate) girt on my Arms, and equipp'd me for the Battel, with his own Hands, as if now he were assured of the Astrologers Truth. No man need wonder, that he did not sleight the Response, while he was in hopes, I should do bravely: And now, he will not have me Dye, tho' there's nothing left for me to do, but to Murther Him. O Death, who art commendable in the Brave, desireable by the Wretched, and no back-Friend even to the Happy! How often have I courted thee, how often have I desired to meet thee in Battel? I call Heaven to Witness, I put my Life in my Hands, not in Osten∣tation of my own strength, nor for a Puff of vain∣glory, but that my low esteem of my self might put me upon some brave Service for my Coun∣try, whereby I might spend my forlorne Life, and my predestin'd and reprobated Person for the Publick Good. There, alas, I first learnt, how many things we did in Ignorance, and how many things we did against our Wills. Desperate Combatant, as I was, I rush'd into the thickest the Enemys Troopes, and lo their Army divided, and let me come. By my self alone, I ran where the hottest Service was, and not a Man was able to beat me back: I laid bare my Skin for the adverse Blows, my Breast was open to received dint of sword or dart, aim'd at me from all Quarters, and yet the Weapons fell down by me, without any Execution. Oh miserable I, in the event of my frustrated hopes!

I came bravely off, even when I sought to be slain. Away, all ye that come to gratulate me; be gone, ye that think to commend me, I am not going from Temple to Temple, I give no thanks to the Deity, no, I am come home for no other purpose, but to prove my self a Parricide. You know, how my poor Conscience was cast down thereupon with shame and confusion: I had not the Heart to come back to my Father with my Armour on; believe me, I was afraid, when he ran out to meet me, lest while he kiss'd and em∣brac'd me, he might run unawares upon the Con∣quering Sword, in my Hand.

Amongst other Acclamations of the Army, when they brought me back, what was the Vogue of the People round about me? even this, Oh brave and happy Youth, (said they all) provided he Dy'd imme∣diately. Let Heaven and Earth assist me, whilst I earnestly desire, whilst I long, to Dye: Take some pity on me, don't cool my eagerness to part with my Life, with an unseasonable delay. I tistify and proclaim to all the World, I stand upon the very last precipice of my Fate, I am afraid I am not far from Murthering my Father, according to Prediction, when I am so willing, even to Dye, to prevent it: Dear Father, why do you still de∣tain me? why d'e stop me, that am hastning away? 'Tad been better, I had been stifled in my Mothers Womb, or else that I had been speedily dispatched, before my impure breath had pollu∣ted my Native Air and Soil. Grant, it was my Father's Love to his Country, that drown'd and overcame his private Fears; grant, he gave such a Villain as my self Education, in prospect of some

Service I was to do for the Commonwealth, yet now all's done and ended, that induc'd him to be at charge to bring me up; there is now but one Point of my Fate behind, and that's the last Villa∣nous Fact I am to do. What d'e mean? 'Tis in vain to comfort me with your patient resolution and constancy; I say, your Case and mine are not the same; you are in danger to be Murthered, and I am in danger, will I nill I, to Murther even my own Father.

This then is the first Excuse I make to you, Noble Senators, for craving my Reward, hitherto let me be look'd upon only as a Valiant Man, let me insist only on that branch of the sacred Law, to make it a Plea for my destin'd End. Do you think, I will mention the solemn Formulary of my Wish, That high deserts are not to be rewarded with a strict equality, or just so much? No, he that hath done bravely is to be requited as bountifully, as the large Promises that set him a Work. My Country was never less able to make amends to any Man than my Self. I did that for Her, that I am bound to Dye presently after. But, pray, take no care, I will never ask the top-reward the Law allows, that infinite, that boundless, Priviledge, in∣dulg'd by Law in the Case, thô I may desire it, yet I confine it to my naked Self. Titles, Statues, Dignities, reserve them for those that must live: Grant me only my Father's safety, my own Inno∣cency, and a good Name after I am gone. There∣fore I pray deny me not this Reward, for then it may be thought, that you hated my Valiant Acts too. My choice is clearly out of the reach of En∣vy, seeing I require only that, which I might have

obtained, before I behav'd my self so bravely. That I give you an account of my Choice by the by, let no man think, that I am less confident of my Reward, or of the Causes thereof, because I have made my Petition on both accounts. Pardon one, that longs to go out of the World, if I have annexed Two Petitions together, when One would serve. Nay further, I beseech you, if there be any other Law extant, that can help a Man for∣ward to his desired end; acquaint me with it, let me have the benefit thereof. In giving me Li∣berty to kill my self, let me Dye for my Reason's sake, let me be Buryed for my Guerdon's sake.

I am sensible, my Lords, this is the first Boon I am to desire of the Publick Commiseration, that you would not think me loth to Dye, because I urge so many things about the Ground of my Resolve, and because I Petition for that from you, which my own hands can grant without you. I confess, I have deserved such sinister Interpretations; that I might Dye as a Man of Valour, when I came home, I threw away my Arms, I acquir'd the Peoples favour, I receiv'd the Applause of the Town. But whether it be the great esteem we have for a decent Interment, it being a pitiful weak∣ness incident to all Men, to fear something after, thô they do fear Death; or whether he, that de∣sired to Dye to clear his Innocency, must do it with a compos'd and undisturb'd Spirit, upon one or 'tother of these accompts, pardon, I be∣seech you, my lothness for a while, pardon my Pa∣tience, and my Delay. If I had made my self away immediately, I must have Dyed as a plain Par∣ricide.

I hope, Worthy Senators, my Fathers appearing against me will not defeat me of my reward, sometimes there ought to be that Esteem for high meries, that they may seem to dispense with Obedi∣ence to Parents; so that either our applauded Vir∣tue doth ballance and counterpoise the moment of a Fathers Authority; or else we begin to renew our Obedience, when we have enjoy'd our Choice. Let not then my Father's gain-saying my design, move you. You never met with any Body yet, that had a mind to Dye, but one or other was against it. If a Man have no dear Relations, yet he will be stopt from such an Act, by the fear of those that hear of his Resolve, or by their comfort∣able and prompt Exhortations to the contrary: But for Parents, indeed all their care is, to make much of their Children, and to be timorous of their Death. If we be ta'ne from them never so justly, yet they cannot bear it; if we suffer Death for heinous Crimes, yet they still count us innocent and worthy of Commiseration. But in my Case, Noble Senators, my particular Duty and Reverence adds to the impatience of my Good Old Father. 'Tis impossible for a Son to perswade his Father to let him Dye, if he seem to kill himself for his Fa∣ther's sake.

Thus far of the Laws, and of the Merits of my Prowess, I come now to the mere Fatal part. I am resolv'd I say, I am, resolv'd, to Dye for the Causes before alledged. You may know, what I mean by this my Resolve, thô I cannot speak it out. Con∣sider, I pray, what hath brought me on thus far, here begins my Resolution. Imagin, that one of the vulgar desire the Reward, I do? It ought

not to be denied him, if he hath just Ground for his demand, and it cannot be denyed, if he hath not. You cannot but fear, lest a Man's incon∣stancy should push him on to this rashly, and with∣out any Ground; and 'tis credible, that Life can speak for it self, as much as can possibly be urg'd before any C••urt. I cannot abide your Gratulations, keep your Complements to your selves, how long will it be, that you'l think me unwilling to Dye? This is the first great thing, that Nature hath devised for Man's safety, that we Dye against our Wills; and against so many cross Accidents she relieves us with a Patience well-poized. Hence it is, that even in the midst of torments and despair, yet men entertain a poor desire of prolonging Life. Do you think, I am not concern'd at all, that I am but in the Flower of my Age? That I have newly begun to tast the pleasures of Life, and the enjoyments of this World? Oh, how am I taken, when I call to mind, that I was brought back from the Field upon Men's Shoulders, and Who but I was the Theme and Discourse of the Town? Believe me, as oft as I reflect upon these Wounds of mine, and upon my Arms dropping with the Blood of the Enemy, I raise my mind above the Tyes of Necessity, I place my self superiour even to Fate. But alas! all these things are now vanish'd and gone, they are all surmounted and yield to the more honest Motive of taking revenge on my self. What Obligation have I to be concern∣ed any further for this Body of mine, that even my Eyes loath to look upon? And with which my hasty Soul quarrels, and cares not how soon it is discharged from? These Limbs are none of

mine, since I can wound and peirce them, as if they were mine Enemies. A man that hath taken his last Farewel of the World, you may give him Time, if you please, but Life you cannot; and his desire to die grows higher and higher, the more it is forbid. More happy is he, that dies before his time, and before he desires it. 'Tis almost too late for that man to renounce his life, when all men think he hath no reason to preserve it. You may deny death only to that person, whose life ought legally to be taken away by Another, rather than Himself.

As for the Law, that commands an intended Self-Homicide to render a reason thereof before∣hand, or else his body to be cast out without Burial, if he made, such hast to leave the World without telling and declaring it before: He is de∣ceiv'd that Constru's it so, as if men should be oblig'd to live whether they will or no. Alas! The Law takes no notice of mens rashness in killing themselves, nor doth it willingly make a strict inquiry into other mens Greifs; It fore∣saw, that those, who were Guilty of great Crimes, and thereupon in fear of greater Torments, would otherwise be so hardy, as to put an end to their own lives, and shew no cause at all: And there∣fore lest they might prevent part of their punish∣ment, by an over-hasty end, it was further Enact∣ed, that the Body of the Offender should be cast out Unburied. The Law is Mild and Gentle, it re∣quires only, that the Cause of Self-Murther should be assign'd, not descanted upon.

If then I am ask'd the reason, why I would lay violent hands on my self I can answer in the P•••••••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of all ••••nkind▪ but 'twould be ••and•••• for m••, to 〈…〉〈…〉 ••••••••••n wh•• I should Live. Wretched man! What boo••'s it, to de∣tain thy Soul for so long a time, (provided thou run out thy natural course) in the dolesom Prison of thy Body? If we make a due search into, and a right estimate of, all the joys and pleasures of the whole World, that do either take our Eye or please our Fancy, the Foot of the accompt will be, That a mans whole Life is but, as it were, one day. Alas! Those are mean and abject Spirits, that are not cloved with the return of the same things over and over again; but he, that is better instructed, and knows what the End of the Good, and what True happiness, is, never thinks he dies too soon: Every days Life satisfies him, that lives to his Soul and inward Man.

You expect now, I should instance, that upon comparing the fears and calamitys with the joy and prosperity we meet with h••re below, the num∣ber of avoidable things doth far exceed, in this short seene of our Life. Let us take a just esti∣mate of those satisfactions, for which we weary Heaven with our Prayers, and for whose sake we complain our Life is short. What are they all, but Vanity, Humour, Height of living, Lust? Are we not even ashamed to run thrô debilitys, crosses, tedious diseases, for such poor things, as these? Yea, when we may escape them, we had rather grene under them? Ima∣gine, you heard Nature accost you with such

an Harangue, as this; Behold! thou art admitted in∣to to the stately Share and Partnership of the Universe, and of the enjoyments thereof, and for many a Suc∣cessive Age, being born at last to dye, thou hast en∣joy'd what I could afford thee; now let others succeed, make room for them that come after thee. Dost thou not know, the longer thou livest, the more unwilling ••hou wilt be to dye? Let your Term of Life be never so much prolonged, let one man live as ••ong as two, yet he must needs go off miserably, ••hat dies unwillingly.

Don't you wonder, that I hasten mine own end? Do's not every day, that passes over my head, do the same? Nay every hour, by silent and unobserved moments, makes nearer approaches t•• my last end. And whilst we are basely ta∣ken up with the thoughts of living to perpetuity, we dye afore-hand every minute of our Flitting Age. Let us rather find a remedy by our Exit, and a releif in our fatality; let us bid Adieu to ••he World willingly, with deliberation, full of con∣••entedness, yea let us give Thanks that our Time 〈◊〉〈◊〉 come. He only hath lived as long as he could wish, who chuses, at such a time, to put an end ••o his Life. Let all the sad and severe Motives, I ••ave, favour me, let all Virtue vote with me, ••s I desire to dye so magnanimously. Is it not ••nough, think you, to hasten my end, that I ••ave done so gallantly? 'Tis the Badg of a base ••nd ignoble Spirit to reckon ones life by number ••f years. For my part, (so weary am I, or ••o sated with years, that) my Valorous atcheive∣ments have made me, Old. Why do I stay any ••onger among the Diseases and Casualties, here be∣low.

I, that have been received with publick Congratulations, shall appear contemptible by my present low condition. They must needs fall to less value in tract of Time, whose Great∣ness began only by success; when no room is left for more atcheivements, nor felicity to reward or crown them. 'Tis madness to dye, when our Estate and Honour sinks with us, and so to spin out a decaying Life. I reckon, no old men live with less esteem than those, who, when time was, were the bravest Sparks. What! Would you have me stay, till inglorious grey hair misbecome my mortifyed Limbs? Till my bloodless Carkass is scarce able to creep a high-lone? Till these glo∣rious hands of mine shall not be able to feed or dress me? Oh! how sad, how dolesome 'tis, to remember, what one has been in his prime? to tell a long Tale of the many scars one carries about him, and to serve up the cold remembrance of things past long ago? Whereas now, men will not believe, you were ever able to perform such Exploits, but you will be scoff'd at, even for your own Memoirs. No, I must leave the World up∣on a push, while my Body is active, and my Spi∣rit brisk, whilst Men are loth to part with me, and when I shall be miss'd; and for all this, I would fain be beholding to my own Hands, to my own Courage. Let all that is in Heaven and Earth favour me. I have found the Port of Death, whilst I bear the Name and Credit of a Man, highly deserving by his Valour.

But this Plea is common to others as well as my∣self. I come now to what's more peculiar to my∣self. If the Astrologer had fore-told, I should

have lost some of my Limbs, or that I should have a Sick languishing Body, you would all pardon me, if I avoid so great misfortunes, thô they had been uncertain; but what I dread, and tremble at, is far greater: He threatens me with my own Valour, and that nought but my own Courage, shall be my ruin. So he has left me not a moment of Life, wherein I may rest or be secure. I am destin'd to run out my whole Glass in Frights and Pantings. What room for the least hope or comfort? I must Dye as a Felon, if the Fortune-teller say True, and I must Dye as a Wretch, if he say False. Did he say, I should be a Parricide hereafter? Shall we consult another, for Experiment of his greater skill? Would you have me dispute the Point afterward, whether Futuritys may be fore-told, or no? To what pur∣pose is it? So many Men, so many Minds. Why should I be toss'd up and down, according to every Body's talkative humour? He gives it under his hand, I shall kill my Father: If I can abide to live after such a Response, I shall not be Innocent, thô I never do it. Let me appeal to you, all that are Children, and to you, all that are Parents, What Courage can I have, after so dire a Presage? I am the Man, whom the Deity, being angry perhaps with the Age, wherein I lived, has singled out, as a ••it Subject for such a mischief: As soon as ever I was born, 'twas said, That Valour and Villany should be my Lot: I am, as you see, capable of all things, thô never so strange and repugnant; I stand out for no difficult, no unheard of, Practices; I am destin'd to wretched Pranks; Guilty, if I do not kill my self; one, in whom you ought to ••ate even his very Bravery. I know not what

prodigious Barbarity slings and throws me against my Father, as against some Weapon, or some vast weight ready to fall. A Villany attends me, hardly to be believ'd, that will be no advantage to me, and which I my self am clear against. Not a word of the Time, Place, or Reason thereof it fore-told: Judge you, whether I ought to Dye, for I think, 'twas ••ity that ever I was Born. My Fa∣ther himself is sensible of the Monstrousness of my predicted Cr me, and therefore strives to prove, That there is no certainty in the Astrological Art: Sometimes he urges, That there is no such thing as Fate, but all comes by chance and hazard: Otherwhile he contends, That if there be a Go∣verning Providence, yet man's knowledge is too shallow to fathom it. I lay both before you, and in the mean time desire your Wisdoms to consi∣der, That my Father was sensible of something in the Art, even because he was afraid of it. I have given a Proof, that the Astrologer spake Truth, and He thereupon believ'd what he said.

I beseech you, Dear Father, do you think, That this great variety of things, compacted into one Systeme out of disagreeing Principles, could be huddled together by chance? so that the Orbe of ••ire is plac'd aloft above all heavy Bodies, by ••eason of its hot and burning Nature; the Element of Water is seated below, that the hot Bodies, above it, might draw nourishment from its moisture; ••h•• Globe of the Earth hangs poiz'd between the ••••••••ament above and the Abyss below, that so a ••••••••••lless series of Ages might spin out themselves, through perpetual vicissitudes of Times, by their ••wn Laws. What shall we say of this Glorious

Prospect of sparkling Constellations? some fix'd, compacted, and still shining from the Place they possess'd at first, others wandring, and perform∣ing their Planetary Courses, in a set Order, in the whole Firmament. Can you think, the disposal of them was made at random and by chance? Pray, what could that thing, called Reason, do bet∣ter? No, no, 'Twas God, God alone, the Maker of the Universe, that drew forth a comely Order out of the first rude Chaos of Confusion, and afterwards divided it into its several parts. And when he ••ad bestowed a beautiful and uniform Aspect on ••he World then he sent a Spirit from above to ••nimate it: So that whatever is brought forth in ••he World hath a signature of some divine Property ••orn with it, and being thus ordained and made or a short Life, by a firm certainty of depen∣••ence, it receives its Fate as it doth its Life. I be∣••••eve, Dear Father, this Doctrine was somewhat ••errible to Mortals, when it was first broach'd, ••ut when the Novelty of it was worn off, they ••••ll to admire it. Thus by degrees, what Men were ••••ighted at at first, when they took Heart seri∣••usly to consider, their deep insight pierced into the ••ery Recesses of Nature, and made such Collections ••om dayly observations and oft-recurring marks 〈◊〉〈◊〉 secret Effects, that at length they arrived at ••••eir Causes. Do you think it strange, Sir, that a ••an's Destiny can be fore-told? You see, the ••urses and the Eclipses of Sun and Moon are so: ••en can fore-tel Storms and Calms; they tell 〈◊〉〈◊〉, what Constellation threatens parching heat, and ••hat, pinching cold; what bearded Comets por∣••nd, what their extraordinary Lustre, and what

the mighty shootings and trajections of Stars. What stronger Argument for the verity of the Art, than to foretel what shall come to pass, and it comes to pass accordingly? So that if Nature, Reason, and Experience do joyntly prove, that there is such an Art as Astrology, nay, and my Father himself, who thought fit to consult the Artist, what re∣mains, but that I may yield, he spake Truth in what's to come, seeing we cannot accuse him of a Failer in what is past.

The first Proof of the veracity of the Art, is this, when the Wizard was consulted about the Child, he did not make a confus'd or intricate Ans∣wer, as if he had a mind by ambiguities to beguile his Quaerent: He said nothing that might be inter∣preted several ways, according to the fancy or humour of the respective Hearers. For that's the main design of Juglers, not to make a plain down∣right Answer to Demandants, but to amuse them with such blind hopes and promises, that what∣ever comes to pass, yet the Answer may seem true. Was this the way to put a Trick on my Father, to tell him of such common and usual Events, which might easily follow, and He was as glad to hear of? Thy Son, says he, shall be a brave Fellow. Where, I beseech you, could he have broke off handsomer, if he had a mind to chouse him? But, Oh Heavens! What Impressions had he received from above; that he could not chuse but tell my Father, when he ask'd the Question, That I was destin'd to murther him. Alack, dear Father, do you think I admire his Art so much? No, Sir, I rather wonder at his Courage; I stand amaz'd at his Fixedness, He shall be, says he, a brave Fellow

first, and then a Parricide. Pray, tell me, was there any Policy in this, to speak that in the close, which takes off from the Credit of what was de∣livered before? In the Parricide, that the Astro∣loger fore-saw, if he would have cheated, 'twas his only way not to have told it. I grant, in other Consults a Man may be deceived or mistaken, but in such an heinous Villany as Parricide, an Astrolo∣ger can no more doubt of it, than an own Father suspect it. For all the Professors of that sacred Art do agree in this, that men receive their personal Qualities, and the future disposition both of Body and Mind too, from the Nature of those Constella∣tions, which were predominant at their Birth. To instance, if a Man be influenc'd by a Wandring Star, or Planet, he will live a roving Life: He that was under a benign Star at his Conception, will be a modest sweet-natur'd Man. He that was Born under a Fiery Constellation, will be a sprightly Hot-spur. He that at his Birth had a Star that was declining, and hastning to the Western Angle, shall not be so brisk in his Youth, but heavy, like those that are aged; but if a Princely Constella∣tion (Cor Leonis suppose) influence ones Birth, he is Born to Empire. For my part, I think that upon the monstrous Day of my Birth, all the angry Stars conspir'd together, and thrust down my prodigious Soul into my Body with the united con∣tribution of their hottest Flames. If the Doctrine be true, that after many Ages and a numberless Series of Years, Souls shall be restored to other Bodies, then in me there appears p••rhaps one of those, by whose wickedness, the Sun being affronted, suddenly changed the Face of Heaven,

and who were driven all the World over by the scaring of the Furies, and the terrors of all-aveng∣ing Conscience.

Those Futurities must needs have fuller Signa∣tures, that come not from blind and unaccountable Originals. So the noise of the Sea, and hollow Winds in Woods foretel a Storm. Thus Comets shining in the Heavens, and bearded Meteors, fore-run the Fate of People, near to destruction. This was my Case, I was predicted by an Antecedent War, I was pointed at by Arms of all sides, the unnatural Fury, that was to follow, drove those publick Calamities, as Prognosticks before it, and as a Complement of all these mischiefs, Enter Parri∣cide. Can any Body think, this was foreseen by chance, not by Art? Perhaps, what happens hand∣over-head may come by chance, but that which is foretold cannot do so. I beseech you, Fa∣ther, consider his whole Answer from first to last and then tell me, whether ever any Bodies Fat•• were more clearly predicted? He shall be a Male-Child, says he, so it was: He shall be brought up to such and such an Age, tho' a destin'd Parricide, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was brought up: He shall live to be a lusty Youth, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 did so: He shall be notable for Prowess and Martial menace; there shall be Wars, so there were. He shall turn Soldier by thy consent, and shall do bravely in the Field, all true: He shall be a Parricide at last 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but stay there, it must be, if I live to it. Dear Father, if you would have an accompt of this profound and secret Art, methinks his Responses have a great agreement even in their unsutableness and diversity. He said, I should be a valiant Man, and withal a Parricide: These things are too near▪

thô they be so different; they are alike for strength, thô the Principle, from whence they proceed, be plainly dissonant. For what was it made me so much taken notice of in the War? 'Twas because I was all for killing, never satisfied with Blood; I would rejoyce over an heap of Dead Carkasses, I would trample upon the Wounded, thô yet pant∣ing for Life. This is called Valour, when 'tis act∣ed against a Rublick Enemy; but 'tis Peace that Arrests me; when I want just matter to execute my rage upon, then my sprightfulness (forsooth) must be at leasure to break out into Villany. 'Tis true, Peace is restored to the Commonwealth, but I am still practising with my Sword: I grasp it in my hand all day long, I view my Armour, I praise my Weapons, I admire 'em, I make Apo∣strophe's to 'em. Sir, be assured, 'tis as easie even to murther my own Father, as to kill mine Ene∣my, when I am predestin'd to both. But why do I insist on reason, seeing the event hath already ve∣rified the thing? And what the Wizard said with∣out any circumlocution, can it be evaded by any Art? You have already seen part of his Answer verified in another business, and that which in∣creases my torment, my Valour must be an Argu∣ment, to make my Villany believed. The Autho∣rity of his Answer is sufficiently manifested, when of Two Predictions, One is already come to pass; neither can you make any doubt of the Truth of it as long as Experiments agree with what is predicted before. That Response, in which every thing as yet prov'd true to a Title, can't be pre∣sum'd to be false only in the last clause. You'l say, 'Tis impossible, there should be a Patricide com∣mitted.

'Tis no wonder, Father, you don't be∣lieve a Villany may be done, which will hardly be believ'd, when 'tis done. You are much mista∣ken, if you imagin, that 'tis fence enough against inevitable necessity predicted, That I am a dutiful Son, and you the best of Fathers. 'Tis pity you should know it, I had almost said, I my self am loth to know it. What is Fate then, but something come to pass, when we know no rea∣son, Why? How then, says he, can that be avoided, which must of necessity be done? I'le tell you, there is but one only way if I kill my self before I do it. Sir, you Conquer Fate, if you resist it; it Conquers you, if you make slight of it.

For my part, I thank the Cruel Fates, only upon this account, that they designed not this great Villany for me in the leading part of my Life, that I had opportunity to do Valiantly for my Country before, and that my famous Atcheive∣ments preceded in a great Train. I hope, a Parricide may be avoided, which is foretold shall be, and yet shall not be, till last. Suppose, Father, the Astrologer should speak false, as to this one part of my Life only? 'Tis not worth the while to beleive it, that so I may spare my Life. A mans own Father, one would think, cannot be murthered. But what if the doubt be not clear to me? The misery is inexpressible, when I cannot trust mine own Innecency, when I am jealous night and day, when I suspect my own Heart, when I arrest my Hands, indite mine Eyes, when I plot Parricide in my Thoughts. I have a greater Argument for my Death, if I beleive I shall com∣mit that Parricide, which is impossible to be

committed almost by any. Alas, Father, what a hard Task do you lay upon me? How uneasie is the Patience, which you exact? I tremble at your very Salutes, lest I should crush your An∣cient Limbs by my too rough embraces. I cannot endure to sit at Table with you, lest the meat, I carve you, prove to be Poyson. I dare not tra∣vel in company, nor dare I be alone, with you, lest some mishap or other should intervene. How long shall I be jealous of my own Heart? Death can ensure me that I shall commit no Parricide, Death can ensure the World that I am not likely to do it. But, oh unhappy man that I am, how many things appear, that I ought to be afraid of, thô I resolve to the contrary! How do I know but the Idea of some great danger may transport, and so fright me out of Wits? Perhaps I may fly out, as if I followed the heat of an Alarum, as if the noise of the Fall of my Coun∣try, and the schreiching of a Taken City rouz'd me. I can perhaps govern my self by day, but what can I answer to the night, what to casualty, what to mistake? The Astrologer did not say, I would murther my Father, but that I should.

And for your part, Father, you must needs suffer far greater Agonies, by forbearing and let∣ting me alone: 'Twere better by much to kill me without any more adoe, when you stand in fear of your Life by me. When you lie sweet∣ly satisfied in my Presence, Company, and Embra∣ces, you must needs call to mind, will ye nill ye, your silent thoughts of the danger foretold. And thô you compose your self to a gallant re∣solution, yet 'tis a natural Infirmity in man, to

fear the Murtherer as well as Death it self. Rid me, Dear Father, from so sad and greivous a straight, and, by a short Act of Patience, cut off your Long-liv'd anxities. 'Twill appear fairer and more becoming, to dye if I shall be innocent, than to Live, if I must be a Parricide.

I'le tell you plainly, Father, I am driven to confess it by a Fatal necessity: My own hands, I cannot now govern: My right hand, I can neither command nor countermand it. The Transport, I spoke off, comes upon me, I know nothing, I discern nothing; Then, and not before, I under∣stand, things after they are acted. What! Do you think I overcame my late Enemy in the Feild by the regular strength of my Arm? What have the very Prisoners said of me? They dread∣ed my Aspect, as if it were some monstrous ap∣pearance. Alas! I did not lay about me so much with my Weapons, as I was acted by the very sting of the Furies. My Breast was not fenced with Coat of Male or Breast-plate, but with those dire Serpents, that buckl'd about it. I can't call it a Fight, or a Skirmish, when I Conquered, 'twas not as a Soldier but as a Furious Parricide. My Acts exceeded the reach of Mortal strength, what∣ever was done was downright rage and Fury. I protest, I proclaim to all the World, I was not my-self when I did so Gallantly, and I shall com∣mit the Parricide too, when I am not my-self. I beseech this Honorable Bench, if by any means it can be brought to pass, that Presages shall not take effect, let the Glory of Innocence accrew to me rather than to my destiny: Let me be said to have Conquered destiny, to have burst the bonds of

Fatal necessity; Let my Duty, I pray, let my Inte∣grity have the sole praise. God forbid, I should stay till the Issue decide the Controversie betwixt the Response and me. I had rather defeat the A∣strologer, than venture to find fault with his Pre∣dictions.

What shall I do now, worthy Senators, how can I apply my self to be your Humble Suiter, either as a Gallant, or as a Parricide? Can I say, Favour me? Can I say, Help me? These Forms are used when we pray against Death; Men in my case must court their miseries after a new and uncouth way; unless I dye, I am in fear and danger. Men think, I have given the reasons of my Resolution, only that my Father might say, Nay; and, if I rightly understand malign inter∣pretations, they will say I aimed not at my Exit, but at an Excuse to prevent it, and to cease the tossing of my wretched Shame, by appealing to the Publick: A Parricide will never be deem'd willing to dispatch himself as long as he yet breaths. And therefore, Dear Father, I chuse to fall down at your Feet, I hold up my Hands to you, as yet Guilty of nothing but Chivalry. I beseech you (if I may presume so far,) by what I have done, by your very affection to me which makes you still fearless and secure of me, have pity upon me: A Son, that would wil∣lingly die out of dutiful Affection, don't let him make a Parricide's end. Make use of that Pa∣tience, whereby you were content to be with∣out me, when you let me go to the Wars. Ima∣gin, I had died there in the Bed of Honour, and that my Carkass, hack'd in peices, was carried

to its Funeral. Instead of a Son I bequeath to you all good Parents: That affection you have to keep me with you, lay it out on my Funeral; lay out my Body with your own hands, build the Funeral Pile your self, and perform the last Office. When yon have had enough of your Farewel Kisses and Embraces, then and not be∣fore, lift up your hands to Heaven, and cry out, Wizard, Thou art a Lyar.

So have I done with my Plea, and ended my Supplications. As for the rest, Help me, Hands! Assist me, Countrymen! Not that I may die, I I can do that, thô you deny me: But my Gal∣lantry commends to your Inspection and oversight the care of my Death, if perhaps I do not pre∣sently give my self a mortal Wound. If, I say, my hasty blow lets not out my Life and Soul with the stream of my Blood, be so kind as to help my hands, thrust the Weapon deeper, and be sure you keep off my Father. I know not, how far I may sling my hands in the Agony of my Death, and whereabout my Sword shall light when I pull it out my Bowels, and upon whom my Body may chance to fall, when I sink under the stroke. Would you know, how great Fear I am in, in case I should live? I am afraid, I shall kill my Father, now I die.

Aeger Redemptus: OR, The Sick-Son Ran∣som'd.

DECLAMATION▪ V.

The Argument.

The LAW, Children must maintain their Parents when they fall to decay, or else be committed to Prison. The CASE, There was a man had Two Sons, one Thrifty, the other a Prodigal: They both went to Travel, and were taken by Pyrates, where he that was the Prodigal

fell Sick. They both wrote back to their Father to be Ransom'd. The Good Old Man fold all His Estate to raise a Sum for that purpose, and made a Voyage to them. When he came, The Pyrates told him, he had brought Money enough to re∣deem but One of them, and bid him chuse which he would. He pitch'd upon the Sick Spend-all, who died in his re∣turn homewards. The other Son soon after broke Prison and came home. His Fa∣ther requires Maintainance of him, he de∣nies it.

For the Father against the Son.

Thô, My Lords, I have already under∣gon such a train of misfortunes that now 'twill be no News to me whatever can befal me, in regard my miseries, accruing both from Comforts and Cures, have left me no kind of Impatience, yet I confest that I could never foresee, either by my Fear or my Remembrance of past calamities, that, after I had to do with Pyrates, after I had lost my Son, and after I was reduc'd to want, the return of my own Child from Captivity should add to my misery. Alas, I made a shift to Live so long, that I might once more have the sight of him. And being buoy'd up only by the expectation of his being Alive, I procrastinated my ardent desire of Death, by a resolv'd Beggery. But now, I am e'en asham'd of my Resolution. The Toungster says, he return∣ed, only to be vindicated by his Brothers Death, and to mourn in Sack and Claret for my loss of him: Yet I would have him to know, that by this base undutiful Carriadg•••• of his, he justifies the more, what I have do•••••• Now he makes me more sensible than ever, what an unworthy thing it would have been, if I had not ransomed him that was Sick. What! do's he complain, that he was left behind, yet, you see, he was able to get away.

However, My Lords, my Son's present ill-carriadge justifies me for chusting his Brother; his cruelty shews, that I ransom'd the Best of the Two. Yet I will not, on this occasion, aggravate things against him as I might, neither will I chuse to defend by complaining, whatever I did in the Impatience of my unhappy affection. At that nick of time I could not consider or scan the minds and manners of my Children; my condition was so sad, that I could not stand to argue the Point, nor compare the affections of either: 'Twas mere necessity, 'twas only the miseries of them both, that were my motive. Of Two Sons, a Father loves neither best, that, of the Two, redeems him that was Sick. I confess, my Lord, this is the sad∣dest circumstance of all, in my woful case, that my Son, by his harsh Garriadge, and his slighting my Poverty and desperate need, hath question'd the Name of his good Brother. A Person, that could break Prison, and strike off the Fetters of the Corsairs, 'twas handsom for him to get clear by no other means, to chuse. For seeing he ran∣som'd himself with so much Prowess and Hazard, he would have deserved the admiration of Him too, who a little before could not get off, with∣out a ransom. Good God, what praise, what re∣nown had he deserved, if he would releive his Father, or if he had ransom'd his Brother? Being now telling you, My Lord the issue of my Troubles in order, which ar••••••o many that the cruelest and hard-beartedst Man alive that hears them, cannot but allow me maintainance, my very private disdain and grief prompts me first to ad∣dress my Speech to my Son, who complains that

he was undervalued by my chusing his Brother. What d' ye mean, you wilful proud Yonker? You can't tell your self, which of the Two I would have ransom'd, if you had been both well, or both amiss. The Truth is, my Lords, my Two Sons were of very different dispositions and qua∣lities, as to Body and Mind too And, as after∣wards their cruel Captivity made appear, they were wholly unlike, as to their Course of Life. One of them was hardy and could bear any thing, he was not easily softned by a prosperous, nor broken by an adverse, state: He was such an un∣dervaluer of Pleasure and Jollity, that even thence you might have known he was able to bear both conditions. This hardiness of his Mind had taught his Limbs to be hardy too. But 'tother was soon glad, soon sorry, he never knew what care meant; he could not bear the least trouble, a nice pevish Fellow, and as good as sick, when he was well. Yet this very disagreement did equally endeare them to their Father, his affection was so far equal to their different tempers, that he lov'd one with a real complacency, and 'tother with a kind of pity. But alas! what availed this equal and undivided affection? 'Twas clear enough, do what I could, whose Company I desired most, and which of the Two I had rather see and converse with. Even my Sons very complaint, my Lords, will he ••ill he, proves, how his Father stood affected to∣wards him. For to be angry and quarrel, that he was not prefer'd before his Brother, who was sick and weak, is the Pet of a Person, who was lov'd best of the Two. But, my Lords, if you would have a further Proof of the equality of my

affection to them both, pray consider, I did not I cull out one from 'tother to send him beyond Sea, no, I made them go both together, I set out hit Brother to be his Companion, and thus I stript my self of them both, as believing they were most with me, when they so enjoyed one another. And when they fell into disasters, my love continu∣ed the same to them both still. They were both taken Prisoners by Corsairs, and both sent Letter to me to ransom them. Thô thou dissemble ne∣ver so much, yet thou canst not but confess that I lov'd thee best, even when you were both i•• a woful plight. When you were both in slavery he that was sick (I suppose) could have least hop•• from his Father. Tell me, thou proud Yonker prithee, tell me, What could a Father do more that did his part to ransom you both? All my Estate went to make up Mony to redeem you; sold my Land, my Slaves, my House, and a•• my valuable Goods, with as much haste as a Fa∣ther could possibly make, nay I'le tell you, th•• deepest affection in the World could mount 〈◊〉〈◊〉 higher, for I reserv'd nothing for my self, to kee•• me, when I grew Old, I laid up nothing for C••∣sualties, which might possibly happen, yea (〈◊〉〈◊〉 unadvised was I, in my affection) I lest nothing no, not for him that I ransom'd. You may un∣derstand, my Lords, what a large Sum I carry•••• to the Pyrats, for now I have not a bit of Bre•••• to eat: If you say, the ransome was mean a•• low-priz'd, yet 'twas my All.

Take the richest, or if you will, take 〈◊〉〈◊〉 poorest Father alive, no man ever gave more 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his Children, than he that lest nothing for hims••••••

Whether the reason were, my Lords, that one of a mans Sons is counted worth his whole Estate? Or whether it were the Cunning of these cruel Bucaniers, to set a value on their Prisoners heads, only according to the ability of those that are to ransom them? Good God! How arrogantly, how proudly did the Corsair accost me! Gran∣sire, says he, Thou hast brought too little, one of thy Sons is Sick, Man. Sure, Heaven and Earth were angry with me, that, when he was resolv'd not to release them both, he did not make the choice himself? The cruel Fellow was willing to put me to more sorrow, and therefore said, I could not have them both? But to make my Circumstances more sad and deplorable, Chuse, said he, which of the Two, thou wilt. You see, Yonker, that the very Pyrats cruelty is a material Witness of my Affection. He would not have propounded such Terms to me, but that he thought I came to ransom you both? I know, my Lords, that, in that very Instant of my sad and tottering necessity, you could not but reckon, that I should have run presently to the sick Youth, and upon the very proposal of the condition, im∣mediately have knock'd off his Chains: But I'le speak the Truth, thô I incur your displeasure thereby, I was at a stand what to do. I was entangled with such a woful plunge of grief, that my Love held a long debate within my poor self, what 'twas best to do: so that I shall never be able to answer it to my Son's Ghost, nor to my own Conscience neither, because I did not presently pitch upon him that was declining, as if he had been my only Son. Thô now the loss of my Child

might make me hold my peace, yet, I fancy, I added much to his weakness by my delay in chu∣sing him, so that the unhappy Youth easily saw, in this pinch, which of the Two I would certainly have chosen, if they had been both in health. At last, which was the only Motive he could urge, this very desperateness of his Case prevail'd with me. 'Tis true, I ransom'd him, that when he was releas'd, was not able to follow me home, one that took no joy in his Releasment, nor in his be∣ing preferr'd before his Brother, and thô I embra∣ced and encouraged him, yet he was dejected still. If there had been any mercifulness at all left amongst Mankind, I might have pleaded merit, even to the Pyrats themselves, that they ought to have released them both; I wish, my Lords, the young-man had so demean'd himself in his Life and Conversation, that my love not my compassion might have put me upon chusing him before his Brother. But I count my self an unhappy Man, because I had so much to justifie me herein; my Justice in preferring him is sufficiently ac∣counted for, because he Dyed, even immediately after he was ransom'd, he was a Dying Son before, and that was the only reason, I chose him. Poor Man! I had a hard Game to play, even in point of Credit! My Son (you'l say) Dyed a Natural Death, of a Consumptive Disease: Grant it, yet his Father had been guilty of his Death, if, Sick as he was, he had left him behind. As for 'tother Son, my Lords, when I saw his resolvedness in bearing his Imprisonment, it presently gave me great bopes, he was not dismayed at his Bondage, nor at my delay in coming to him, nor at his

Brother's Sickness: so that seeing him so hardy, I had good Ground to hope, that, if his Sick Brother were releas'd before him, he would be the freer to make any attempt for his own escape. At last, Providence smiled upon us in our distress, and even in spight of the Pyrats cruelty, devised a Way how to return him to me, whom they de∣nyed to release: I confess, my Lords, I cannot challenge any thing to my-self, as to the contri∣vance of the Time, for I did nothing by deliberate advice: yet notwithstanding, the deliverance of both my Sons gives a sufficient reason for my ne∣ceslity. He that I ransom'd, is Dead; and he that I left in Prison, hath made his escape, and is come home. Perhaps, Poor Child, thou look'dst on thy Father, when thou found'st him begging, as if he had begg'd for himself; but thou wert mista∣ken, I was begging to make up thy ransom. I ap∣peal to the Clemency of this Charitable City, whether I did not use such Supplications, and Mo∣tives, as these. Sirs, have pity upon me, give your Charity, be as liberal to me as you can, for I am to go back to ransom him, who was willing his Brother should be ransom'd before him. As for thy self, at thy return, you should have call'd out to your Father with a loud Voice, Dear Fa∣ther, be of good chear, hold up your Head, we are now reveng'd on the cruel Pyrats, you have now ran∣som'd both your Sons. I demand maintainance, I need not say, as a Father from his Son, but as a Beggar from the next Man he meets, or as a de∣crepit Old Man from one that's young and lusty. For what Affection hath a deeper root in the sa∣cred and venerable Principles of Nature it self,

than that of Pity? What more common or usual, even between Children and Parents, than one Man to feed his Neighbour, when he's hungry. It is the Command of God himself, who's the Anther of our frail Life here below, that we should help one another, and by mutual Offices of Assistance supply others, with what in time we may want our-selves. This doth not yet amount to Charity, nor to Reverence due to Persons, no, 'tis only a provident Fear of the like Accidents, and a Reli∣gious dread, lest such common misfortunes should fall to our own Lot. Every one that fills a starve∣ling's Belly, in so doing, relieves himself. Thus in Seiges, when Provisions are scanty, one Man's dole serves two; and in a Voyage at Sea, they oft come to half-allowance. Hence also arises that common Pity, we bury Dead Carkasses, thô we know not who they are, and no Travailer is in so much Post-haste, bur he will Honour him with one Shovel full of Earth, that lies unburied in his way. But as for Parents, their Children do not oblige them by their maintainance, they only repay what they have received, and, God knows, full short of what they ow for the many and great expen∣ces they have been at about us, first in our Infan∣cy, then in our Childhood, and at length in our Youth, thô we are brought up never so frugally. The Truth is, if Nature would but allow this kind of Duty, when Parents fail, or are Sick, we might well spare them even part of our very Lives, so that a small Portion of that Soul, you first had from them, might well return to them as its Original. Would you know, what great Duty, what high Veneration is due to the Authority

of a Father? I'le tell you, 'Tis no Curtesy at all to allow them maintainance, but 'tis an horrid Im∣piety to deny 'em it. What do's the Law say? Children must maintain their Parents. I am even asham'd of those Sacred Names; is all the Reli∣gion of Mankind come to this? Must this be a Po∣sitive Law? What Curse shall I imprecate on that Man, who first made Filial duly to be a Vote of Senate? Children must maintain their Parents. O Cruelly done! O Famine of all Famines! What, no maintainance but by force of Law? But, says my Son, You deserve none: For answer, I'le set by the consideration of affection and merit, a while, and at present insist only on this, that I am to be rewarded only upon the account of my weakness and poverty. First of all, the Law is made so se∣vere, that we may demand maintainance with greater Confidence. They go off from the beauty and sanctity of Nature, who think that the Law provides only for such Parents, as stand upon good terms with their Children; No, the Law takes care of them, even in case of variance; and between such Sacred Relations, a just Provisi∣on is made, that even hatred should be bound to some Duty. You complain, fume, and are an∣gry with me, for this very reason the Law takes hold of you. What! would you have me stay, till the merits of our whole Life make up an agreement between Parents and Children, and till Duty, Nature and Blood do, as it were, tye a daily Knot of Friendship between them? so that unless Parents oblige them by compliance, flatte∣ry, and forbearance, presently Children renounce their Birth and Dependencies. My Lords, if you

would salve the Veneration due to a Father's Name in all Cases, let it be thus, Let the Son maintain the Father, when he is good, and let the Law maintain him, when he is otherwise. I won't wrong Nature so much, nor the Law nei∣ther, as to make any Apology even for the worst of Fathers, or to think that Sacred Name is preca∣rious, and stands in need of Favour to bolster it up. No, let me be as cruel, and as bad a Fa∣ther as he can make me, yet I have lov'd him, I think, long enough already. Thô I shut him out of Door, thô I strike him out of my Will, and he has no hope to enjoy a Foot of Land after me, nay thô I load him with Irons, thô I beat him black and blew, yet such a bad Father, as this, can hardly be requited. What if I be Proud and Im∣perious to my Child? must I, think you, ern eve∣ry Day that, which was my due the first Day he was Born? Am I pliable, gentle, indulgent, these are t••rms of a less affection; for such quali∣ties as these, a Man would maintain an Acquain∣tance, or keep a Stranger. The Truth is, when somtimes we are not so, 'tis our Childrens fault, and (which is a clear Evidence, that their mis∣carriadge makes us uneven in our deportments to∣wards them) we never meet with a Parent, that is harsh and p••vish, but where the Son began first to play his Pranks. What is't you say? Am I ri∣gid, and hard-hearted? Let me not starve tho' I ask only a bit of Bread, I desire no more for the Reverence you ow to the Name of a Father. Whatever you do for a Father's maintainance, whom you pretend to be unworthy, against your Wills, 'tis not He that is maintained, but rather

all Fathers in him. If willing, you shew your du∣tiful affection; if not, you must comply with the Law, that forces you. You don't maintain a Fa∣ther, if you respect only Virtue in him. Prithee, Young Man, be quiet, defer your Complaints, 'twill be time enough to Quarrel, and to twit me in the Teeth, when I call for the Respects and Largesses due to an happy and prosperous Father: Now, I don't submissly kneel before you, that you may be afraid of me; when a Father is in distress, he can be cruel to none. Thou feest, I am a ruin'd Man, all kind of misery overwhelms me; nay I cannot well be more miserable, for I have lost my Child, and I go a begging. My grey Hairs are clitted on my Head for want of Kemb∣ing; I did look fresh, but now my Eyes are sunk in my Head, and can scarce dart a poor ray through my nasty Hair, that hangs over them. I am so lean, that my Skin even sticks to my Ribs, Famine hath quite destroy'd the Man in me, I am now a mere Sceleton.

I hope in this condition I shall be a Good Fa∣ther again, and deserve my former Respect and Reverence, even from the piteousness of my Case. What! Is not this creeping of mine to my Son pu∣nishment enough for me, that I am fain to en∣treat, to crave, that I am no better than his mere Beggar? Nay, O Heavens! How many things are there that the Laws themselves cannot make good to us? And how many more do we come short of, when men do for us against their Wills. Stay, I don't require, that you should seed me with your own Hands, or that you should make much of me and chear me up; No, threw me

something that I may catch; cast it under the Ta∣ble, that I may take it up. You may be reveng'd of me in some sort, if you releive me, and yet don't pity me Yet, my Lords, if any Plea can be le∣gally allow'd by you for so great an Impiety, and if you think it possible, that a Son, who will not maintain his Father, can give any reason at all for it, then, I beseech you, weigh with your selves, what horrid offence that must be, that a Son cannot revenge but by Famishing his own Fa∣ther. Oh, says he, You would not ransom me, when I was taken Prisoner? Who can but think that the Father should rather complain of the Son? Can a Father bear, his Son should tell him, I am not at all in thy Debt for giving me Life and Being once, because thou didst not add a second kindness, to give me my Life and Liberty once again. Truly, we are in a very bad Case to deserve so highly of our Children, if we must add more or else lose all; 'tis a very ill Example, if we fail in what's to come, to have no thanks for what's past. I did not ransom thee. Thy obligation to me was never the less for bringing thee forth, as a piece of my∣self, into the Visible Scene of this World. 'Twas long of me, that thou can'st make use of Sea and Land for thy advantage, and serve thy self by the unwearied Gourses of the Stars, yea and of the bright-shining Firmament of Heaven. Those very hands, which thou draw'st back ; the very words that deny me maintainance, thou hadst them both from my Substance and from my Loins. Thou should'st rather have rejoyc'd and been glad at Heart, that thy Father's unkindness and severity gives thee opportunity to shew thy self a

good and dutiful Son. He only is before-hand with his Father, who complains of him, and yet re∣leives him. Yet, my Lords, how many Answers could I give to his Complaint, which would wholly take off any reflection upon me, for not ransoming him? It were an Excuse tolerable enough, if I should say, I made all the haste I could, but Old Age, my Poverty, and my Weak∣ness, were a great hindrance to me? Besides, I could not get up Mony enough to ransom you so soon: I could not equip my self for a Voyage in so much haste; 'tis difficult for those that are younger and lustier than I, so to do. Besides, be∣ing a lone Man, and stricken in Years, I did not steere so prosperously, as I expected. How many Fears, how many Jealousies did I undergo in my hasty Voyage? Good Son, be nor so wrathful, I did no more for him that I ransom'd indeed, than I did for you. I don't ow you the good hap of success in all that I do, I ow you only my good Will; I do what I can for you, but I cannot undertake for a fair Issue. I rais'd Mony to ransom you both; I put to Sea in behalf of both; I came and supplicated the Pyrats for both: suppose, they had released both, pray tell me, which had I loved best then? Go too then, Yonker, (if thou wilt) aggravate things against thy Father, give our, Thou pretend∣est starving, but 'tis Luxury, Prodigality, and vo∣luptuous Courses, have brought thee to it, like an Old Fornicator thou hast spent all thy Estate upon Misses and Sluts: If it were so, yet you ought to suc∣cour me. The Law is content only to say, That a Father, when poor, is to be releived; it doth not send the Son to enquire into the Causes of his Po∣verty.

But what will you say, if I laid out all on your Education, on your running up and down, and on your ransoms? 'Tis a horrible wickedness, and without Parallel, to make one's Father a Beg∣gar, and then not to releive him.

My Lords, the Youth now endeavours to load me with another Imputation, for not redeeming him. You preferr'd, says he, my Brother before me. Sup∣pose, I plead Guilty to this Indictment, suppose, I acknowledge the Crime. Thou Impudent'st of Mortal Race! What, can'st nor endure that thy Brother should have a little Love, more than thy self? Whereas 'tis plain, thou preferr'st the Love of I know not who; the affection, that takes up the Room thy Heart, proceeds from far less Ob∣ligations. Thou dost not care, I should respect him, who drew Life and Breath from my own Bowels, as well as thy self; and who alone might well have taken up the All of a Father's Love. He is the worst of Men, that thinks his Brother cannot be loved, but he must be hated. Wilt thou Watch, I trow, and keep reckoning, whom I Kiss oft'nest, and whom I embrace most affectio∣nately? This is no discontent, or pious quarrel, which was best beloved of the Father? do'it thou think, that Brother of thine was lov'd too much, whom, thou didst not love at all? Thou art mi∣staken, Poor Youth, and ill Principles have led thee a to'side a true understanding, who supposest, That part of a Father's affection is lost to one Son, which by reason of some cogent Circumstances in∣clines to another. There is an equal, nay the same, affection to all the Children, yet somtimes he may have proper motives of Indulgence to one

of 'm; and, the equality of Love being salv'd still, there is something, for which, by a secret Instinct of mind, we again love each one, as if he were the only begotten. One obtains the preference, as being the First-Born; another, because a Young-Infant; One is commended for a brisker Counte∣nance, and a prettier look after a Kiss, or so; A grave look, and honest Face endears some; others again are better beloved for unhappy Accidents; Corporal defects, and an helpless state and conditi∣on are the greatest Objects of Commiseration. Yet Fatherly affection, in gross, is safe and intire, when what we think wanting in one is supplyed in another. Be content, those affections are not wholly lost, they do not quite perish, but prevail in their turns, as we see good, one while one is serv'd, and 'tother while another. Nothing can be preferr'd before a Son, but a Son as good as He.

My Lords, Let me make the best of my Cala∣mitys awhile, and plead so, as if I had found both my Sons amongst the Pyrates, in good plight. Doubtless the Ransom, I brought, was enough for both, yet The would not Release both, but bad me, Take my Choice. Pray, advise me, what shall I do in the Case? What say you? Would it be the compassion of a Father, to get me gon, to pack away, to take pet, to make my meane, and by this means strive to make the Pyrats, Odi∣ous? Children all, I put the Question to you! Parents all, I interrogate you! Is it not a plain Crime to Ransom neither, because I cannot Ran∣som both? 'Twere a great peice of Piety, sure, to make my Children all alike in an equal state of

Despair, and because I cannot releive both, there∣fore to bereave my self of both. But you, Poor Grandsire, take what's given, be glad of what's offered, whilst the feirce Pirats are in a good mood, till their cruel Temper doth abate so, as to suffer both to be redeem'd. In the mean time, many things may casually stop in; hope the best, you may come again, or you may hope, that perhaps he may make his Escape. That which cannot be done by the Lump, yet may be perform'd by Peice-meal and in parts; and 'tis easier to take in peices those parts that are separate, which in the bulk must not be medled with. As far as I understand, My Lords, my Son, that would have had little benefit by my chusing him, is only an∣gry at this, that I Ransom'd his Brother. Who, My Lords, can endure such a peice of Impudence? He accuses me, that, I should make any distincti∣on between my Children. Then he complains that himself was not chose, so that, thô his Bro∣ther, beside his equal share of Relation, had also an additional advantage, viz. the respect due to his Weakness, yet he is angry, because that Scale did not weigh heaviest, wherein the bare notion of Son was only put.

I see not, My Lords, how I could have avoided the odicusness of this Fault, if I had rather chosen to release him. A Father, that could not obtain both of the Pyrats, must needs redeem either the Weak one, or none. Nay but, says he, You prefer∣red my debauch'd Brother before me. Not so fast, good Son, forbear your reviling language. These distinctions are not seasonable here, those Vices of his, and these Vertues of yours may be confide∣red

at home, but not before you come thither. In the Interim, I look upon you both alike, as Brothers, as my Children, both under Captivity and Misery, the difference between you is swal∣low'd up by your common share in calamity. You see, how unworthy 'tis, that one of you should be of less account with me, than 'tother? The Pyrats car'd not, which of you I chose. You have left, says he, your deserving Son behind, and re∣deem'd the Spend-thrift. I could have born the comparison, d'e mark me, if the dispute had been about Estate or Preferment, then I wou'd have own'd, you should have had the Preference. But we are at this Pass now, we are not to consider Probity of Mind and Manners, but only to make an Estimate of your Persons. Alas! How should He live in so delesom a condition? How could he endure the nastyness of a Prison, and the hunger∣starv'd diet of Pyrats, that could not endure the near and sparing entertainment of his Fathers House? Could he ever have liv'd in the solitude of a Dungeon, that was always us'd to Company and Good-Fellowship? You, who were accustom'd to honest Patience and commendable Labour, were better able to stay behind awhile; you your self do answer your own Objections: 'Tis you, that I left behind, and 'tis the Company-keeper that I Ransom'd. What wou'd you have? I preferr'd him, that I complain'd of to none but you; when I punish'd and rebuk'd him, you know, I us'd to commend and admire you. Aggravate your Brothers faults as much as you will, call him prodigal, deboist, as long as you know that there∣by you do the more confirm, that 'twas not his

Fathers greater Love, but only a Consideration of his Misery. He is truly said to Chuse, who takes him that was best before. Prithee, Youth, forbear to misinterperet Adverssity. 'Tis no choice to take one, when a man has brought the Price of Both. What difference there is, 'twas not I, but the Pyrat made it. Whatever I acted for either of the Two, proceeded from the Affection, where∣with I lov'd you both. I, being a man, who va∣lu'd my Son only for the sake of his Misery, did not prefer him before you; but if you had been in his Case, I had done as much for you. Do you think, This was done by me out of design? No, 'twas mere Chance, that you were both made Prisoners, that one of you fell Sick, and that he did not recover, even thô he were Ransom'd. When I came to redeem Two, that which the Pyrat granted me for one, 'tis as much as if he had deny'd me both.

But how long shall I conceal the true reason of my Fact? This it was; I plainly chose him, be∣cause he was Sick. Tell me now, if you please, that he was a lewd and a debauch'd Fellow. Pray, speak softly of his Memory, lets have a devout tenderness for his last Ashes, perhaps I should have been sorry if he had liv'd. I tell you once and again, (seeing you put me to it) I make my defence from my very Accusation. 'Tis my Sick Son, I redeem'd. For the truth is, there is no difference between Children, but where calamity intervenes; amongst those, whom Natural Piety hath made all one, you can find no distinction, un∣less on account of Misery. I don't now consider Course of Life or M••rals. I found him panting, I

heard his weary-groans, 'twas to him I came, not as soon as I should. Again, O Fortune, thou hast devis'd a Way, how Charity may super-erogate, and what accession may be made to the Sacred Names of Father and Son. This alone is a greater affection than to Love all Sons, to have compassi∣on on one. If any man should ask me, My Lords, the Condition was not truly meant nor honest, but savour'd of a Pyrats barbarity. I might by no means leave my Sick Son behind me, but, I hope, I may take the Weakling with me. Do you think it likely, that they would release you on as easie Terms, as they would your Brother, that was a dying? Or that Fellows of such inhu∣manity, that had the Heart to share and share a∣like of Children with their own Fathers, would suffer him to be left on their hands, who they knew wou'd die even by this, That his Father left him behind? My miserable Piety was sorely put to it, and they were pleas'd to add this also to my calamities, that I should bear the shame of such a Condition, where no side could be chosen. When a Sick-man is offer'd, in competition with a sound, he is therefore offer'd, that he alone may be chosen.

My Lords, if I mistake not, there is one point behind. That seeing he complains his Brother was preferr'd before him, you your selves would judge, which of them, in those circumstances, my Piety ought to have releiv'd? Certainly, this is the Infirmity of humane Nature, that of all misfortunes every body thinks those the sorest, that he himself undergoes; for seeing we are sensible of other mens sufferings only by Reflection on them

in our thoughts, but of our own by actual pain, of necessity ours must make a deeper Impression, thô they be less, in regard of our impatience. But his was a languishing and consumptive Sickness which outstrips all other calamities, for in all other Miseries a man may have some glimpse of ease and comfort. Let a mans hands be manacled un∣der a merciless Jaylor; Let his body be shut up in the Hole or darkest Dungeon, yet some can play even with their Chains, and clear their Limbs from the links, and it hath somthing of content∣m••nt in it, to be able to manage a contest with ones Punishment. The rage of Kingdoms lies in Racks, the rage of War in Wounds, yet what∣ever we are able to go thro', doth not trouble us so much; and when Crosses fall upon us in prime of Age and Spirit, they are master'd by our stout striving against them.

What Torments, what Pains, can you compare to a languishing Sickness? when a Consumption seizes inwardly on the Bowels and Vitals, and sends the man every day piece meal to the Grave? When his Stomach calls for meat, drink, and o∣ther accommodations of Life, and yet loaths them, when they are brought to him? When we long for Attendants, and cannot endure them neither? When we bespeak the help of hand, and yet when it comes to, are loth to be touch'd? When our Body is tumbled and toss'd all over the Bed, as upon burning Coals? The very light is offensive to his almost-spent Eyes, and no Voice he has, but what he utters in groaning? When of Two Captives, the one is Sick, a Father can do no wrong, but in this only, if he chuse the sound.

Hitherto, My Lords, I have discoursed of him as if he had been Ill at home, and in his own House, amongst his Parents and Freinds: But, Oh, My Lords, a Prison, and a Thousand diseases attending it, are enough to make any one, Sick; I don't mean a Prison, that the Severity of the Law, or the Justice of the Magistrate sent him too; No mortal fear, nay the wit of man can't sufficiently conceive, what I saw. First, you have, under the Precipice of a vast Rock, a dole∣som hole, which was dug so deep by all the skill, the Pirats had, far beyond the natural darkness of the blackest night; next, the vast Ocean en∣compass'd it about, and when the tempestuous Fury of the Sea dash'd against the Rocks on all sides, it frighted us as if it would fall. Every place look'd dolesom, having Gallows's erected in it; the neighbouring parts were full of floting wracks; wherever we look'd, nothing but me∣lancholy or death, and to comfort the Hearts of Poor Captives, (the clean contrary way) no going out, but to Execution. There was only a little Breath left, by which they made a shift to live, which was drawn in and breath'd out by groans of Prisoners, and was as 'twere made up by so many languishing Captives. This was the place were my Poor Gentleman lay; such was the Bed and Furniture the Pyrat had prepar'd, ever since he began to set up the Trade. That Body, which could scarce endure the tendrest touch of those that ministred to it, lies in Fetters, which the cruel Pyrat bound him in, as if he had but newly come into his Clutches; and thô his emaciated Limbs slip from the Gives, yet they still gripe him as bad,

as if his Flesh fill'd them up, they fall lower and lower in a knot as it were, the Prisoner not being able to hold them up. In what condition was be under a Chain, whose Consumptive hands could scarce endure the softest wear? What rest could he take amidst the groans and yawlings of his Fellow-Prisoners, that could scarce sleep when all was husht and quiet? Who could minister a word of comfort to him in his sad condition? All about him were in the same case, and every day, to the Old Standers, came in a New Captive to in∣crease the din. Now, do you compare, if you please, your Circumstances with your Sick Bro∣thers Case? You complain, the Pyrat did give you no Victuals, he could not but put it by, when it was offer'd him: The bare ground, and naked lodg∣ing is all that afflicts you, but he at every moti∣on of his Hectical body tumbles into his s••arting Chains, and which way soever he turns himself, tired out with pains, he renews his Punishment by a fresh exercise of his Patience. Breifly, you may Consider the height and utmost of his miserable af∣fliction, even by This, Poor man, He could not be cur'd, no not after his Father had Ransom'd him. Now, Good Son, examine me if you please, and ask me every foot, Why I made choice o•• your Sick Brother? Do you think, I can give you a reason, why I did it? I protest, I could not, if I had redeem'd your-self. What if he should call me to Answer, Why I laid out all my Estate upon his Funeral? Why I invited such a Train of Friends to the Solemnity? To what pur∣pose did they dwell so long on his Funeral Pile? What, never part from his ardent embraces? To

all which I say, I avow, and care not who hears me, You are a Fool or a Madman, if you ask me such Questions.

But, says he, This then is my great complaint against you, That you preferr'd a Dead man before me. Prithee, Yongster, don't impute so much Savage∣ness to me, as to suppose I thought his Case was desperate. May I not hope he would live the first time that I saw him, and embrac'd him sick and weak, and whom even the Pyrat was content to have left behind? If you ask a Fathers Judg∣ment, whatever it be that torments and troubles the Poor man, I do not think it Weakness so much, as Impatience, a longing to go home, and greif that he stays so long there. He that is detain'd by Pyrats, his only Remedy is his Ransom. But by your leave, Sweet-heart, there is no reason I should fly to this Plea for my calamitous Piety, as to say, I thought he would live. I'le rather ag∣gravate my Crime in common with thee; Let me confess I Ransom'd him, who could not brook dilatory Put-offs and delays, so that, the Pyrats sold me only some short-liv'd Kisses, and a small scantling of Life. Upon my word, if you had been both Sick, I would have Ransom'd him that Sickned first. If you had been both cast away at Sea, I would have lent my helping hand to him, that was most weary with striving against the Waves, and readiest to drown. If you had both returned Wounded from the Army, I would have sooner bound up his Wounds, that bled most cruelly. Forgive me, O Heavens, thô I know not which to chuse of my Children, yet I know which to chuse, when they are in a wretched con∣dition.

Moreover, I give thanks to my Fat••, thanks, I say, that my Sick Child hath yet the use of his senses, that he knows how kind I have been to him, otherwise I had got nothing but a Carkass, and had paid the Ransom of Two for the last obsequies of one You don't know, how much I was confounded, and how much was ad∣ded to my greif, that my Children should be in the same condition under such different circum∣stances. A Sick Brother is all one to a Pyrat, but he is not all one to a Father.

But, Oh, my unhappy age! Whether I will or no I must confess, that what I did on good grounds, and with an high degree of Piety, ye•• it was with difficulty and regreet. What, d'e think, my thoughts were at that time, and what trouble of mind was I in, when, Poor man, I was fain to run between both my Children, as uncertain which to Chuse? When I kiss'd one longer than ordina∣ry, I thought 'tether would die for despair. When I appropriated my Groans and my Tears to thy Sick Brother, thou lookedst, as if Thou wouldst have been Sick. How oft did I make an attempt to loose thy Chains? But my very prefe∣rence of Thee did the ••••••re endear to me thy Bro∣ther, whom I pass'd by. How oft did I take off his Chains and then p••t them on again, when my mind was to release thee sound, rather than him sick. I can't dissemble the difficulty of that Con∣dition, known only to my-self. I ought to Ran∣som thy Sick Brother, but I had rather it had been, Thee.

My Lords, I would willingly place you in the present straits and necessities, I my self then was. Behold, the unhappy Youth, at first sight of his Father, endeavour'd to rise up, and a little lifted his Hands, discolour'd as they were with filth and nastiness, as if he wou'd have embrac'd me, but the poor Heart swoon'd before he could bring them to my Neck, and so sell back again upon the Place he lay on. All the rest of the Prisoners were still, and lest the terrible noise of the Chains might drown our Discourse, they held their wearied Limbs with much ado, and stir'd not. Perhaps, 'tis too late to put on my Gravi∣ty, yet now, if you please, I'le begin. Thou de∣bauch'd Knave, thou deservedst to be left behind. Alas, that Man doth not know the hurrys and tossings of paternal grief, who thinks it any com∣fort to him to complain of a languishing Son, and to upraid his Course of Life and Manners. Tell me not of Virtue, pardon me at this time, O Probity; he, of my Children, is dearest to me who is upon the Point of Death. Yet, I confess, it was some comfort to me in my Childs weak∣ness, that the unhappy Youth liv'd as he would himself, and that his Life, thô sh rt, was yet mer∣ry and jocund. Believe me, Yonker, I had rather now, even for thy own sake, that thou hadst been a Prodigal too: In what time of his painful Sick∣ness would'st thou have me brow-beat and chastise him? He is a very impatient Man indeed, that will go destroy his Son, because perhaps he may have some reason to be a••gry with him. Dost thou think, I was wrought upon by his Prayers and the Intercession of his Tears? No, the poor

Sickling prevail'd upon me, by saying nothing. I sate by the poor Fellow's side, he hung down his Eyes, I ask'd him a Question, his Answer was in sighs and groans. While I was considering, he be∣hav'd himself as one given up for lost; when he went about to embrace me, presently his feeble Hands sell down into my Bosom. And when we had mingled our weary Groans, and breath'd out our very Hearts in warm sighs, answering one another with united Sobs and wearisom Tears, without speaking a Word, at last he recollected his Spirit with much ado into these few Words. Truly, Father, says he, I give you thanks, that you came hither to ransom us both; yet my sick∣ness hath not so blunted my Senses, but that I know the issue of this my present condition. I am an Hector, I am a debauch'd Fellow, and I Dye under the Infamy of that Name and Report. Yet, I wish, that the Fates at last would bestow this Boon upon me, that I may breath my last in your Arms and Embraces. But if to stay for a Dying Man seem long to those that are in haste, then de∣part ye survivors, happy survivors; only speak a Word for my C••rps to the Pyrats, that it may not be dr••wn'd in the deep, or thrown into the boist∣rous Sea, then I should end as if my Father had never come and attempted to ransom me. For how can I hope, that ever you should come again to redeem me? Then upon some broken Speeches he quite fainted, and was spent, and his Vitals being gathered together where his pain was, his Limbs grew stark and stiff: I confess, I cried out, Poor Y••uth, How do'st do? Why do'st sink down in Despair? Lift up thine Eyes a little, take Heart,

hold out a while, Thy very Brother hath chosen thee. At this Word the bargain was struck, the Pyrate presently took off his Chains, and loos d his Bounds; would you have me deny now, that I chose him? when he was brought forth into the open Air to see the Sun, would you have him re∣turn'd to his darkness again? For my part, I had not a Word to say, that I might consider, or refuse the Person, that was releas'd.

Pray distinguish between the Father's Act, and the Act of the Pyrats. The Father releas'd both, but the Pyrats would let him carry but one home with him. Oh, but, says my Son, You ought not to have redeem'd my Sick Brother, for, you see, he dy'd presently after. O thou cruelest of Flesh and Blood, who do'st not think thy own ransom was lost, hear how much the Pyrats restor'd to me even in my Dying Son. Your Brother, who fainted away in his Shackles, had some breathing-time when he came to a Bed, and liberty at last to toss and tumble his unmanacl'd Hands all the Bed over, after his baleful Prison he shifted himself of his filthy nasty Rags, he was so happy for a little while, as to see his Neighbours, to speak to his Friends, to lay his Charge on 'em, and bind 'em to it, and thô he were sinking under his last Fate, yet he had the priviledge to breath in the free and open Air, before. Fortune, whether she would or no, hath bestow'd on me a great comfort, even in the loss of my Son; if I had left him behind, he would have dy'd with some envious reflection upon my-self, but now, I have not kil••'d, I have only lost him. What say you, Son? If I ought not to have redeem'd my Son, that was going the

way of all Flesh, don't you think it punishment enough for me, that he is dead and gon? Perhaps you might have been angry with your Father, if your Brother should have liv'd; then if I had demanded maintainance of you, you might have answer'd, Go to my Brother, who is more in your Books. As far as I see, you are reveng'd of your Father's Beggery, and you are also an Enemy to your poor Brother's Liberty? You don't know the right way of aggravating things against your Fa∣ther; your Cause would be the better, if you did take pity upon me. But, Oh H••avens! how different was the affection of the poor Youth, that's gone! For I d••clare, and proclaim, so that all the Town may hear and bear Witness, He gave you many thanks even at the very Instant of his Dy∣ing. I veri••y believe, the poor Man pined away with grief, upon this account, that for his sake I had lost all that Mony. And therefore in his lan∣guishment he spake to you, as if you had been by, Dear brother, I beg of you by that sacred and ve∣nerable Tye of our B••rth, by our joynt Travels to∣gether, by our comm••n misfortunes, by this very Sen••iment, That sickn••ss might have been your Lot, if ever your Courage, or wearisomeness of Py∣rats, shall set you free from this confounded place, I comm••nd t•• ••ou our Anti••nt Father, whom both of us have even m••de a Beggar. I call the im∣mortal Gods above to Witness, yea and the Infernal ones too, I would have maintain'd my Father, if he had ran om'd you.

But I may thank my self, says the Youth, for my return home. The Truth is, Young-man, I would no whit detract from the commendation of your

Virtues, yet I am bound to tell you the Truth in this d••ed of mine, and you must hear it. You ungrat••ful Wretch! do you give out, that you made your escape; No, I tell you, you were re∣lea••'d, and the Piety of my Election was the Cause: How came it else to pass, that, during your Im∣pri••onment, you could not make your escape be∣fore? Crack as long as you will of your break∣ing Pri••••n, and shaking off your Chains. Would you know, what made the Pyrats so s••cure and negligent in guarding you? 'Twas because I paid 'em Mony enough to ransom you both.

The Young man him••••lf, my Lord••, doth now also unders••a••d, that he is not able to cope with the Justice of my Calamities, and therefore he Pleads as if he were not bound at all to main∣tain me: So that he passes over his defence to this Plea, That he is not in Case or Ability to do it. What say you, my Lords, will you endure a Young stur∣dy Fellow with such pretences? Grant, thou hast no great Estate, yet thou hast Limbs and Lusti∣hood: I don't expect any hard labour or any diffi∣cult undertaking from you, I am content, Son, with your good will only. Don't think, I desire maintainance? Nay, I rather desire shoulders for my weakness to lean upon, hands to warm my Breast that is so beaten with my knocking of it, and a Bosom, where to lay the remainder of my even exhausted Tears; I desire, that you would bury me, and lay my Bones by those of your poor Brothers deceased. I seek not for maintainance, but I seek for a Son. Moreover, I require no long and burthensome business in your last Du∣ty? Alas! I would not live long, thô you main∣tain'd

me both. Rest secure, in a very short time my Groans will deliver you, and my Vitals that are even worn away by my daily waylings: Why do you send me to the Charity of the Croud? Why do you again make me burthensome to all my Neighbours? I have spent my stock of Tears already, I have worn out all the pity of the Town. Other Folks will never releive a Man, that his own Son is bound to maintain. Son, what means your harsh dealing with me, which is unbeseem∣ing my calamity, and also unbecoming your vertu∣ous Education? You have made me past shame in my miseries. Whatever I did, since you came home, 'tis Impudent Beggery. Yet the Youth per∣sists in his hard-heartedness, neither doth the Me∣mory of his Brother, nor the sad Estate of his Fa∣ther incline him to any pity at all. Another Man would here cry out, on this occasion, Oh thou absurdest of Mortals, who returned'st to greive and torment thy Father, thou art worthy to be cast into Bondage again. And thô thou insult over this my Confession, yet I shall not press it; why d'e shew me such miserable ways of Revenge, and such sad means of Relief? A Father would do so, that was never willing to redeem his Son. Come now at last, thou over-long-liv'd Age, let's come to our Prayers, and, which is the only thing a Paternal Piety doth own, let's beg and entreat. Dear Child, I beseech you by this Age of mine, which you mutter is too long, by those common misfor∣tunes of Mankind, which we have all Experience of, for thy poor Brother's sake, who had not the happiness to see thee return'd, and to stand by him at his Death, maintain me now, because I

did my best to redeem thee. Maintain me, because I did actually redeem thy Brother, I don't desire, thou should'st Work till you are weary, nor do I desire to be idle my self; nor do I assign soil and sweat to your labouring hands, that I may lie still and be idle the while. No, let us joyn together in duties of mutual Piety, a mournful Pair, a Pair to be reverenc'd in all Ages, and upon all ac∣counts. We have to do with a very merciful Government. They will give more chearfully, when they shall see those, who are joyntly and alike miserable, to have both their share in mutu∣al Alimony. For my part, I'le beg, as I use to do, and the People shall throw their Alms into your Lap. Whatever my Prayers and Tears shall obtain, that take you, keep, and distribute. I am solicitous for your Credit, that you may be a dutiful Son. I will beg, and you shall maintain me.

Corpus Projectum, sive Anus Caeca. A Corps thrown into the Sea: OR, The Blind Old Woman.

DECLAMATION VI.

The Argument.

The LAW. He that forsakes his Parents in their distress, when he Dyes, his Body is to be cast out unburied. The CASE. A certain Man had a Wife and a Son, he

himself was taken by Pyrats, and wrote back to be ransom'd. Ʋpon reading his Letter, his Wife wept out her Eyes, and his Son, much against his Mothers Will, went and redeem'd his Father, putting himself Prisoner in his stead. The Son dyes in Prison; his Body was thrown into the Sea, and, by stress of Weather, was carryed back into his own Country and there cast ashore. The Father would have him Buried, the Mother withstands it.

For the Father against the Mother.

ALthô, my Lords, in this woful plight of frail humane Nature, wherein every Ma•• living hath his share, all are of this Hu∣mour, to count their own sufferings greatest and most intolerable, yet of necessity this must be a Truth, evident to all Men, That my misery doth so far exceed others, that, it alone ought to be lamented, even to the loss of ones Eyes. For what have I suffered so light, but that even the disasters of others, compar'd with mine, may be counted Felicities? Oh, 'Tis a grievous thing, to be clapt into Chains by Pyrats, which they have the greatest reason to say, who know, how sud∣denly, such persons, when taken, come to their ends. Poor Man, I was a Prisoner indeed, but I count my self more unhappy, that I was releas'd. Want of affection to ones own is very unworthy, yet how much of it appears in this matter, you all see. Nay, I have more, I must complain of this too, that my Wife and my Child, both lov'd me too too well. What could I imagin was pos∣sible to be found in the whole World, harder to be born, than total loss of Children? Yet that which is the most miserable to others, could never be my good hap, to follow my Son to his Grave. 'Tis but a light thing, that I was the cause of Death

to my Son of so extraordinary and exemplary Virtue; and that being redeem'd by so precious a Person, by his death I yet live an Aged Odious man. 'Tis but a small matter, that the Waves brought me News of my Greif, and, when I was thinking of nothing less, a Poor Fathers loss was driven a ••hoar, and that I buried the Carkass of my Poor Son, after it had been wafted and toss'd at Sea, ••o late, thô no body at all had hindred me; I am still forbid to perform the last Office, and that not a crumb of Comfort may fall to my share, I have lost also the Pity of my Wife. See, a Wo∣man arrests a floting body, more cruel than Pyrat or Storm; and to fill up the measure of my greif, Who is it that acts thus, but my own Wife? And that no Stranger may be mistaken, 'twas not a Step-dame, but an own Mother. Oh woful, how is Nature it self changed by my misery? A Mo∣ther denys Funeral Flames to her Son, a Woman so distress'd that she wants her Husbands help in the Case. Who would beleive this of her? She is utterly undon, and yet she bewayls not her Son, she, I think, is Pistol and Thunder-proof. Let her compare her Greif, she lost her Eyes for a lesser Cause by much.

My Lords, judge you, I pray, of the quality of this Crime and Punishment by the very Death, that follows. 'Twas I, only I, that Prison'd my Son, and disgrac'd him, and that he might meet with Repentance, the usual attendant of great sor∣rows, 'twas I that plung'd him into that dismal Hole. What hap had the Poor Youth to meet with such Parents, that his Father should bereave him of Life, and his Mother deny him Burial? For

to tell you, once for all, of the Piety of this Son of mine, 'twas▪ he that redeem'd his Father. If my Wife be angry, because I came home, let her give a reason, why she wept at the Receipt of my Letter. But how could the Poor Youth better divide his Duty? The Law com∣mands him to help his Parents in their distress, both of his Parents were distress'd: 'Twas more than one could do, to help 'm both; yet his artful Piety found out a way, to releive 'm both with his own ruin. He came to his Father, and he remitted me to his Mother. If this be a Crime, I know what I have to do; I will plead my Cause with Complaint and Wayle, for the Law, I hope, al∣lows a man to Weepe. Otherwise 'tis not con∣venient I should be long in pr••ising him, the Duty of his Burial would be delay'd thereby. 'Tis not the Interest of my Plea, to be overdiligent in my defence; I stay too long, before I get leave to bury him. Whil'st we wrangle and quarrel about the Corps of our lost Child; whil'st we Plead the Cause of the deceased; whil'st we stay for an Order for his Burial, whil'st we take up a great deal of time in D••claiming, the Body taints and is not in every part dry and sweet. Were it not for the Good Company of those that stand about it, the Corps would be prey'd upon by Birds and Beasts. Parents of all sorts flock to him, a crowd of People run in thick to the sight, even com∣mon humanity m••kes a kind of Funeral for the Body, thô of a Strang••r. All greive for and be∣wail h••m, but the major part say, that The Poor Youth has no body to bury him. The Young man, sure, hath neither Father nor Mother. He hath

lain so long, that the shape of a Body is almost spoiled: The Corruption, that comes from him, moistens the Earth; His Bones now begin to ap∣pear thrô his Skin. Thô you were never so hard-hearted, yet you could not endure to see such a sight, you may perhaps endure to hear of it. This ••s our Son, whose very hopefulness we loved, for whom we prayed to the Gods in all Temples, who were deaf to our request, that he might outlive us: This is he, we desir'd should bury us. That Love∣ly Infant, that Pretty Boy, and that Youth, before this accusation, most Dutiful. He, that when the Fortune of his Parents were both equal, was pro∣pense enough to Love you. Let me not be be∣leiv'd, if, when my Voyage parted us, he had not rather be with his Mother. When I traverst all the Sea over, to leave a better Estate to my Son behind me, lo, Pyrats, crueller than the Stor∣miest Sea, way-laid and took me. Shall I give some description of their Prison, it hung over the Sea; the Chains, strait at first, hung looser and looser by my leanness; the Ship it self, that knew all my Misery, was worn away by the pressure of my Sides, and the butcherly Dungeon envelop'd with perpe••ual darkness? No, out of modesty, I must c••nceal all this; otherwise, who would pardon me, that I accepted my ransom by leaving my Son in my room; nay, I am sorry in my heart, that ever I writ about it. Oh Letters writ crying, and with a shaking hand! Oh these hands of mine, that had too much Liberty! Oh Epistle, to be blotted out by the Tears of my Wife! Why did I acquaint them, why did I write the last lines that my Wife or Son should ever read;

That I know not, which of the Two cost most, to redeem or bewail me. My Wife, a woman of a Thousand, and worthy to be the Mother of such a Son, assoon as she heard of my miserable Case, quite wept out both her Eyes, so that nothing, but stark Blindness, stop't up that ever-flow∣ing Fountain of Tears. If she had not kept back my Son from coming to redeem me, she had ex∣ceeded him. Even after that, there was continual Mourning, Sorrow beyond beleif, Lamentation all day long. I know not whether the Youth would have been more Undutiful to me or to you, if he had not ransomd me, that was so much mist by you. Whereupon he prepares for his Voyage, that so, because he could not restore his Mother her Eyes, he would send her her Husband, that was Dearer to her.

But we see sometimes, that calamitys termi∣nate in a certain madness, and our very Prayers at length are turned into Fury. She kept the Young man back, alleging the Law in opposition to my Letters. O Vain Fancies! O the minds of men lost and confounded in deep mistake! Every body thought she was solicitous for her Sons safety. Therfore the Youth did what he thought for her comfort, he commended the Tuition of his Mo∣ther to her Freinds, and left his Kinsfolks her Guar∣dians in lieu of himself. For otherwise the Poor Blind woman would never have liv'd, till my return. He did what the wit of man could do. Such was his Piety, that if he could have re∣deem'd his Mothers Eyes, he would have spent his own. He entred on his Voyage, having no company at all, but an honest heart, a pious in∣tent,

neither did he judge he went without a Ransom to the Pyrats, thô he carried nothing but empty hands. But, may some say, What, did you leave nothing at home? Had you liv'd so long, and laid up nothing against a rainy day? If it had been so, I call Heaven to Witness, I had never wrote back to be redeem'd. I had enough, and more than enough to ransom me, My Lords, but my Son lest it all at home for the releif of his Mother. Whereupon he sailes thrô the Tem∣pestuous Waves, by the Groaning Shoars, and Foamy Rocks, and whithersoever the Poorfellow was carried up and down, he had an unlucky passage, as if he had been ominously retained by his Mother; his wishes being also turned the con∣trary way, he sought to be made a Prisoner by those Pyrats, who must be miserably harass't thô he scap'd them. This is the Impious Youth, you speak of, who coveted and sought to do all that for his Parents, which one Brother would not do for another, nor a Wife for a Husband, nay, let me speak it out, nor a Father for a Son. O ye Immortal Gods, Presidents of Heaven, Earth, and all under the Earth, who have been so unsuffe∣rable to none but me, I make my Appeal to you alone, How unwillingly I was redeem'd. He, Poor Youth, was undon, who was first made acquain∣ted with it. For as soon as the Young man came to the Pyrats, bringing himself as the Price of my Ransom he skipt out nimbly from the Fatal Vessel, and offer'd his hands to the Chains for mine; he threw himself at all their Feet, and, as his earn∣est desire found him words, he beseech'd them with all manner of supplications, by his miserable

waylings, and by Tears almost equal to his Mo∣thers; never any man was heard, who so earn∣estly su'd, not for release but bondage. And 'twas not such a hard piece of buisiness, to obtain sla∣very of the Pyrats, no, he had more ado with me. 'Twas a sight not fit for Rogues and Raskals, to behold a Father and Son contending about their Chains, and both alike challenging a Prison. I pleaded Usage and Premier Seisin; I urg'd, that one of my years was ripe and ready to knock off. He alleg'd on the other side; what! Shall I for∣sake you in your distress? Shall I leave you in Fetters? With what Face then can I return to my Mother, who, Poor woman, for lack of you, spends whole days and nights in nothing but weeping? And who cannot so much as Live without you? Neither did he tell all out, and when he had men∣tion'd her daily bewayling, and her restless Tears, he added, By this time she is almost Blind, but per∣haps, if you return, she will recover it. In fine, I will not go back. I hope, 'tis lawful for me to do Piously even without consent of Parents. A∣gain I fay, I will not go back. If you are resolv'd to stand it out and not to return, the Pyrats must make a Gain of us both. I will be one or 'tother, either your Substitute or your Companion. With these words, how many Tears did he shed? How oft did he Kill and Murther his Eyes? If I had persevered and held off a little longer, I had made Mother and Son both Blind. The very Ras∣kally Pyrats stood amazed at so great Piety, and thô their Countenances never flinch'd before, I ob∣serv'd Tears to trickle down. Perhaps they would not have retained the Young man, unless

they had beleiv'd, his Parents would have re∣deemed such a Son as He. He took the hard Iron Chains upon himself, the Son was merrier at his Imprisonment, than the Father was at his Release. Yet at last, to my Eternal reproach be it spoken, he embrac'd me with his now manacled hands, and after he had don taking care for me, now, said he, by these endearments I commend my Mo∣thers Estate to you. Pray, maintain her, protect her, love her, never forsake her; so shall we be quits. There, if you please, you shall be my Substitute; if you do so, perhaps my Mother will not be so angry, That I went a way from her. Thus, being an ill-exchanged Passenger, I went aboard my Sons Vessel, and as far as ever my Eye could ken, I look'd back from the stern to the Pyrats, I ran back by the slanting shoars, and left a vast Tract of Sea and Sky behind me, and Towring Rocks that Fronted Cities. Alas! Said I, How long do's it seem to me Co sail away from the Pyrats, even when I return? Yet, dear Child, I observe your Injunctions, I minister to, I support, your Mother: Nay, but to speak truth, Son, tis rather you that minister to and supports her; 'tis for your sake, that my care of her is so great. I am unwilling to part from my Wife, and that's the reason, I have not ransom'd my Son: But in the Interim he is almost choak'd with the conti∣nual nastiness of a Prison, his Chains fret to the very bone, he, at whom all Sons may light their Candle, dies in a Gally. Now, I hope, Madam, you have enough, even a Punishment beyond the rigour of Law. No Pyrats so Barbar••••s, but Would have buried such a man, if a guilty Consci∣ence

and fear of Punishment had not deterr'd them from coming ashoar: But we see, they did all that they could, they threw him into the Sea, when the wind serv'd for his own Country. A gale entertain'd him, kinder than his Mother, and (if any felicity can be in misery) wasted his Carkass with a prosperous course even almost to the Sepulchres of his Ancestors. The Historians of our time may tell of a Thing, so strangly Vari∣ous, that I know not which side is molt to be ad∣mired, The Sea brought back a Sons Corps to his Mother, and the Mother return'd it to the Sea a∣gain. I confess, 'twas my Fault in great part; For 'twas I, that brought my Wife thither, I was loth to hinder the Poor woman from shewing her Grief; and therefore I carried her (thô now she be my Adversary) to the shoar upon my back. To speak truth, her first words about him did deceive me, for I thought they had proceeded from the sense of her loss: For who would not think it an affection of Greif, when the Mother said to her deceased Son, What buisiness had you a Ship-board? Why did you go to Sea? Why would you seek out the Pyrats? As for that Speech, Son, Why did you leave me? I thought it the common Oratory of all women, in those circumstances. Nay when she lay all along upon the body, I thought she had embrac'd it; And when she laid hands on the Bearers that were taking it up, I ex∣cused it, saying, 'tis the Guise of Mothers so to do, that they may enjoy the sight of their Children a little longer, before they are put away never to be seen more. But alas! She urges Law in the Case, and makes a long Oration over the Carkass

of her Son. Peace, Poor woman, Peace? Is all ••our wishing come to this? Our calamitys were ••••ee only from this blemish hitherto, that when ••••ven amongst the Prosperous, hard-heartedness is ••ighly to be blam'd, she should shew her self such 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Monster as never was heard of. That the ••retched cruel woman should desire to de∣troy with her own hands, what the Angry Gods had left untoucht, and what cross Fortune ••orgor to sweep away. Fortune may well be ac∣••uitted from all blame, when a Mother shall think ••erself not wretched enough in the loss of her own Son. For my part, I lose; my very Tears at last, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I bewail any thing it must be an empty Bier ••t home, the abus'd Verger returns with a Flam, ••nd the Funeral-wood is carried back again. A midst ••ll this, the Mother gives not so much as one Groan, not a Tear, nor any complaint at all. One would think, that 'twas some Pyrat cast a∣hoar. How came she to be so spirited? If she ••e not sensible of her misery upon this account, ••ecause she cannot see, if blindness have such an ••dvantage in it, I wish some good body or o∣••her would pull out my Eyes too. But alas, ••lindness of Body doth not hinder the passion of the mind. Pray, tell me, can such a woman as this, be my Wife? Or can that, be my Son? I would call it in question, if it were possible. For ruly Time hath so disguis'd my Sons Corps, that hardly know it to be His; but alas, his Chain-••retted hands, swoln prints made by his Fetters, and his wasted Body, a proof of his long Imprison∣ment, are so many unhappy Arguments to con∣vince me: Poor man, 'tis too sure I mourn for the

right person. I own my Son, my Wife I can∣not own. But seeing, our contest, in point of Law, will take up too much time, and I desire to make hast; I will begin my Plea with supplicati∣ons. Draw near, ye Parents all, of both sides, while I Pray and Intreat a Mother to do right to her Son in Burial. By our old Bond of Matri∣mony, by that mutual Love which cost both of us so dear, I add further, by the Son of both our Loins, by all those years we have liv'd together, that, by the blessing of a Son, do seem more, by my tenderness to your self; Pity me now, as here∣tofore you have don. Beleive me, what I now suffer is worse than a Prison, 'tis crueller than any slavery whatsoever. You do not punish him, but me. Pray, what great injury have I don you? Wherein have I offended you? Sure, you know, 'twas not I that forsooke you. Now if you have spent all your Affection upon this Husband of yours, and all your Compassion is ex∣tinguish'd with your Eyes, grant that our Son hath suffred deservedly, thô it cost him his Life: Let us not rip up Old Sores: But as Cicero begg'd of that cruel Tyrant of Sicily, let Death, I pray, be the Period of all suffrings. Which when he could not obtain, some Friends watch't all night at the Prison door, and bought leave to bury him with their Money? What was the Issue? You Fa∣thers and Mothers all? That which Marcus Tullius obtain'd at last, do you, Wife, sell me at least, which was the Cruellest part that Verres ever plaid. For my part, I am resolv'd to ransom my Son, and the Price is not far to seek, my own hands shall do it. Don't you put in now, and object

your loss of sight. Sure, you desire to be poin∣ted at, and to be the talk of the Town, when your own Husband could not obtain so much of you as to bury your Son. Get you gon then, if you will, and push back his Corps into the Waves; Or if thou thinkest 'twas but an obscure place he was cast up in, lay hands on him, and, lest ano∣ther mans help should not please you, rather drag it along your-self, to chuse. Lay one hand upon the Corps, and with 'tother hale him to the tracks where most Carts pass, and where 'tis the deepest dirty way. Let an overloden Wain crash the Poor thing, and let the Feet of the Oxen tread out his Guts. As for Thee, because you want your Eyes, use your hands, grasp and gripe his bruised Skul, and his Bowels when they are squeez'd out of his Body, nay if you have the heart to do it, tear him peicemeal with your Teeth. We Quarrel, we hold our own, we have our several Pleas. Let me tell you, when you have got the better, there will be little difference between us, except in our affection. How! You say, I shall not bury him. Prithee take heed, take great heed, I say, lest, while you are a wrangling about it, the very Waves may throw upon him sand enough to bury him; or some merciful good People cast mould upon him. What! Do you hinder them? If perhaps some compassionate person put him in the Earth, let me see you dig him up again, and see∣ing you are such a Piece for a Mother, lets see you fume and cry out, Oh, He lov'd the Father best. Criminals that are hang'd, are cut down to be buried, and when men are Beheaded, even a com∣mon Executioner permits them a Grave. Yea the

Pyrats themselves do no more than cast a Corps into the Sea. A Mother, (thô I profane that Sacred Name and Relation, to call her so) if she continues to be a Step-dame to her own Son, that is not sensible of her loss, deserves the Curse of being hard-hearted, if, beyond the Antipathy of the Enemy, who oft interr those that are Slain in Battel; if beyond what any Tyrant, or any Banditty, would do, she be so far from burying him herself, that she also hinders others to do that last Office, and quenches the Fatal fire with Water, in a manner fetcht as sar as the Sea; she shews by this, that she did not so much bear as tumble him into the World, and by such an unlucky birth dischar∣ged the wearisom burthen of her Womb. Let her tell me, as oft as she will, that she is before hand with me in conjugal Love and Duty, (a charge she can never make good) yet give me leave to speak my mind freely, it had been more Excusable in her, to have hated her Husband rather than her Son. Thô indeed as to our mutual Love one to the other, we may even cry quits; she did not value her Eyes for her Husbands sake, nor I then, my Son's loss: My loss of a Child ballances the loss of her Eyes. And yet amidst these misfortunes, I must needs be grievously trou∣bled even upon a private account. She hath lost that good Name, she had formerly got. Now my Enemys triumph, and spare not to say, This is that exemplary Woman, the Glory of the Age she lives in, Lo, she is unwilling her Husband should be ransom'd, or her Son buried! Certainly, My Lords, in my opinion every man living should Plead for the burial of the dead, for this is the

only thing that concerns the whole race of mor∣tals. And therefore such a punishment is ex∣acted from none, when they are dead, unless from a damn'd Parricide. Nay, thô some Laws are against it, yet if there be but a chinck-hole, thô never so narrow, that common humanity may creep thrô, true Clemency will lay hold on the oc∣casion. I will not dispute, whether deceased Per∣sons are sensible of any thing, or no? But that the dead are covered with Earth for the sake of the Living, to put noysomness out of the way, and remove the Object of Greif out of sight: Or, when the Soul passes to the other World, she cannot have the Honour to be wafted over to the Elysian feilds, (as Poets fancy) unless the Body be buried, nor can enjoy the felicities there, which I, Poor man, hope and beleive are true and real, being quickly like to go thither to my Son. The truth is, as Dame Nature, in begetting and maintaining of man, hath of herself provided before hand a full and sufficient stock, so, when she takes her own work asunder again, she makes hast to reduce our Bodies to their first Principles, so that even in desert uninhabited places some Earth is brought down, even by showers of Rain, and swells about a dead Carkass; the force of Winds heap, and make a banke of dust about it, and in tract of time, by little and little, the very Earth sucks in the putrefied Limbs, thô no body bury them at all. Yea the Bones and all at last sink into the Earth. And in us Men, she hath begotten not only a Compassion towards the deceased, which works in our thoughts, but a certain kind of Religion too. Hence it comes to pass, that Travellours, as they

pass, will bestow a hasty burial even on Corpt's they do not know; and Strangers will heave Earth upon them. If this be so, Ounworthy Fact! My Son had been buried, but that he had a Mother.

My Lords, I do not make this Plea to biass your judgments; I don't prescribe to You, 'tis my She-Adversary that I upbraid. As for that Law, I have a great deal of reason to dread it, seeing this is the onely thing objected to the poor Youth, That he did not forsake his Father in his distress: but because I am question'd in Court for my mourning, I must dispute the Point in midst of my Tears, and she frets at her loss; let's out-do her, if we can't en∣treat her. Did you ever see two persons so mi∣serably entangled in a Suit, if the Father prevail here's a Son to be buried; if the Mother hath the better, here's a Son to be cast out without burial: What says the Law in the Case? He that forsakes his Parents in their distress, must be cast out unburied. In the first place, my Lords, all the stress of the mat∣ter lies between the Words of the Law, and the Meaning of those Words; and whether our Suit shall be decided by the Ambiguity of the Letter, or by the true Intention and sense of the Law-giver: My Adversary alledges on her side, that she was the Parent in distress, and that she was the Party forsaken, the punishment of which is to be thrown out unburied. But what may be the Cause he left her, what followed thereupon, and how the Law is to be properly understood; all this she cun∣ningly conceals, she stirs not a jot from the bare words, contenting her self only with the naked Rehearsal of them too. But I, on my side, say, That the Law doth not reach all persons in general,

no, nor all those that are blind neither; and that the Young-man had just Cause, and such as will bear him out, to be gone: I alledge further, he did it with a good intent, which is enough to Ju∣stify a just Law; And Lastly, Such a going away is not properly called a Forsaking: So that I put the Case upon this Issue, that the Youth is not only to be acquitted, but more than that, to be highly commended too: He that makes a doubt, whether it be not convenient to stick to the meaning of the Law, seems to me to commence a dispute about he knows not what himself. And therefore I will be the shorter; for (if you go on, as you begin) the same Ambiguity of words will make me ready to cavil too: it seems to me, that the very recital of the Law overturns the whole of my Adversaries Plea. For when the Law saies, He that forsakes his Parents in their di∣stress, and when it saies again, Let him be cast out unburied: certainly this can't be the meaning, That he may not be buried, after he is thrown into the Sea, and cast ashore again. And therefore Gentlemen, either allow me to plead as I will my self, or (which more becomes your Piety) forbid this catching at words on both sides, as unworthy of your sacred Ears. And when I shall have prov'd, that my Son was a very Non-such, let your judg∣ments be further confirmed, That our Ancestors never made any Law against Piety.

Now as to the first Point I propos'd, that the Law doth not reach this Case: I will but touch upon it, nor 'tis clear of it self; to raise doubts would but waste time. For I am not at all of the opinion, that if Age hinder an Infant, or weakness

a sick person; if the Commonwealth employ a man to be their Ambassador, or a Captain retain his Souldier in some service, that the severe punish∣ment, prescrib'd by the Law, should take place notwithstanding, without admitting the Plea of meer necessity; and it it once appear, that that Door of Defence is open, then I may be fully assured of the goodness of my Cause, and need never fear, that my Son shall be Cast, for not helping of us both, as long as he had an Eye upon the very Law, in what he did. The Father was a Prisoner, the Mother was blind, they had but One Son between them both; they were at a vast distance one from another. The Law hath a Debtor in the midst of both, lead him to which of the Two you will, for to Both you cannot, unless you will tye the poor thing up to such hard terms, that, do what he can, he must be thrown upon the Dunghil. If he take his Journey, his Mother will deny him Bu∣rial; if he stay at home, his Father will do the same. I suppose there can be no doubt at all, but the Equity of the Law reaches me as well as her: unless perhaps (for I perceive you seek all Occasions against me, though never so unjustly) you imagine, that, here also, by reason of one single word, you think it one thing to help Parents, and not to forsake them, another, that is, that you'l make it a doubt, whether Parents are to be re∣liev'd in all places, be they where they will, which is my opinion; or else, that no Father deserves Relief, but he that is in misery under his Sons Eye. For if to forsake Parents in distress, be interpreted by us to be nothing but a bare departure from a poor Parent, then we allow two Impieties at once: The

first is this, That he, that doth not budge, hath done his duty well enough, only by being there and standing by, for he is absolved by the Law, which bids him not stir: This would be the way to make Children not Helpers to Parents, but only Spectators of their miseries. The next is worse than the former; for as the necessity of our Af∣fairs doth almost every day separate us one from another: If any misfortune seize upon Parents on a suddain, thô a Son be but a little way off, yet he may have a lawful Excuse not to relieve or assist: For why? He may make use of this Pretence, I did not leave, I did not forsake, I stir'd not a foot, (as the Phrase is) from my Parent: A Son will be discharg'd of all obligation to help and relieve his Parents, if your Interpretation take place, that Absence is an occasion of Impiety. But my opinion is, That the Intent of the Law-giver was this, That they who came out of our own bowels, should help us (Parents) by their labour and du∣ty, where ever we be, in lieu of that life they receiv'd from us, unless any man should be so absurd as to say, that we are not Parents but when we are at home with our Children.

What then is the true meaning of, Not to forsake? 'Tis to assist, 'tis not to be wanting in what we can do. All tends to this, That Parents may be safe by the assistance of their Children This being so, the Law was made for Me, as well as for the Mother: Both of us call'd for aid, let's see, to which of the Two ought he to go? I might make use of the Authority of a Father, and boldly say, your Father commands you. The name of a Father is above any Law. If my Child be a Tribune, yet

I have power over him; If he be able to bear Office, yet his Father may chastise him. We have power even of life and death over our Children; If my Son won't do as I bid him, Il'e serve him the same sawce, no burial shall he have at my hands. The Youth was compell'd to obey his Father; he did not forsake you willingly, but I pluckt him from you by meer force. Believe me, if you please, 'twas not out of disrespect to you in the least, that he came to his Imprison'd Father. Let's stand, I pray, upon even terms, and let our Son be set in the midst of us both; Il'e make no comparison between Persons, thô all Nations give the prefe∣rence to a Father, let him be lookt upon only as our Son in common; Il'e claim no advantage for giving him his Name, for making him of so cre∣ditable a Family, for spending so much money upon him, for being taken Prisoner while I was getting an Estate for his use: I won't vie with her as to matter of Indulgence, she, of herself, grants me that point already. All this I might do, but I re∣primand myself, I won't press things as far as I Lawfully might. His duty stands as indifferent be∣tween his Two Parents; First ask, First serv'd. Sure I am, in point of time, I had the better on't, for I fell into distress before you. When you were at your Freedom, I was a Prisoner; you were safe and sound, and had a good House over your head, when I did almost rot in a Jayle; you needed not yet put up any request to your Son, but I ask'd when I had need. As for your calamity, it hapned not till af∣ter the receipt of my Letter; and unless your Son had been willing to apply some comfort to you in your Crying and Lamenting State, he had took his

Journy before you had been stark Blind. Don't wonder, if I got more favour than you; Alas! 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had prevail'd upon my Son, before ever you open'd your Mouth.

If a man should make a Mock-Assize and Fancy 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Judge in so woful a Case, (for, God forbid, any body should really experiment it.) Pray tell me, whose Calamity would he think the greatest? 'Tis true, overmuch affection cost you your Eyes, of your five senses you lost one, you are a dark woman, you say: Why every nigh that passes o∣ver your head, you may say as much, tho' your Eyes are safe in your head. But was not this a ••reater misfortune, that deserv'd to be so greivous∣•••• bewailed? For tho' she may deservedly com∣plain that the Pleasures of Life are taken away, ••nd that the Acts of sensation are hindred, yet if we are not unequal Judges, nor vaingloriously mi∣••erable in the disasters we our selves are able to ••ure, I will tell you, not only how she is to be ••utdone by me, but rather how she is to be com∣••orted. For when all Bodily pain is away, and ••he aking of our Limbs, that takes up all our Thoughts, is happily at an end; it follows, that ••oo much Idleness and continual Rest would tor∣••ent one, except in such Acts, where the very Necessity brings a Pleasure. The loss of our ••••ght may be made up by other delights, as Smell, ••ast, Touch, Hearing, wherein tho' we must ••rant the greatest Pleasure is wanting, yet a Feli∣••••ty, not consummate, is far from being a deep Ca∣••••mity. A House of ones own, a Marriadge-Bed, ••he Society of Kindred, Conference with Freinds, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 calamity not to be ashamed of, (which seldom

happens,) and Liberty, which is a Blessing in any State whatsoever, so many Pleasures together may well stiffle one Greif. For the desire of having your sight, if compar'd with my miseries, savours of Wantonness and Curiosity, in regard Nature is not likely to produce any thing New, as an Ob∣ject of the Eyes; whatever we are like to see, be it never so Specious and Beautiful, we have seen it already. Every day comes Night, and the Dark∣ness thereof wraps up one half of our Time; so that Nature herself is, as it were, Blind on one side. He that can have the use of another mans Eyes, he that can Hear, he that can Command, he that hath diligent Servants to tend him, (so had she, if she were not too high, and made so much account of her misfortune) is not a miserable man; especially, if he be well satisfied in the Cause of his Blindness; or if he be miserable, 'tis for default of a good Principle. He need not be troubled for a thing, that can boast thereof at the same time: Tho' indeed, whoever is struck Blind, and on whatever occasion, yet such an Assault of Fortune is lighter on a woman, than any. For yee, women, don't travel beyond Sea, you per∣form no Embassies, you do not see many fine Sights by frequent gadding abroad, no Military Employ can you pretend to, nor no business at Court of Common-Pleas. But rather you are al∣ways within doors, for the most part in one place, tied to little petty Offices.

For your part, if I am well acquainted with your humour, you lamented your Blindness for no Cause more, but because you could not go to ransom your Husband. This was your calamity,

let's now take an Estimate of mine. Alas! No body was affected with it, more than your-self. Yet, pray observe, how many things I could not mention in those Letters of mine. O my Son, in what a croud of miseries did I leave thee? Liber∣ty (that Great and Principal Gift God gratifies Man with, which is fix'd and innate in the sense even of Bird and Beast) was the first thing I was strip't of. I lost my own self, I am in hold, a Market-Slave, being a Citizen of Rome I am be∣come Chaffer, b••ing an Old man I am forc'd to forget my Freedom, and being born Free I wish I were a Slave. 'Tis scarce worth the mentio∣ning to say, we dwell upon the Sea, the Stormy Winds beat in upon us. We have never a Har∣bour, nor Seat, nor Rest, but (which is the grea∣test part of our misery) our very Patroons and Masters are as wretched as our Selves. But I must slip over the mention of these things, as being greivous to my Wife for my sake, and also to Me for my Sons sake. I forbear to speak of the grim Looks of my Enemys; I pass over the Brutish grumblings of those Savage Barbarians, and that I was daily in fear to suffer, what a Poor Prisoner was able, and what a bold Pyrat durst inflict up∣on him. Nothing is more greivous to a man, than the Absence of his Friends, yet I was even afraid to see mine. Nothing more terrible than a Tempest, yet I wish't to be cast away every hour. As for death, I confess, my Servile weakness wish't not for that for this one reason, I was afraid no body would bury me. What Cloth's d'e think they left me, but what were not worth taking away? What Diet could they afford me, who themselves

live upon rapine? As for those things, which I must not pass by, who can speak them to the full? A damp Prison, The Vessel smelling strong of the Pump, my restless side laid upon a bare board, my Hands bound behind me, and my Feet fetter'd, as if I could run away? 'Twas Darkness alone that eas'd me in Prison. I was often sorry I had Ears, which thô they were cover'd with my un∣kemb'd hair, did yet receive in the Noise of the Whip, and the Groanings of those that were bea∣ten, sad examples of what I might expect. Wretch that I am, thou, my Son, art lost by Sickness. Compare now the Land with the Sea, your House with a Ship, your Bed with a Prison, your Liberty with my Slavery, the loss of Eyes with the suffring of the whole Body. But how far do's this woful vying of our calamities draw me? Those that are Blind can quarrel, we see, but Prison'd Slaves can hardly live. But these things if put into an even Scale, yet ought to weigh much more on one side, and favour me more than you. We must spare no pains, where the effect will an∣swer. 'Tis a foolish care, where we hope for no advantage. 'Twas I could be ransom'd, but your Eyes could never be cur'd: Your calamity possibly, be it what it will, was incurable, it could not be help'd, 'twas capable of none to take your Place. 'Tis true, my Son, after the Receipt of my Letter, in a silly kind of officiousness, might have sate by your Beds-side, and put Finger in Eye with his Mother. When he went his Voyage, he releiv'd the Cap∣tivity, thô but of one of his Parents; whereas if he had staid at home, he would have had a Mother Blind, and a Father Prisoner too. I add, that

your Sons presence was not so necessary neither, to sit by you, to tend you at Meals, to lend you his Hand, that any body else may do. Let me not be believ'd, unless it came to that pass, that when I was taken Prisoner, I was to be ransom'd upon such hard Conditions, because 'twas suffi∣ciently known, no body would ransom me, but my own Son.

Here my Plea runs, as if my Son did these things only for my sake; thô in this Action you have forgot you are a Mother, and thô you make it your business to drown the Merits of your Cause by your Injury done, and thô you put on a strange Unnaturalness, yet I admit your Testimony. 'Twas you that sent your Son to ran∣som me, when you took on so greivously, when you wish'd for death, when you cry'd out, You were rob'd of all your delight, when you oftner sigh'd for my Bondage than your own Blindness. He had not an Heart of Iron or Flint, that he could brook these things with Content: You first taught your Son, that he should venture himself, rather than sit weeping immoderately, and ra∣ther than expert to recover your Blindness. He went, it seems, and by that means sent home your Husband. O Crime unpardonable! If he had done so a little sooner, you had ••ot lost your Eyes. But, say you, you could not keep him back. Here I will not say, That all natural Piety hath its Ef∣forts, and that somtimes Affection knows no Ma∣ster; neither could he keep you (you see) from passionate weeping. I'le tell you that which is more true, he had something else in his Mind. He thought it incredible, that you would be against

my ransom. He reckon'd it to be the care of a Mother, he believ'd it to be the danger of the Sea, which our Family hath had such sad Tryal of; fearing if he had not been obedient to you, every body would have thought, you had put a Sham on the World. But was he able not to go to ran∣som me, when you cry'd out, I am blind, I have lost my Eyes for my Husband's sake, I cannot bear my Lonesomness and Solitude? So had he gon more excusably to redeem me, if you had made less moan for me? Is it a Question, whether he did it for your sake? You could not have your Son and Husband both; he sent you home him that you loved best. Cease then your weeping, take your Husband return'd in safety. Why are you angry? How so much alter'd? Who could believe it? You complain, that he went from you whom you hated, and yet you would not have him return, whom you pretend to love. But if He forsakes his Parents in distress, who doth not re∣lieve them (as I have prov'd before,) and if this best of Sons ransom'd me to be an Assistant to his Mother, by suffering in his own Person (as I shall n••w shew) then certainly he did relieve, (i. e.) he did not forsake them. For if, as I said before, a Man must not wag a foot from Parents in distress, then he cannot star from those he helps, no not to fetch 'em Meat, or to provide them other necessa∣ry Accommodations, that they want. But when a Parent is relieved, if it be no great matter where the Party that relieves, is, provided his Care be pre∣sent; then, whatever I did for you is due to him that ransom'd me, as the Author of the Gift. In∣deed, I sate not by you, I us'd no comfortable

word to you, I did not tend you, I did not fetch and carry, I did not return an entire Beneficia∣ry to you. To confess a Truth, after all this, if you reckon your self forsaken, I cannot deny it, 'tis my fault.

But now 'tis time to defend, with greater Ar∣dency, the things which are so far from needing an Excuse, that they are very splendid and mag∣nificent; and when an exemplary Judgment is upon giving, we should understand at length the Merits of the Cause. Ah, poor Child! this Privilege, at least, thou wilt obtain, usually done to Noble Fu∣nerals; When you are dead, you shall not go without your Praise. Let us summon in hither all past Encomiums; thô the Tongues of all Poets, and Orators too, should make a joynt Agreement to chant out the Praises of this one Man, yet the Sub∣ject will pose an hundred Tongues; nay, it would baffle even Eloquence it self, if it could possibly lodge in one Body, thô I alledge nothing but the very Objections made against him. Here's a Son that gave Liberty and open Air to his Father, and (what was never heard of before) he lov'd me more than I desir'd. He went to Sea, where Storm and Tempest was the least of his Hazards; and amidst all, (which was most difficult,) in Love he surpassed his Mother. Peace, wicked Tongue! What have you to do to praise such things as these? He offer'd himself voluntarily to be a Slave; and thô he knew how grievous a thing it was to be fetter'd, yet he would come in his Fa∣ther's stead, and undergo such Hardships. His Piety did chearfully undergo those Miseries, which were grievous even to Felons. I profess, Wife, you

did better, when you wou'd not let him go. Com∣pare Cases now, if a Man carry'd his Father thrô the midst of his Enemies alone, and receiv'd all the Darts, aim'd at him, in his own Body, yet he dy'd but one downright Death. We read of one, who offer'd himself for his Father, not to the Py∣rates, or to the Sea, but where there was hope of Ransom. Wo is me! I must say, that, by this very Example, we are put in mind, that 'tis for the Honour of Filial Piety, that even those that are Exe∣cuted are buried. Some like these things, but I don't. As for you, Young Man, all Ages to come will speak of you; and winged Vertue will carry up aloft to the Stars such an admirable Example, that Posterity will neuer forget: But this thy Praise costs me dear. Had it not been better for thee to have sate by thy Mothers Bed-side; and, devoting thy self to her Service, to have liv'd in Security? 'Twas your hap only, that you could excuse it to your Father, and yet not redeem him. In the mean time, a lingring Consumption would have wasted me, as it had begun: Death, which only could do it, would have releas'd the Old Man. And when my dead Body had been cast to the Waves, if the like Tempest should have hapned, 'twould have been your turn to bury me. But the Love of Glory, which is innate to brave Spi∣rits, hath mis-lead you, the Expectation of im∣mortal Praise hath impos'd upon you. Where is your Vertue? Where is your Piety? You are undon, and yet suffer by an ill Report too. I sate not by him, when he was a dying, as a Father should; I did not lay his troubled Head in a softer place, I did not turn his weary'd Side, not

did I receive his last Breath. Absent was I, Dead and Rum'd, when I heard of your Death. No man unty'd your Chains when you were Sick, none freed your Hands, sully'd with your Fetters, to take your Food. You were loosed, as a neglected despised Creature, only to save your Chains. Why may I not call you the substitute of a disconsolate Old-man? Amidst so many ardent desires and longings of a Feav••rish person, you had no body to call to for supply: As you were grapled in your Chains, so you lay; you could only cast a thought on your Mother, Father and the rest of your Kindred. Do I please myself, that, I fear, you are Dead in my loathsom Prison? Alas, your Mother is not satisfied with your Death.

Because, woman, you demand an exact punish∣ment from dead Carkasses, hear the sequel. Death it self made Shipwrack of your Son, his Body was swoln by being tumbled over so many Waves, by being dash'd against so many Rocks, by being driven thrô such large and spatious Sands, yet it was never more unhappy than when it came a∣shore. Oh, how greivous is it to dye, but how far more greivous, to outlive my Son? I live hated and abhorr'd by God and Man, but most of all by my-self. Besides, I lose the Affection, even of my own Wife. About her Sons Funeral, she hath divorc'd herself. I see those Conveniences of Na∣ture, which I have depriv'd my Son of; Every part of Age calls upon me to mourn, Old Age, to which he arriv'd not; wretched Childhood, which 'tis true, now he pass'd over; Youthful Estate, in which Age he died. I survive, that, if things cotton right, I may see a Funeral, and the all-de∣vouring

Flames about my Sons Corps: But if I may not be so happy, then I shall see a foul black Carkass, a loathsom Spectacle, even to those that knew him not. Amidst all these miseries, I think you will beleive mo if I say, I wish My Eyes were out too. What shall I say more? Shall I bend my supplications to you, O Wife, hitherto vainly and fruitlesly attempted? Well, go you on, make use of your Fortune! Happy you, that you are not content with this condition! I must make my recourse to you, Worthy Auditors, by our com∣mon misfortunes, by my calamity, which is the Standard or Idea of humane misery, as your Wives may love you, as they may long for you in such a case, as you may have no other Instance of such a loss, but mine may be the last, as you may have no need of such Pious Children as mine was, Take pity upon me. If you will accept of a Substitute, cast me out. My Prayers are not refiective, yet I'le have it so. No joyful acclamation shall fol∣low your Sentence; I shall not be led to the Tem∣ple but to the Grave: Thô I prevail with you, yet I must weep still; but if I prevail not, I will go to the Sea-shore all-forlorn. I will drive away the very Birds with my groans, or lay my-self as a Tomb-stone over my Sons body. We'le be both a∣like, unburied. I will throw my-self out to Wild-Beasts, or at every bodies door. I will cast my∣self at the feet of all Passengers, as Poor Beggars are wont now adaies; I'le not ask Victuals or an Alms, no, I will only beg a Grave, and a clod or two thrown upon my Son, by some compassionate hand or other; or else, (which, I hope, I may do) I will throw his Body into the Sea: Then ye

Cruel Waves, and ye Winds, but too too prosperous, I return you your kindness back again. Carry it whither you will, let it be to Savages, let it be to the feircest, Enemys, nay let it be to the Pyrates themselves. Perchance some one of them will say, Let it be buried; sure there is none (that I know) will be against it.

Tormenta Pauperis: OR, The Poor man's Rack.

DECLAMATION VII.

The Argument.

The LAW. No Free Denizon of Rome was to be put upon the Rack. The CASE. A Poor man and a Rich were Adversarys one to 'tother. The Poor man had a Son, as He and his Son were

coming home one Night, his Son was Slain. Whereupon the Poor man says, 'twas the Rich man that Murthered him, and offers himself to the Rack to prove it. The Rich man would not agree to it, alledging, 'twas against the LAW.

For the Poor Man against the Rich.

I AM very sensible, my Lords, that your Commiseration of my Distress will be much abated and taken off, because I seem to bring before you too venturous a Grief; and that a new Accession is made to the sad Loss of my Child, that, when I crave and call for such severe Cruelty against my self, I am reflected upon as if I required another's Torture: Yet I cannot own how much I suffer, because there is no room for the faint-heartedness of a poor Father left in me. I saw with my own Eyes the Murtherer of my Son, and am more wretched now, than if I had not known, who 'twas that murther'd him. And I confess, my Lords, I wonder how it comes to pass that I should appeal to this way of Probation. I came hither, as if I were to relate a plain and manifest Case; neither did I expect any other Consent of this Courts Opinion concerning my Son's Murther, than as if you had every one of you seen the Murtherer too. But here, alas! here, I found cause to desire, I might be rack'd aforehand. For after my words did not seem sufficiently to make out what I had seen, I resolv'd to convince you by my Torments. But what shall I do, if the guilty Conscience of Defendants will not endure, that I should rashly engage my self to such Hard∣ship?

Could I construe this to be any Pity towards me, that he would not have me rack'd, who de∣sired it, since he knows, I would say the same thing on the Rack, that I did before. Neither do I think, my Lords, any of you do so much as doubt, whence it should proceed; from what Guilt, or from what Fear, that a Man should be unwilling his Enemy should be tortur'd. Little do you think, what Torment the rich Man is in now, and what Pain he is under, because he will not consent to what I ask. Oh, how fain would he wish, he had not murthered my Son, that so I might be spar'd the Torture! Can you think, my Lords, he doth this out of regard to Law or Liberty, or that he, that has broke the Law, would be care∣ful, lest an Example be given against Law? But he is now perplex'd in Conscience, and so he takes the more pleasure in my Grief. 'Tis worth his while to deny the Rack to an Enemy, when he has brought it about, that he desires it himself. And therefore, my Lords, I, the unhappiest of all Mortals, do beg this, that seeing I have already suffered such unheard of, such incredible Griefs, That you would take no pity on my Carkass. 'Tis a more cruel and intolerable thing, not to obtain the Torture when I desire it, than to suffer it in good earnest. Even this is the strangeness of my Grief, that you cannot succour me any other way, than that, you would hate another in. Neither is any thing more unhappy than he, who of necessity flies to the Torture. I plead and contend, That I saw the very Murtherer of my Son. 'Tis hard, you cannot find this out, if it be false; and 'tis as hard, I can't prove it, if it be true. As for me,

my Lords, I fancy my Son's loss, as if it were just now; and my Thoughts represent that dismal Night to me, a second time. It seems to me, that I have made my Confession already, even upon the Rack.

I had a Son, my Lords, as he was of an high•• and undaunted courage, so he had not as yet any Enemy in the World, and no body would have Murther'd him on any other accompt, had it not been to greive his Poor Father. O wretched con∣dition of us, Parents! To what strange and un∣heard of Pitfals, do we lye open? We are the Persons, that provoke and offend, yet our Enemy make our Poor Children suffer. Who, my Lords would ever have been afraid of such a cunni•••• false disposition, when a man shall find out a new way how to Spare and Murther too? As for the rest, my Lords, you may expect it on the Rack, no•• before. Those Parents are happy in comparison of me, who hear the report of their Children•••• death by others; but I am shot at by an unhear•• of misery, my only Son was Murthered for the nonce, that I might see him Murthered. At nigh•• we were going home togeather, as indeed in the whole course of our Lives we were seldom asun∣der: For we were men, whose Fortunes did not enable us to keep Servants to guard us, and there∣fore we made a shift to defend one another by a mutual Piety; we upheld one another, we lean'd o•••• one another, and were hardly to be severed b•••• by an expert Murtherer; when, behold, the Rich-man sprung forward with a Sword in his hand in the dead time of the night, and, to the amaze∣ment of us both, ran him through, that was the

better man of his hands; and who, if he had killed me, might have found him some Play. I confess, my Lords, the best Eyes I had, and the greatest care a Poor Father could use, stood me in no stead at that Time. The Murtherer him∣self was willing to have it known, who 'twas. You Countrymen all, I put the Question to you; and I ask you too, O all ye humane affections, tell me, What a Poor Father should do in this Case? This Blood you see about me, spurted out from my Son's wounds: With these hands of mine, I held up the Body of my only Child, as he was a ••alling. Methinks the aspect of my dying Son ••ticks yet in my Eye; and the words, which his ••xulting Adversary spake over his dead Carkass, yet ••ingle in mine Ears. Beleive me for my Tor∣ments sake, how long shall my Sons Murther ••aunt my Conscience? Open this Body of mine, and bring to light the dark business of the Mur∣ther out of my Bowels. I saw it, and yet I can't be beleived; I tell you, I saw it, so that I can say the same, when upon the Rack. Or, if you think I forge and fain, then let my Flesh be torn ••n pieces with burning pincers, and yet let me not prove it at last. Or if you think fit, my Lords, you may Rack me, that I may leave of this Prating.

My Lords, I am not ignorant, that 'tis a very ••eighty Action I have undertaken, thô my Case 〈◊〉〈◊〉 clearly just and good. For I, that am but a Poor-man, do accuse one that is Rich, and one ••oo that was my Enemy before, I, I say, that am ••he Murthered Youths Father; and I require that ••ou would beleive my Testimony, which proceeds ••rom the sense of my loss. And therefore I do

not Sue, that you would not be angry with me, until I can prove it. Rack me, I beseech you, as a Lyar. Ay but, The Law, says he, prohibits, that a Free Denizon should be Rack'd. I beseech you, my Lords, is not such an Answer fitter for the Person, who is call'd to the Torture. I beleive, my Lords, no body doubts, but the Law, that pro∣hibits the Torturing a Free-man, aims only at this, That no body should be Rack'd against his will yea the Privileges, which exempt us from the Condition of Slaves, are only to succour the Weak-heartedness of such as are loth to come to't. 'Tis the very nature of all Exemptions, that they mu•••• not be imposed by Force, but left at Will: Yea, that which was design'd for another's Accommoda∣tion and Honour, is no longer a Privilege, if it be forc'd. Run over, if you please, all the Law that ever were; there was never any one of them so careful for us, as to push us per-force to what it indulges us. The Law allows a bl••••d Man an Action of Lex Talionis, but it doth not force his hands to execute that Law; it allows one to sue a Murtherer, but it compels him not, whether he will or no. So that, in effect, 'tis easier for a Man to let go his Revenge than his Right thereto. 'Tis a kind of Bondage, a forc'd Liberty; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you help an unwilling Man this way or that way, you do him Wrong either way. Would you know what the Law had in its Eye? It says not, I de∣mand your Torture; I admit it only, if you like it. Oh Heavens! How many things are there no less just than the Law? Some things are so highly cri∣minal, that the Law allows to abate of its Ri∣gour; and when a Crime is wonderful, the Law

is as wonderful in its Execution. Here's a Son murthered in his Father's sight: Rack me now without fear. A more wicked thing could never have been acted. Pardon me, if I think this Act hath out-done the heinousness of all other Crimes. And (whence the Justice of Torturing is salv'd) greater is the Offence to be inquired after, than the manner How. No kind of Examination or Tryal must seem unjust, when there is no other to be had in the Case, and whatever conduces to the strictness of a Law, is no ways prejudicial to be put in practise. My Liberty is sufficiently rever'd and salv'd, that you are unwilling to torture me, and that no body else finds me worthy of the Rack, but my self. A Free-man must not be tortured, says the Law. That was the very reason, my Lords, why my Adversary was not afraid to murther my Son, even before my Face. I therefore urge and contend, that my Son was murthered before my Face. How say you? Would it not make against the Credit of this Appeal to all the World, if I should sit still and be quiet under my misery? Alas! when I saw this with my Eyes, would you have me give it a bare single-sol'd Testimony? Can it be any great wonder, if I now rend my Cloaths, if I strip me bare, if I call for Torture by Fire or Lash. That Father must needs run mad that, in such a Case, keeps all to himself. He is mistaken, my Lords, that thinks my Demand proceeds from a Carelesness what becomes of me, or from Fool-hardyness either. No, my Son puts me to Torture by Fire and by Lash; and if you rack me, I shall be free of that pain. If I am such a Lyar, when I desire to be rack'd, pray

tell me what I shall do, when I speak Truth, and cannot prove it. Thou lyest, says he: Very well, that you also confess, that I must not be believ'd without being tortur'd.

But (in earnest) what Reason doth my rich Ad∣versary give, why I do lye? Is it, That I did not know the Murtherer, and therefore pitch'd upon him especially, to accuse of the Fact? Or, do 〈◊〉〈◊〉 know him well enough, and yet, upon account of old Grudges, charge the loss of my Child upon him? No, no; 'Tis evident, I could not be mis∣taken. My Son was slain as we were both going home together. Could not I discern the Murthe∣rer in the Night, when the Murtherer himself could discern Whom to strike, and Whither to fly? How say you? Did another Man murther him, and I now wreak my Revenge upon you? Then, it seems, I accuse you, that mean while the un∣known Murtherer may shew us a pair of Heels, and be gon. What a piece of madness do you charge upon me, that I should lose the Avengement of so great a Villany, by the false Accusation of I know not who? If I cannot have the Law of you, Sir, whom, I am sure, I saw murther my Son, I have left my self no way to prove it upon another Man. O thou, that art utterly alien from all Huma•••• Affections, dost think, I would forge an Untru•••••• here? Alas! I have lost an Affection that is sweeter to us,poor Parents, than any Revenge. Do you think it comes now to my Mind, that we were sometimes at odds? Oh! you are mightily mistaken. He, that hath kill'd a Man's Son, is Ene∣my enough upon that sole Account. Do you think a Man can cover a dissembled Grief under such

lying words as these, I will be rack'd upon it? Soft, I would not offer my self to the Rack, unless I had spoken the very Truth: For in the midst of Fire and Lash, 'tis enough for me to say, This was my sworn Enemy, this was the Man that eve∣ry foot gave me ill Language; This unsufferable, this outragious Person. I know not, whether it will be enough for me, under Torture, to say, That I saw it, and therefore my Enemy says, I crave the Torture. I do demand the Rack. See, I pray, to what I am driven, who am conscious to my self, I may tell a Lye; There is no need of Racks at all, if they may be made use of a∣gainst Truth, and Mankind will be depriv'd of this necessary Expedient, if they maintain and draw forth Lyes from those that forge them. Mens hu∣mours do hold out to this piece of Art, and thô a man be never so much resolv'd against making any discovery, yet his Heart fails him when he comes to the Rack. 'Tis to no purpose to aver what one forges, when twill avail little to con∣fess the Truth it self. Sure when a man is Rack'd, 'tis to make him speak contrary to what he said before. 'Tis no great matter how a man comes affected to the* 1.13 Eqauleus, or what motives of silence he brings thither. For under Torture we

are but Flesh and Blood, and there's no man, but it goes against him, when he comes to't. Shall I challenge the Torture or shall I refuse it? What's the difference between one thats Tortur'd, and one that shortly will be like a man, that confesses against his will. My Lords, here's a new and unusal Example started in human Life. No man ever therefore ought not to be tortur'd, why? Because he Ly'd. But, my Lords, if it be fit to doubt of the Truth of such Confessions as are made on the Rack, some body else ought to be suspected. I mean, one that is tortur'd being of a close servile Spirit, and his Body, Bond-slav'd: When the Torturer is e'n at a stand what to do with his hard brawny Limbs, when he is hardned by dayly punishments, that his Body claims acquaintance with the smart, and 'tis no news to him to have his Body stretch't out upon a Rack. But on the contrary, they, who when their Clothes are first rent and strip't off, can't well bear the shame of it, that know not how to turn and wind their Bodys at every Lash, and can't tell how to meet the Blows half-way as it were, 'tis they, I mean, even such as we, that the

Law thinks fit should not be Tortured. For how can we be able to keep Counsel amidst such things? In Torture, a Free-man had need of a great deal of hardiness, that he may be able to speake the Truth.

But, says he, you ought not to be Tortured, be∣cause you challenge it. I answer, Torture, Dear Sir, is one thing, and to desire it, is another. Hap∣py (say I) are they, who chuse to shun it. He deserves Clemency and Favour, who is brought with Trembling to the Rack, and half-dead already, whom the Executioner can scarce raise up from his Knees, and, thô his Clothes are rent off, yet he can hardly pull 'm away. Shall I plead against the Torture as you desire, which, you see, I challenge. He, He, I say, may be mangl'd with∣out any pity, to whom the Torturer can say at every Stroke, 'Tis your own desire; It becomes not such a one to supplicate, who is thought to make Out-cries o' purpose, to counterfeit Groans, and of whom Torments themselves need first to be re∣veng'd. I don't see, my Lords, what he can have in his Eye, who frames a Lye, and then demands the Rack. He, that is willing to be rack'd, we don't long beleive him thô he speake the Truth. There is no reason, my Lords, you should beleive, that my sad and disconsolate loss hath so bereav'd me of all sense of humanity, that I understand not my request to be, that the Rich-man may be sure to escape; and that I my self may be tortur'd, al∣most instead of the Murtherer. But what would you have to do? You must not reckon, I could possibly lye, seeing I am the man who was pre∣sent,

when my Dear Son was Murther'd. Yet I am willing for Truths sake, I desire the Torture; wherein I know not what I shall say, but, I have seen, and doe well know, what I ought to say.

Would you have me after this, to deal by Ar∣guments and probable Inferences? No, Torture is the shorter Cut. I see no reason, my Lords, why the Rich man should deny me the Rack, so long as there are such doubts and uncertainties to be clear∣ed. Possibly he would not have me Tortur'd, if, when I am so, I must be beleiv'd at last. O thou cruellest of all mankind, how long wilt thou sham me by counterfeiting Fear. I had more need to Fear, who call for my Rack; I, who could do nothing, alas, when I saw what I did see. My Patience is suspected by you. For, you see, that strength and prime of Age, and a well-set solid Bo∣dy are an encouragement against Pain; but how easie, how ready a matter it, for a Poor disconso∣late Father to be put to Torment? For I bring with me to the Rack a piteous Body, already black and blue with the strokes of my Greif and Complaint. How much of my Life, how much of my Spi∣rits, hath the loss of my Son taken from me al∣ready? How much weaker are these my Vitals, wasted away by dayly Lamentations? Can then this pale Visage of mine, this meagerness, this weak Estate of my Body, as if I had been rack'd already, devise any thing that's false? Besides, if you lye, under Torture, you can long say nothing less than what you saw with your Eyes; it is a short kind of Confession, to tell what you saw. Those are happy, Sir, whom the Torturer interrogates, ex∣amines,

and who cannot command other mens be∣leif. He can endure little, that can put an end to his Torture, when he will himself. But, says he, why do you not rather prove the Fact? Oh, thou Confident man, you know, that no body saw it but my-self. Without doubt, Freind, many Argu∣ments might have been brought to convict you, if another man had been your Accuser; and you were most clearly guilty, if I were to seek for the Murtherer. For who more likely to kill a Poor man, than a Rich man, and his Enemy too? Or, what Wickedness can be more easily sound out, that hath no other impulsive Cause, but Revenge? He need not many words, to say, He saw it; Nor ought I to lose this Probation of mine, because it might have fall'n out, that yon might have been accus'd by another. He requires Proof, who so laid the Villany, that it cannot be proved. What Testimony could night procure? What Eye-wit∣ness could naked and lonely poverty find? For your part, you had a Servant, but he was to be put out of the way, that he might not be privy to the Villany; and things being carried so, who could be present? Who, do you think, was there to be put upon the Rack? You brought the whole Fact to this pinch, that he alone was to know it that did it, and one more, who now, it seemes, is not to be beleived. Would you make any doubt to inquire, if any other man knew of this Wicked∣ness? Is it fit, that my Son's suit should therefore be lost, because I, his Poor Father, saw the thing don. Truly, my Lords, I have made good one part of Proof, even by this, that the Rich man refuses me the Torture. An Accused person will

never fear the Torture of his Accuser, unless he thought him likely to be beleiv'd, even before he came to't.

But, says he, if the Feuds between us were the Cause of the Murther, why did I not rather dis∣patch Thee? Cruel Man! I prove thee the Mur∣therer by this very Argument, that thou didst let me alone. 'Twas thy wicked Plot, this, to destroy the Son and save the Father. This was the very reason for thy sparing of me, that thou could'st not have been defended, if both of us had been Murthered. Methinks, I seem to overhear your very thoughts and your secret contriving the Mur∣ther in your Heart, What have I to do, said you, to wound or shed the Blood of an Old-man, that is spent, and, as it were, half-dead already? Let me rather make away the Young Fellow, who takes part with his Father already against me, I am sufficiently re∣venged of the Old Father, when he sees his Son Murthered before his Face. Would you have me wonder, that you did not kill me? I beleive, 'twas because you were loth, that a short Life should put an end to my Greif. You spar'd me, as Tormen∣tors devise ways to lengthen out punishments, they wreak their cruelty more by prolonging pain, than by speedy dispatching out of the way. Now I see your mercy toward me that Night, thô you hated me. 'Twas one and the same reason for both, that you would not have me Tortur'd, and that you would not Make me away. This man, my Lords, endea∣vours to make it utterly incredible, what I con∣tend for, That he was the person, that Murther'd my Son. D'e think now I'le say, that ther's more of

security, if a man will trust no body to do a Fact but himself, 'tis safer doing it before a Father that's his Enemy, than a bare Complice. Nay I say more. To Murther a Son in the sight of his Father, 'tis then worth the while, if one do's it ones self. He loses much of the Pleasure in a Villa∣ny, that commands another to do it, and there's less sweetness in things we hear by report. Ano∣ther man may Murther one, by your command, but in the mean time you can take no pleasure at the sight: Oh, 'tis a great deal more, to be sated with the sobs of a dying Soul, to see the Blood gushing out, to behold the man groveling and grasping, and this too while I my-self am by. These things, my Lords, suit well together, That the Rich man committed this Fact with his own hands, and, That I saw it don. The reason of his Cru¦elty, was, That he should be Murther'd in my sight, that was Murther'd for my sake.

I beseech you, my Lords, do not think, I did not see the Fact committed, because I stood still, and stir'd not. That's the grief of Slaves, and of half-Free-men, when a Murther is perpetrated, to know presently what to do, to schriek out, to run up and down, to call God and Man to wit∣ness the foulness of the Fact, and at last to dissolve in Tears. Would you have me set upon the Mur∣therer? Must I run after him, as he flies? Mean while, who shall take up my fainting Son? Who shall support his weak dying Body? You know well enough, O Homicide, how to lay and order your Villany. To murther a Son before his own Father, is to do it, when no body is by. Take pity

therefore upon me, my Lords, and even from hence make an Estimate of the rich Man's Guilt, that he is content no Enquiry should be made into the Fact, he hath not the Confidence of one that thinks I am a Lyar; and, that which you ought to heed as much as if he had confess'd, he thinks it not safe for him to deny the same a second time. Pretend what you will, 'tis no innocent fear, that makes you dread another Man's Torture. What says the rich Chuff now? Will he turn my Loss to this kind of use, as if the Authority of a Fa∣ther's Grief would fasten another Man's Wickedness upon him? Next, you bring not the Rack your self, yo your self do not place the burning Coals. In earnest, you should say, You were willing to be rack'd. I rend my Cloaths, and you tremble at it: I make bare my Body for the Lash, and you look as pale as a Clout: I call for the torturing En∣gine and the burning Coals, and you have not the patience to see me undergo this pain. What, I pray, could he do more, that was the Murtherer? Wretch that I am, what shall I do now? I have deprived my self of what was commendable in my Confession, even before I am tortur'd to confess. I know right well, how much more credible it would have been, if I had started this amidst my Flames and Lashes. I have also lost much of the Authentickness of my first Crying out, yet you must not think my Torments needless, thô I have told already what I know. I have yet many things to say concerning that secret Fact, which my pain will give the force of Argument to. 'Tis no mat∣ter whether I say, I saw it; I shall prove by my

••orture, that I ought to have been believ'd, even ••efore I was put to 't.

Oh my Adversary, How do I torture you now, ••y interrogating you that in open Court, which you ••urst not own to my self alone? But if I well ••erceive the inside of your Comfort, you do not ••••ink you deny it, because I saw it. Oh thou, the ••ost presumptuous of all, called Murtherers, didst ••ou think thou shouldst come off, because only ••e two knew it? Deny this, Oh deny it, if thou ••anst, when I am under Torture, and while the ••xecutioner asks me thrô every Limb so tortur'd, ••old out, if thou art able, thy resolvedness not to ••••lieve, when I roar out aloud, I am sure I saw ••ee, thou canst bring no Counterproof at all of thy ••nocency. He can in no wise expect to be acquit∣••••d, except he hears me deny it. And yet, my ••ords, pray do not imagine, that I beg my Tor∣••••re upon this account only, as if I long'd to be ••iserable. No; I will give you Reasons, why ••ou should be out of patience with me, and com∣••and me to my Rack. He Murther'd my Son, that ••as praise-worthy of all and every one of you, ••pon whose account I thought my-self happy, and ••as as proud as the best. Oh my too great im∣••unity! So may I not bring thee off the Rack, ••ay I not free thee from the schorching Flames? Now thou do'st vindicate, now thou do'st defend ••e. Now, just now, my Rich man hath Mur∣••hered my Son by trusting upon thee. Gather your ••elves together, all ye Children and all ye Pa∣••ents too, schorch and tear out, first these Eyes of a ••oor Father, then pull these Arms of mine apieces,

because they were lazy and did nothing for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dying man; rend this Boay, these Limbs, tha•• came off with never a Wound after grapling with the Murtherer. Whether you'l call it a Punish∣ment or a Favour, I ought to be as miserable while I prove it, as I was when I saw it. I am a•• wretched man indeed, if I can possibly give a•• Lying Testimony, even from the Rack. With∣out doubt the Rich man aimed at this in refusing me the Rack, lest they should have beleive•• me. But hold out a little, prithee, thou Con∣science of mine, Thou didst see it. And now let unhappy affection return to us, miserable Crea∣tures: That which could not be don in tot•••• destitution, the Courage which surprising Gre•• hath taken away, let Torture restore. When my bare Heart and Bowels shall be schorch'd with Flames, then let that night come into my mind; when the Rack-scourges shall have unjointed my Limbs, let then the looks of my onely Son, as he was a dying, be again plac'd before mine Eyes: Let the words of the Murtherer on one side, and the Requests of my dying Son on the other, stick by me. When I see my Son a dy∣ing once, methinks I see it still: Oh unhappy Old Age, thou know'st not how much stickling for Truth there must be, that the Rich man may heartily repent he did not Murther us both. Yet for all this, my Lords, I desire you to consider, and to bear with, my Weakness; For if per∣chance, the Rack-lashes shall make me change my note, yet, I am sure, I saw it; If I lose my Voice 'midst Torture and Flame, yet, I vow, I saw it: If Pain, assaulting me on every side,

••••all kill me downright, yet I saw it still. O∣••••erwise, if you will not allow me to beleive ••••y own Knowledge and my own Eyes, I should ••••ve been Dead ere this of that Anguish, when I ••••nsidered I was like to be Tortur'd.

Gemini Languentes: OR, The dying Twins.

DECLAMATION VIII.

The Argument.

A Man and his Wife had two young Chil∣dren, that were Twins, who both fe•• Sick: The Physitians, being consulted said, that 'twas the same disease, and tha•• it was incurable, only one of them of∣fer'd

to work a Cure upon one Child, if Liberty might be given him to inspect the Bowels of the other: Whereupon the Father suffers him to dissect one of the Infants, and view his Entrals; by means whereof he cur'd the other. Here∣upon the Wife commences an Action of Ill-abearance against her Husband.

For the Mother against the Father.

THô, my Lords, it takes off much pity from a Poor Mother in her distress, that, of Two Children alike desperately Sick, one is recovered, so that many, who at first view en∣tertain her great sorrow, will be ready to say, She is too covetous and greedy of Comfort, that being very lately like to lose both her Children, now she is not contented with the recovery of one: Yet I cannot but present to your Piety this first Con∣siderable in her sad calamity, which arises even from the very terms of the Comfort which is left her. The Poor woman, I beleive, would com∣plain less of her Husband, if he also, for whom his Brother was Slain, could not have been Cured. Now the unhappy woman is not able to stand un∣der her greif, now she finds no kind of comfort, since she seems to have lost a Son, that might have liv'd too. It adds to her impatience under her sad loss, because she understands his disease was not with∣out hopes of recovery; The Poor woman can never be perswaded, he was irrecoverably Sick, who could afford that, which cur'd another. Thô the cruel Father stretches hard to shelter the immanity of his Parricide under a greater Fear, yet I see no ground to infer, that both of them must needs have

miscarry'd. of Twain, that were Sick, he alone was lost that was Murther'd.

And therefore in the first place, the unhappiest of all Mothers prefers this request to you, that you would not abate any part of the Odium of this wick∣ed Fact, because her Husband seems to be concern'd, as much as she, in the loss of a Child. A Father can∣not be said to lose a Son, who destroys him; he quits himself of his Greif, because he thinks he hath don a brave thing; and his bragging of the Contrivance substitutes a Poor comfort, in lieu of his lost Son. But a Mother is otherwise, yea far otherwise, affected, she would not beleive the Physitian, and, by reason of the barbarousness of the Terms propos'd, she would never give way to make the Experiment. For as she fear'd, so likewise she hop'd, for both their sakes. I would not have you reckon him of greater Piety, who, by the death of one Son, thought to insure the Life of the other. You ought to detest the Father, as if he had kill'd both, sure 'twas no matter to him, which of them was kill'd. Yet, may it please you Religious Lordships, some body else, besides the Mother, hath cause to complain of this Cruel Par∣ricide. For he reckoned Health it self among humane disasters, and he had the Heart, that his Son should endure all manner of pains and diseases, for Physick's sake. He slew a Son, (if you will be∣leive himself) that perhaps might have dy'd not∣withstanding; and he parts with a Child, whom he ought to have lov'd more dearly by reason of the desperateness of his Case, for some Poor uncertain event. This Motive, my Lords, doth not discharge the Cruel Father from Savageness, because he

thought he might practise an unheard of and a Cruel thing on his Sick Child. He can have but this one Motive, if the one might be cur'd. Oh, great Prosperity, how commonly art thou charged with a sad and o'repressing load of disasters! A Mother, that was lately noted all the Town over, is she now come to This? What, she, that had such sweet Company, that never parted from her sides? She, that made such pretty Glances with her gladsom Eyes? Why d'e tell me of one that's lost? Alas, the woful Mother hath e'n lost both: For the Poor Children sell both Sick; and without doubt they were in the same condition at once, not by their Relation or by Sympathy of Body or Spirit, but on the common account of human frail∣ty, even as Two Strangers might fall Sick at the same time. I will not deny, but the Disease was greivous, terrible and such as might minister Fear to both Parents, yet 'twas such, as for which (to speak the least) a Cure was sought. Tell me not, that the Physitians agre'd, they would both dye, in regard, they said, 'twas the same disease? 'Tis plain, they cou'd not speak true of both, for, you see, they were out in one.

Yet, at present, my Lords, we do not complain of their wretched Prescription, to throw the Pa∣tients on their Parents, when they thought they could not cure 'm themselves? 'Tis more plain and innocent, to give a man over, where you don't know a remedy; And I had rather have such ho∣nest ignorance, which says, We cannot cure a Ma∣lady, if we don't know it. But the greatest Pro∣fessors among them, and such as Mankind were not able to requite, if they knew this kind of

Cure, yet would make no discovery thereof. Would you have me prove, in short, that they did no better than lye? Why, they said, the Dis∣ease was d••sperate, and yet One of themselves (if the Father speak Truth) sound out the Remedy. Whether it were, my Lords, that the most vain∣glorious of the Ignoramus's saw the over-rigid Pa∣tience of the Father in the danger his Children were in, and so look'd upon him as a man care∣ful for a Remedy, even for all Mankind, in their particular Disease; or whether, he made this a pretence to counterfeit some skill, seeing he cou'd not cure, and therefore essay'd to cover his shame∣ful ignorance under as great an unlikelihood, or whe∣ther it were, that he would be thought to say somewhat more than the rest, he interlac'd and flourish'd his d••spairing words, with incredible va∣pouring; and, keeping the poor Parents long in suspence, at last he thought it safest to promise, what no body living would venture to essay. He ac∣knowledg'd, that he understood not the Cause of the Malady, and yet (forsooth) he would un∣dertake to recover One, if he might slay and dissect the Other, and inspect his vitals.* 1.14 This is your Man, that must be trusted by a pious and careful Father. He profess'd, he knew a Remedy for that Disease, which he knew not a word of.

Now, my Lords, will it please you to take no∣tice, that the Father did do nothing of all this, out of his impatient Love? I'le tell you, he did not acquaint the Mother with it; the poor Woman was driven from her dying Son, by the very mention of the safety of the t'other. Neither did he take any counsel of his Kindred or Friends, but, resting

on his own and his Physicians persuasion, he gave him leave to chuse which he would, which is worse than if he had slain him himself. Now let the Murtherous man tell me, how it came to pass, that of Two Children, alike deplorably sick, one should be thought more desperate than the other? If 'twere indifferent to the Physitian, which he murthered, 'tis plain from thence, that possibly both might have liv'd; but, if he did put any dif∣ference betwixt them, then 'tis clear, that 'twas not quite the same Malady. What a kind of Cure this was, and what the Poor Youth endur'd in a Death that an Anatomist must be present at, I presume 'tis plain to the affections of all thinking persons. And therefore I am tender, that the Mother should hear it; yet we must briefly shew you the method of his long-lasting Cruelty. Of all that he suff'red, his death was the least and ea∣siest. Nor must he think to procure Pardon for his Cruel Cure, because he made good his promise in 'tother Brother. Whether the Physitian cur'd the 'tother, let Fortune decide it, this I am sure of, the Physitian kil••'d one.

Here now the unhappy Mother flies out, and cryes as loud as she can, Husband, says she, where is my Child that I committed to you, and to your Physitian both? Here is your uncureable Child, which you trusted to me, taken him, this is the Child that's a dying, this is he, whom you allow'd your Physician, if he thought good, to Murther. You see, what comes of my distressed pious Vows, and of my careful Prayers? Whilst I foster and foment his could Breast by applying my Paps thereto; when I put Life into his stark cold Limbs by incessant

Kisses, and the warm Breath of a Distracted Mo∣ther; when his almost closing Eyes did ope a little, at my noyse and schreiks, and so admit a glimpse of Light; when I cogg'd with him, when I pro∣mis'd him great matters, and told him that his. Bro∣ther was Cur'd, he look'd up towards Life, he grew better, he was quite well. Yet I don't brag of any Piety, nor do I ascribe to myself the Event of that happy Cure; wou'd you know, what Cur'd him? I'le tell you, in a word, Even that, which would have cur'd them both.

The Laws, methinks, and Statutes may be a∣sham'd for confining the Greif of our Poor Sex within such narrow bounds. What shall a Wife, when her Son is slain by her Husbands means, ac∣cuse him, of no more than Ill-Treatment, or Ill-Abearance? Those Wives go off from the Autho∣rity of this Law, who make the want of some Matrimonial Caresses a Ground of Action. For my part, I think Liberty is given thereby to wretched Wives only, to sue for a divorce from a wicked Husband, and it defends against such Injuries of an Husband, that you can endure no longer. It re∣leives those Wives, who cannot in Conscience part from their Husbands, but are lock't in the hard and everlasting bond of the worst of Wedlocks; who, having Children by their ill Husbands, can neither well leave them, nor well stay with them. Possibly an Husband may have the better on't, be∣cause he would be condemned, if the Action were grounded on a less complaint. And therefore such a woman is past Shame, that sues her Hus∣band, for denying her a Garb sit for her. Quality, for taking off her Attendants, for refraining her

Bed, or for a Flap on the Face, as if he had de∣stroy'd a Child. I have said nothing as yet of those Circumstances, which make the Parricide to appear so heinous as it is. I say, my Son was slain by his Father, you may suppose, he was Lewd, Debauch'd, and Wicked; or you may think, his Father did it in Anger and Indignation? How heinous a thing 'tis, to kill a Son, no body acknow∣ledges more, than he, who would have us think he did it for his 'tother Son's sake.

What, my Lords, can the wilful humour of an Husband, and the All of a sad Wises misery be dis∣covered by this? That he denys to be accounta∣ble to her for the of-spring between them. Do you like it, you men, that of persons, who derive more of their Life and Spirit from them, they should have no share but only of their Greif? Shall a Poor woman then contribute her waylings only? Must she be set aside from all the Cares and Coun∣sels, which are requir'd for the trayning of their Youth, and for the disposal of their Life, and have no more concern for them than a Stranger, shall she be joyn'd to her Husband only in Partnership of Mourning and Tears for a lost Child? Certainly, if we duly estimate, to which of the Parents Children are most oblig'd, 'tis not without reason, that that affection should challenge almost all the Preeminence, that was set upon them, ten Months before the Father dream't on't: For you, Fathers, are made such only by the first gladsom sight of the birth, but we Mothers know our selves to be such, by our going with the burthen all that while. Is it fit that they should have less power over them, because they can do less for them!

You are they, who, when they are shooting up, send them to Travel; and when they are grown, after the Fashion of Grandees, (forsooth) you send them to trail a Pike. You are asham'd to seem sensible of their absence, as if it were a weak∣ness of Spirit; and, (whence there is an easie Transit to severity and rigor) you love your Children, by putting them to hardships. How many things do you do with your Children, only because you may. You often Sin by bragging of your power, while you would seem to affect a grave humour. When you lose your Children, you cannot shed a Tear, your countenance is stern and unmoveable, even when you behold their Bo∣dies a burning, you are easily comforted, and, that which surpasseth all Savageness whatsoever, you seek ambitiously to be praised for being uncon∣cern'd in their calamity. Can there be any thing then, which you both perform, not with the same mind, with the same impatience, or, if need be, with the same rigor, towards your common Child∣ren? He's a Wicked Father, that won't let the Mother do as much as he. Grant, that our weaker Sex yields to you about Tutoring our Children; you may settle their Manners, their Course of Life, their Marriages, and other Acts, by your Coun∣sel and Persuasion: But is there any arrogancy or presumption in the Joint-share and Partnership of both, when our Children are Sick? Nay: if you have any Shame at all, now give up all your Power to the Mother, let her sit nearest the Sick Child's Bed, let her apply fomentations, and let her hand him his dyet: If his Impatience, or the Disorder of his Feavourish Bowels, call for any

thing, let the Mother deny it, or let the Mother give it him. If his hot Fit has thrown of the Clothes, let her lay them again on his weary'd Limbs; if he throws his hands up and down the Bed or Couch, let her keep them in with a dili∣gent care. In vain do you seek, that this cruel Act should seem to come from your great affecti∣on, who are indeed secluded from all obligation to take Care. Where Parents do not agree about the Cure of their Sick Children; the Cure is to be distrusted, not the Mother.

Moreover, the Son, that he kill'd, was an in∣nocent Child; he could object nothing against him, neither had he any Cause to be angry with him; A Son, (if you will beleive himself) that was rea∣dy to dye for his Brother, and whose last Farewel he could not endure to see. My Lords, here's a new and unusal Fact committed against us, now, Piety, Love and an Impatience to lose a Child, sticks not at a Parricide. I had rather a man should hate, complain of, and curse his Children, than Murther them with the same affection as he Saves them. What avails it, if the Life of the other Child be redeem'd by such an Act? If any just reason can be given for Murthering a Child, he must be Mur∣thered upon his own account only. Now, my Lords, consider further, I beseech you, to inhaunce his inhumanity, he kill'd him when he was Sick and Weak. I conceive, all of us do entertain a grea∣ter tenderness for those, that are Sick; yea even Malefactors, whose Executions we otherwise long to see, yet we take some kind of pity upon them, if they be weak and troubled with any violent Fit. When men are in holes of Prisons, and in the

deepest Dungeons, yet the swarthy paleness of ones panting Breast is beheld, not with such remorse, nor do the railing Chains about his neck, and a Face begrim'd with a long nasty imprisonment, so move and strike the Spectators, as that Poor man, who is ready to faint every step he takes; and who can scarce be push'd on by the long train of his Fellow-Prisoners, this Sick Prisoner, amongst so many condemned ones, and dead in Law, causes every one to look on him before the rest. What say you? Will you offer to wound one, or kill him outright, whom, in the case he is in, 'tis cruel to correct or to reprove, whose very Ears should not be grated with hard words; and one so tender, that, if you deny him any thing, you seem to kill him? You can't think to defend your self on this account, That you devised this Expedient to save the 'tother. No, when Two Children are alike desperately ill, if you be a good Father, your Af∣fection will incline to neither, you will chuse nei∣ther; but, to avoid the hazard of being Child∣less, you will rather dye your self.

In this place, my Lords, the Cruel Old man strives to patch up an Excuse for his Rashness, from the Consent of his Physicians; They despaired, for∣sooth, of them both. But I'le lay aside a while the Savageness of the Father, who, to escape the hazard of Childlesness, would give any Credit at all to them; and in the Name of all that's Man, I will complain against the Men of so bold and daring a Persuasion. How many Tricks hath the miserable care of mortals found out? 'Tis by Fate, we Live, we are Sick, we are Well, we Dye: What can the thing, call'd Physick, doe, but that,

according to her Rules, none may despair? Do you think, I will say, I don't beleive them when they give over a Patient; or that, I am not of their mind, when they utterly leave and forsake him: Tush, for my part, I'le not trust Doctors, no not when they promise and encourage me: Look upon the greatest part of mankind, and, in my judgment, that Lustier age, which liv'd in the First true Frame of Nature, knew no great Professors of such an Art; yet for all this, she could cure Wounds received in Battel, and the attaques of diseases, not by the Learned vanity of disputing pro and con, but by more Experiment, and by drawing Observations from like and unlike e∣vents, she succours us by the way she has been taught. 'Tis not the medicinal Art that Cures, but whatsoever hath the hap to Cure, that's medi∣cine. How can I take it, d'e think, that an Art, invented (as you say) for our Life, forsooth, should take such a guise and authority upon her, as to foresee mens Exits long before? That it should pronounce that Fate to be at hand, which we dreamt not of? When it begins to be the cheifest part of this pretended Science, to say, We are past Cure: Will any man leave a person that can speak still, that breaths, that understands, as he wou'd give over a dead Corps? Or, will he think, that presently there is an end of Life, whensoever his poor skill is gravel'd? If we consider the Frailty of our mortal Fabrick, with the uncertain hazards that attend it, you'l find, that the case of every Sick man is alike dangerous. 'Tis unreasonable, to call those cases desperate, as often as Physick can∣not find out a Cure, and to make the scantling of

our skill, or of our understanding, to reflect upon the Fates. I think nothing concerns every body more, than that our hope for a man should hold out as long as his Life. Whence, d'e think, doth it proceed, that men are so slow in their Funeral-preparations? How comes it, that they are always disturb'd with beating our Breasts, with weeping and with immoderate howling? But that, it seems, we are loth to beleive, that death it self can dis∣patch us so suddainly? And therefore, we fre∣quently see some return'd to Life again, after their last Farewel has been cry'd; some have re∣cover'd, even by not being look'd too: That hath sav'd some, which perhaps would have kill'd o∣thers. Unadvis'd Indulgence has help'd some, and desperate Resolution has don as much for others. Perhaps this Art may be able to foresee diseases, and to find out what's good for them; but how can it possibly tell, how much Life Nature hath gran∣ted in the Inwards, in the dark corners and re∣cesses of the Breast? What property the Spirit may have receiv'd, and what, the Body? There is not such a difference in our Shapes, nor so great a variety in our Countenances, as there is a latent dissimilitude in our Breasts. Whatsoever the various compo∣sure of the Elements hath fram'd us, 'tis unsearch∣able, and never like to be found out; And, as more or fewer of Celestial Principles are united with the Terrene, so by a hidden reason we last, or we knock off. Whether we ought to beleive such as give men over, judge you? They, who deny'd the Sick Infants were capable of a Cure, said not true neither in him that escap'd, nor in

him that miscarry'd, for he dyed not of any Sick¦ness.

Certainly, A woman might have had just cause of complaint against you, if you had gon a ne•••••• and unusal way to work, thô you had saved bo•••• It never shews any great Affection, to make Try•• of desperate Remedies, thô they may do us good▪ For in a very hazardous Prescription, the unad∣visedness of the Tryal only argues a desperate re∣solution. What matter is it, of what condition the Sick man is? How much of Hope, or how much of Life remains behind? Let the Fears and Dreads of Parents for their Children be sacred. God forbid, that, of our Children, he, that is like to dye should be less regarded. The Physicians des∣pair'd! What's t••at to the Father? Pray, do you hope notwith••••••nding, and bid the Mother hope with you: Trust ro your own affections rather, and to your own ardent Prayers. This shews, that you were too too willing to commit the Murther, when for your Son's Sickness, you chose to go only to de••pairing Physicians. Do you beleive such men, that give one another the Lye, and against whose Opinion you give Credit to one single Per∣son, before all the rest. Again, I should think ve∣ry hardly of your Cruel-heartedness, if in the Cure of a Son, whatever it be, you did not acquaint your Kindred, s••nd for your Friends, have regard to the Mothers mind, and did not first consult this Impatience, (on one side) and that Fear (on the other side) of the Parents. A Father ought to allow himself less liberty in the case of no Son, than of him that's e'n just upon dying.

But they were Brothers, says he, and Twins ••••o, and therefore 'tis probable they ail'd the same ••••ing. Pray, who can endure that any man ••••ould be ignorant and positive, in the same thing? ••••e that knows not, what kind of disease 'tis, can't ••••ow whether it be the same or no. My Lords, ••ature never made any thing in the World so ••••ke, but that some property or other did distinguish 〈◊〉〈◊〉. What matters it, that the First constitution ••••f Two Bodys and Spirits springs from the same ••rinciples? Yet, every man is compos'd and ••ade by a Frame of his own; Two, or more, Bro∣••hers may be born, but their Fate may be singu∣••ar. That indifference and indistinguishableness, that ••ve behold in some, which men admire when they ••ee, and all the Town wonders at, yet the know∣••edge of their Parents can distinguish them, the Nurse knows Which is Which, and thô the di∣••tinctive marks are not easily discerned, yet there ••s somthing again, where even likeness it self cre∣••tes a difference. In some thô they are not di∣••••inguishable by their Countenance, yet there is ••ound a different Tone, another Meen, and a di∣••••inct Gate or Pace; and suppose all these differ not, yet there is a different Wit, contrary disposi∣••ions, and courses of Life which are quite cross one to the other. Moreover, That Twins have ••not the same Nature is evinced by their several Fortunes; she depresses one with constant poverty, ••he pranks up 'tother with an Estate, he could never ••ook for: She conducts one to Titles, Places, Offi∣ces, the other passes his whole Life in obscure and ••gnoble privacy. All that Twins receive from their Father is like enough; but what from Fate,

is unlike. Neither did they slip out of their Mo¦thers womb togeather, so that the same birth con∣sign'd them. How much time, d'e think, did pass between the womans being laid of her first Twin? Whilst her womb, having a little delivered, is open'd a second time for another bearing? Per∣haps it may seem a small Term to our Eyes; but if you consider the vastness of the Heaven over us with a groveling mind, you shall know, that there is a great Arch of a Circle runs between Na∣tivitys. This vast Frame of the Starry Heaven roles over our heads by a swift motion turning downwards, and, the huge distance between East and West being measur'd out by the short space of Day and Night, we meet with different Constel∣lations from what rose at first, by the continued revolution of the Axis. Do you reckon this, a smal space of the Heavenly Circumference, that presents you with such distinct appearances. How much appears above the Horizon every moment of a Flitting hour, and how much again doth disap∣pear? And therefore, when, I pray, did the Chil∣dren set out to Travel togeather; When did they list themselves for Soldiers togeather? What have they don, but when they were separate and apart by themselves? When was it, that they were Sick togeather, and when were they conjoined in their last Funeral? And thô 'tis necessary, that Twins should sometimes be Sick togeather; yet this hap∣pens to them, not as Brothers but as they are Se∣veral. That our Twins were not Sick of the same Fate, how would you have me prove it more breifly than thus, That both of them were not Mur∣ther'd nor both of them Cur'd? But suppose this be

••••ue, that the Physicians despair'd of them: Yet, ••ray, You who are the Father, leave us some In∣••ocence in our Calamity, leave us an intire Com∣••••rt in our Children, whom you seem not to have ••••st, but by Fate. What Parent is ignorant, that ••••e procreates Children under the Fatal Law of M••rtality? But inhuman and unbecoming Exits are ••orse than to be barely Childless. For this cause, ••••e bewayl those more, who hap to be taken a∣way by War, or who chance to be burnt with ••ire, or to be cast away at Sea. You may the ••etter bear with the loss of those Children, who ••ye with all their loving Friends and Assistants a∣••out them; when we have said what we have to ••ay, when we have given a departing kiss, when ••hey have made their last Will, and when our Conscience tells us, we have don all that we could ••o save Life. These are the men, if we speak ••ruth, that may be said to dye, others are all but ••ast away.

Again, I see not, how the Father can fetch any Excuse from the Consent of Physicians. Why this is ••hat, which exceeds all Parallel of Barbarity. A ••ather murthers his Son, for another, who, he ••hought, could never be cur'd. What a kind of Monster and Prodigy have we here! Can you ••ndure the Murther of a Child, and yet can't en∣••ure the Loss of a Child? Is it come to this, that ••hen only you can endure the Death of your Son, when you have added a Villany to it? Do you Murther him, because the Physicians gave him ••ver. For my part, I would have complain'd, if ••ou had but let him alone, or if you had discon∣••inued or remitted any part of your paternal Care;

Then, it seems, you will do no more, than they, who go about to visit many a Patient, who are call'd away and taken off by other Cures in hand. Ah, trust your Children rather with their Mother, let her complain of angry fortune, let her cast an Odium upon the merciless Gods. That woman, which can't endure the very thought of your giving a Child over, you will never be able to fatisfie her by his Murther. Oh, my Lords, who can endure this piece of Impudence? A Father would make you believe this unlikely story, That every body despaired, and yet One had some hope. 'Tis ground enough for my complaint, That the Physicians cou'd not agree, and when they had found one, who, against the sense of the rest that gave him over, pretended to Cure, 'twas not un∣likely, my Lords, that some other good man might have been found, who would have given more encouraging and effectual Prescriptions. I mean, 'tis this that I complain of, and that troubles me, that in a matter wherein he should not have hearkned to the whole Pack of them, yet he gave credit to One. What if there be some remedy, if it be a Sin to use it. And where Hope brings along with it as much danger as Despair it self, that's the best issue, that preserves Innocence in misery. Why do we lay an Odium on the former Physicians? None despairs more than he, that professes he knows not, What the Disease is. What say you, the Father? Dare any man be so bold to treat with you con∣cerning your Two Children, as of Two other or∣dinary Sick persons? Can you give up either of your Twins to be Murthered? I should not know how to bear it, if you should part them by Expo∣sing

one, or if you should be content to bring up but one: I should not endure it, if your Son were taken Captive by Pyrates, that you should redeem him by sending his Brother in his room. What, will you play fast and loose with your Children? Will you make the Case of one reach them both? I should call it Murther of your Child, if, when the Physician promised to save one, you had chosen him that was sure to dye. 'Tis, near upon, as Cruel a thing, to part Tvvins as to destroy them. He, vvith all his skill, vvhere he must be beleiv'd, says, That he knows not the Cause of the malady; and then forsooth, he prescribes somthing that can••ot be don, no not by them that do know it. This is his method, Pla Kill, says he, Then Ple try to Cure. Remember, you that are the Father, he puts Kil∣ing into the bargain before Curing? 'Tis not so great piety to save one Son, as 'tis a Villany to de∣stroy another. Do you think now, that this is an Arcanum of his profound skill in Physick? I tell you, he wraps up nothing but words of despair, the Cautions Braggadochio lays hold on this short response to circumvent and deceive: You see, in how much obscurity the Physician involves his Prescript and Experiment? 'Twill never be known, whe∣ther a Sick Child dyes of his disease, if he kill him any other way: I did not know, says he, the nature of the disease? When he had once said so, in truth you ought not to have trusted him with the Children, thô he would have try'd nothing but a Potion, or some novel way of dyet and fomenta∣tion. I don't know, says he, but if you will give me leave to rip ope 'tothers body, and break up his breast, perhaps and peradventure I may find some

remedy there. Well said, Physician, now you have excus'd your self to the Mother; for you used all the means you could, that you might not be beleiv'd.

I will defer awhile this my Plea, that the Father acted thus towards Two Brothers, Twins too, and that without the consent of the Mother; I will rather contend in the name of all that's man, that such a kind of Cure ought by no means to be ad∣mitted. Good Night to all mankind, if we must need the death of one man for the recovery of ano∣ther; and all way of Cure will be lost, in effect, if medicine do's as much mischeif if as malady. What, shall I endure a man, that says, Give me another Live Anatomy, another mans Heart-blood, that I may find out the Cause of a distemper; when I have kill'd, then will I inquire after a remedy, then will I study out something, shall do good. Is it so indeed, can you not find out the nature of a disease on easier terms? How Impudent and Shameless is this Cruel service? He resolves, to kill a Sick man, that he may find our a reason, why he ought not to be kill'd. I appeal to your Consciences, my Lords, Nature hides no kind of disease in the Inwards only, but what∣ever distemper rises at the Center is diffus'd to the Circumference of the Exterior Body. Hence comes Paleness and Meagerness of look, because the out∣most surface sympathizes with the Pain that is with∣in Otherwise, I see not, why you should Probe a man at his wounds, or why you should transmit your remedys to the Heart through the passages of the Body; and how Physick can reach our latent Canals through our very skin. Why therefore doth not a malady admit lis to the understanding of it self, the same way, as it discovers its remedy? Hidden

and deep diseases are discover'd either by the too swift circulation of the Blood in the Body, or by the quicker drawing breath of a panting Soul. In these cases, first and formost, beleive your senses, I say, beleive your own i••yes: Interrogate the Sick partys one while by themselves, another while both together, whereabouts the greatest pressure of their disease within 'm doth ch••ifly reside, and whence their Feeling pain, bursting forth into Groans, doth proceed? A Physician, who, by these Indications can't find out a disease, never did, nor never will, find out a remedy. But what if a Physician can give some reason to one, that he hath Cur'd already? Is the in pection of one Anatomy enough, to make your Physician understood the Na∣ture of all Mankind in general? What can you bring to a Sick Patient, which the Experience of so many Ages, and of so many persons, hath not al∣ready found out? Will you chus•• rather, in the same bold and dangerous way, to try your remedys, as you do find out the abstruseness of a disease? There is a shorter way of Cure for us, and a more compendious Expedient to health and recovery. If too much heat, of Bowels within, hath hardned the parts about it, use Emollient remedys: If the Sick Patient overflow with moist humours, Recipe's should be ready, whereby, the Veins being dis∣charg'd and contracted, the Body may come again to a stronger and dryer temper. If Abstinence from Food will do little good, let him be cherished with good Kitchin Physick. If the Spirits be overladen with too much Feeding, let the Body be attenua∣ted by fasting and refraining from Food, for the cleansing of the passages. Here's subject enough,

for all your Experiments, Doctor, in Two Sick per∣sons, and their diseases the same. You must never look to get various ch••yce of remedys by practi∣sing your butchery upon one poor man. You must try at the same time, what's proper, what's different, what's contrary: Here's no consideration of Laun∣cing, of Ripping up, of the higher Regions: You can't know, how one Sick party can be cur'd, un∣less you have first cur'd the other. Besides, thô a disease be never so much the same, yet it must needs be diversified in the Variety of Two persons. You can never find in one mans Bowels the whole of what you seek, for another; a different Sick per∣son is a different disease.

Why should you maintain the greatest of Crimes by the recovery of the other Son? A man, in whom you only seek the Cause of any disease, is slain for the Physicians sake. Add hereto, that the Cause of any disease cannot be found out from him that was not cur'd. Whatever puts us, out our of Natu∣ral state of health, to ailments and distempers, is either a Pl••th••ry of Blood in our Veyns, or an ex∣cessive heat, or too much Phlegme, or a conflux of Spirits running up and down their secret Canals, with a more than usual Freedom. Now which of these, upon an Anatomical Dissection, will not be prejudic'd in the Sick, when the passage of the opened Breast presently vents the pain of the over∣pressed Spirit, and when the Blood gush's out of the same Orifices? Do you think it likely, that the Bowels, when opened, will retain their natural hue? That the intimate recess of Life and Spirit will lose nothing of its former vigor, when it takes air. Alas, we find our selves much alter'd in the re∣gion

of our Breast, even by a little fear. How, think you, do's Carefulness, Jocundness, Greif or any sudden Passion, change us? How oft do we see, while a Sick man is preparing for his Applica∣tions, and while he lays his Body in a right posture for his remedy, that he Swoons away? In our case therefore, at every gash of the Knife, when the wounded person thinks he will never have don, how much of the whole man is alter'd by his Out∣crys and Groans? The very Foundations and Fe∣ments of Life must needs all suffer, as long as Life it self is prejudic'd; and in a person, who is slam for better understanding of a malady, the malady it self dies with him but by piecemeal. Oh, stay such Cruelty, you that are the Father, put it off, at least for a while; what Experiments you will make upon your Son, make them upon his Corps. If his disease may be found out whilst he is killing him, he may as easily find it when he is dead.

Here it were good to ask, Which of the Two chose out him that was to dye, The Father or the Physician? The Physician say,. 'twas all one to him, which he kill'd: So by this, if the other had dy'd too, he would have prov'd, that both wou'd have dy'd. And therefore, say I, when one re∣cover'd, he wou'd have prov'd, that both wou'd have liv'd. Of a truth, the Father might have found him a subject for his butcherly Cure with more ease, if he had had but one Son only. Now he must endure the torment of comparing and of resolving to execute, one while whether This, ano∣th••r while whether That, be deerer to him, or like to be better? Where is the impatient aff••ction of a

Father, that can scarce endure to follow his dead Son to his Funeral-Obsequies? That is loth to part with his dead Body, but stands embracing it again and again? Good Heavens! How Cruel, how Mer∣ciless is this your deliberation and delay? All the while you stand considering first one then the o∣ther, you shew your Murtherous inclination to both. 'Tis a sign you care for neither, when you can suffer either of Two Brothers to be Murther'd. Never, my Lords, that I could hear of, was there such an horrible Butchery and Inhumanity acted. A Father destroys a Son for that Son's sake, which very Son also he could as willingly have destroyed too. The Defendant, my Lords, labours to put off the Odium of the Election upon his Physician. 'Twas He, says he, That gave his judgment of both, and 'twas he, that pitch'd upon one. 'Tis plain then, that 'twas not the same disease; of the Two, he had m••re hopes of that one, for whose sake he Murther'd the 'tother.

Have patience a little, You poor unhappy Mother, let me declare, how the Cure of your Son was. O happy, ye Sick persons all, whose hap it is to dye by Natural diseases, who gasp your last breath amidst the sorrowful Farewels and Embraces of your own Kindred and Freinds: But our Poor Youth, as he was tormented first by the uncertainty of his Lot, and afterwards by the Fatal choyce, so the first thing to be don was to turn away his Mother from him, and the Officious assistances of the Servants were chang'd upon a suddain into preparations for his Funeral. The Clothes must be strip't from his yet shivering Limbs, and that his whole Body might lye open to their butcherly

hands, his wonderfully piteous Sceleton must be stark naked. Next, he must be stretcht out as far as the Bed reach'd; he must not stir, but lye stock-still to bear it out, and to endure whatever they did to him there. See, now the Butcher takes his Instrument in his hand, not to give him his Death-blow at once, but to carve him up by in∣ches, and so to keep his dolorous Soul long a hover∣ing between the confines of Life and Death. Now the encouraging Speech they made to the dying Child, was this, Well said, bravely don, Flinch not, thy Brother will be the better for't. Be not disheart∣ned, nor faint away for the Pain; Oh, take heed yen do not weary your self by Outcrys, nor displace jour Bowels by your Sighs and Groans, for if you do so, you'l spoil all; your Brother will be never the better for it. Hereupon the Poor Child under∣went all the Cruel traces of his wandring Knife through every part of his dissected body. D'e think, the Physician could be satisfy'd, at first sight, to learn his Experience from the view of his whole man? No, no, he pull'd out his vitals once and again, he felt them over and over, he parted them one from 'tother; his Hands were more cruel than his Knife. Where stood the Fa∣ther now, but just by the Physician, gazing upon his dissected entrals, and whil'••t he tumbles and tosses his bleeding Heart, the seat of Life, with his gore hands, he charges him not to make too much hast, he bids him be sure to make a deep and careful search; he stands to put Questions, to raise Doubts, he Disputes with him, he gives his Opini∣on, he takes the minuts of his Sons death. While the unhappy woman, falling on her face at the

door that was shut, with all the weight of her Bo∣dy, breaks ope that Cruel Conclave, and crys out, as if it w••re for his last Funeral. Hear me, Oh my thric•• m••serable Youth, if thou hast any sense yet left, hear m••••▪ 'Twas not your Mother that gave consent to this, b••lieve my s••nse of Childlesness, beleive my tears; na••▪ Ple tell you, your Brother himself did not des••re 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Cured, at so d••ar a rate. While she said the•••• words, the Poor T••uth was r••fresh'd as with a Cordial Potion, h•• hearkned to his Mothers com∣fortable words, the r••st of his Blood was stanch'd, and his ••p••••••a Bowels were clos'd again. No man ever suffered such new-coyn'd methods of Cruelty, he was Kill'd, as if he were to be Cur'd. Where are ye now, that ask the Question, Whe∣ther he might have liv'd under the Physicians Cure, who you see, liv'd so long, while he was a Killing. D'e think, that the Physician, at that time, did seek for the Cause only of that disease? No, he sought for all that he did not know be∣fore, and, making his best of so rare an opportuni∣ty, he would have benefited himself for any no∣vel Cure. Oh Heavens! What a portion of Spi∣rit, Blood and Life fell to this Poor Childs share, that he cou'd endure the method of such a long tedious Cure? The wretched Thing could scarce find a way to dye, his Soul was hardly parted from his Body, no not by all his Torments. D'e think, his mal••••••ly was found out hereby? Nay, it was found, that ••e might have been Cured too. Go too then, you Pr••ud Old Fellow, boast of your Project, you have don something now, to say, you have obliged Children, Parents, yea the Age you live in, you have made a Physician more ex∣pert,

than he was before, by practising a Murthe∣rous Experiment upon your Child.

I have a mind truly, to survey this Young Pair. Yon have one of the Sick persons as given over, not by the salubri••us hand of the Physician, nor by that Art, which was found out for Lifes sake, but by the feirce and cruel Bitings of Wild-Beasts, and by the satiated ravening of Birds; you have ano∣ther of them, rising up to? n••w strength with a s•••••• briskness. Would you know, my Lords, whence came this great diversity? Why, the Fa∣ther look'd after the one, but the Mother, the 'tother. Hove much Pain, says she, did I, Poor woman, un∣dergo, whil'st I made much of so sad an object▪ I did not try it out with the disease, nor did con∣tend with an Obstinate distemper, that would yield to no remedy: He was given over to Tears and Melancholy, he hated the very Light, he could not eat nor drink, nor could he brook his Life for shame of the Murther. In all his loud Expressi∣ons and Lamentations, you could hear nothing, but, Brother; 'twas He that troubled his Thoughts day and night, 'twas He that haunted his Eyes. Of what Sick Persons then doth this Lawless, more than Audacious, Physick tell us such a Lye? He would never, never, have dyed of a mere disease, when even his Brothers death could not kill him? Why then, says our most wretched woman, O thou Cruel Old Fellow, dost thou, after the me∣mory of so sad a loss, turn thy self to these Locks? Without doubt, 'tis your Son, and, after the sor∣rowful threatnings of the Physicians, restor'd to Life too. But let Nature and Affection pardon me, 'tis no comfort to a Mother to see One for

Two. More happy is that Greif, which may have its due paid it as long as we have our Eyes, that is renewed and refreshed by them, and that fancys it sees, every day, 'tother perishing in this Childs looks. Nay, he himself neither, can take no Pleasure nor Joy in the recovery of his Health; nor can he beleive, he was preferr'd be∣fore 'tother out of any Love, when he was left only to the Physicians choyce. The unhappy Child perceives, of how great a loss he is the Relict, with what Tears his Kisses were bedewed, and with how great and profound Sighs his Embra∣ces were shaken. Miserable is the Shame of so unwelcome a Recovery, it seems to him, that all's well, now he is alive, thô his Brother was Kil∣led.

In this place, my Lords, the unhappy woman turns about, and, as if her lost Son were in presence, she thus bespeaks him: Whether, says she, you, being at last delivered by an all-securing Death, do rest in some modest Eternal Seat of the Blessed; or whether, as an Excluded and Vagrant shade, as yet in fear of the Fabulous punishments by Dilaceration, you wander up and down amongst the Dreadful Terrible Ghosts, hear the Lamentable com∣plaint of your woful Mother; I was not permitted to break into that Chamber, which was your Execution-place; nor was I allowed to cover your dear Body by the prostration of mine on your Wounds in your Bowels. This is all I could do, poor woman, I ga∣thered togeather into this my bosom all that body, which the Physician and the Father had left; I again filled up that empty Chest with your cold and cast∣away Bowels; your scattered Limbs I hugg'd and

joyn'd togeather; I set the parts in order that were torn in pieces, and, of a Gastly Horrible Spectacle, I made up somthing of the appearance of a dead Corps. Yet, this is the principal thing I can't endure in my sad loss; 'Tis plain, you were Murthered for your Brothers sake, but it can never be made appear, that you did recover your Brother.

Gladiator: OR, The Roman Gladiator.

DECLAMATION IX.

The Argument.

The LAW. A Father may cast off, re∣nounce, and turn his Son out of doors. The CASE. A Poor man and a Rich were Enemys one to the other, but they had each of them a Son, that were great Freinds and Chronies. It hapned, that the Rich man's Son was taken by Pyrats, whence he wrote back to his Father to Ransom him. His Father making some delay in the business, the Poor man's Son

undertook the Voyage, and not finding his Freind amongst the Pyrats, who had sold him to a Fencing-Master before, he went to the Town where a Prize was rea∣dy to be plaid, just at the nick of time, when the Rich man's Son was entring the Lists, as a Combatant. The Poor Youth agrees with the Fencing-Master, to re∣deem his Freind by putting himself in his stead: And of his Comrade he desir'd only, that if his Poor Father where ever in want, He, at his return, would main∣tain him. The Poor man's Son fell in the Combate. The Son of the Rich man, find∣ing the Father of his deceas'd Substitute in want, when he came home, did openly releive him. Whereupon his Father re∣nounces and cast's him off.

For the Son against the Father.

I AM persuaded, my Lords, you will easily beleive, that never any body, no older than myself, suffred more by Land and Sea, than I, in my last Voyage, either endur'd, fear'd, or saw, considering, that, of all the men I know, there can be but one instanc'd in, more miserable than myself, and him 'twas I that made so. Yet even in this hurry, wherein Fortune scrives to do me all the mischeif she can, I confess this Fear never came into my mind, that, after I was ransom'd by another mans hands, my mercifulness should displease my Father. I was rather afraid of what they commonly said openly of me, who accused me of Cruelty and Savageness before ma∣ny pious and worthy persons. I could not make any Excuse to them, that I was Ransom'd. They Objected to me, that I had made an Old man Childless, and that he, who, whil'st his Son vvas safe at home, vvas able to make head against the Rich man, now having lost all his Means, in one Young Son, he is fain to creep, as a supplicant, to the House of his Enemy. For thô vve call in the whole povver of Fortune to heap Envy and Hatred upon one Poor Old man, and thô vve trample upon him vvith the vvhole stress of our Great∣ness, yer, after all, vve must confess, that vve have

prejudiced him more by being his Friends, than while we were his Enemys? Yea, my very Cle∣mency in prolonging his unhappy days, by be∣stowing a small Pittance upon him, seems to have something of Malignity in it. For what obligation can it be to a Man, to be the Cause of his being Childless? Yet I can Apologize for one, thô a greater Crime, by reason of my unfor∣tunate chance to be cast out of doors, my hand was so niggardly and sparing, that I could scarce give him Food enough to keep up his Spirits, I only gave him what just kept him from starving, and no more. I hope now, all of you will par∣don me, if I could do no more, whil'st my Father was unwilling.

Thô indeed, my Lords, sometimes even this suspicion rises in my mind, that 'twas not the maintenance I gave to one Old Man, that always uses to live sparingly, (which was not very libe∣ral, neither could I hold out long in giving it) that drove my Father to be offended with me. For you may be sure, 'tis but a small Modicum of a Rich Mans Estate, that the Heir of a Family can dispose of under a Close-fisted Father. Or, if perhaps he has a greater allowance, yet what Parent is so hard-hearted; as, for a little expence, to debar himself of his Son, because I did not make him acquainted with it, because I did not commend the poor Man to his Charity, and be∣cause I did not ask his leave, especially since I never prefer'd any request to my Father, but he granted it? But yet my modest delay, in putting off my Suit to him, should not be Chastised with so Killing a Sentence. In regard, whil'st I waited

for a fit time to speak to him, and for an easie access to his Worship, when he was jocund and in a good mood, in the mean time, I was willing the poor Man should live, that one day, perhaps, might beg his Pardon. Yet I will not deny, but I was backwarder than I ought, thô I am like my Father in nothing more than this. But if Repen∣tance be any am••nds, here I publickly beseech him to forgive me b••fo••e you all, as my Witnesses. I did not run in debt by my high spending, neither did I squander away my Estate in lewd or extrava∣gant courses. Nay, I am indebted for the very sum of my ransom. It I obtain my request, then I'le grant that to be true, which some, imagine, my Father ambitiously seeks to publish the Mercifulness of his Family, that it may not be said, Poor Men only give up their Lives for their Enemies. If he per∣sist to hunger-starve me for giving Meat to a poor Man, and if he treat his Son as his Enemy, by ex∣pelling him from House and Home, then, I fear, too hard Censurers will cast the blame of that unpardonable and oft reproved hatred on my Fa∣ther, who can be so easily angry. But so Folks will have it, Men differ more in the Manners that Fortune gives them, than in their own natural dispositions. If you see a Man in a mean estate, that's as bare as can be, yet he'le take liberty, rather than be censur'd as contemptible, even proud∣ly to affront the best o' th' Parish: And a great Estate, if with a good cause, takes an inferiour Ad∣versary more heavily. So Chance many times sets Enemies together by the Ears, whose Piques last long from small beginnings, whil'st a Mean Estate, is sooner sensible of an abuse, and a Great

Fortune resents it deeper. Neither was there any Emulation between them, (for how can there be any such thing between Persons so unequal?) but by some fate the same sort of contention arising from different Springs. The one was stiff in his Anger, the other stout in provoking. Thô, unless it had pleas'd my Father to extort the last Confession from the yielding Party, there were many signs, of asking him pardon, given, and a desire to end the discord. For what else could be the meaning of the poor Mans Sons, leaving all other Comrades, and choosing out me alone, to love and respect? With∣out doubt, while we were little Children, even in our Infancy, we were dearly beloved Play-mates, before any seeds of discord were sown betwixt our Parent, or at least before they were observ'd by us. Yea, when our Families were Two, we con∣tinued One still, nay, then we studied more to ob∣serve one another. And if I understand any thing aright in the case, sure he did nothing of all this against his Fathers will. My poor judgment is, that doubtless our poor neighbour, being asham∣ed to yield, lest he should condemn his Cause, as also because no way of favour was open to him, seem'd to persist in his undertaken course, yet he essayed some easier ways of Address, and, till a firm peace could be made up, he gave us his Son for an Hostage.

Nor did my Father seem to be offended at our Intimacy, I am sure he never reprehended me for it, nor forbad me his conversie: Yet I did no∣thing sculkingly, nor did I ever shew my self obstinate against my Fathers command, as the ve∣ry Order of matters doth sufficiently shew. For

I went to Sea, at his Command, thô at that time it was infested with Rogues. I cannot deny, but my Father might have many and great causes to cast that service upon me, which he could not do himself. Thô I was ignorant of 'm, yet I ne∣ver ask'd him, his Will was my Law. Happy are those Mariners, who have endured only the cruel shocks of Storm and Tempest, who have es∣cap'd the Rocks white-washed with Waves, and other dangers of the Sea, alone? For my part, I do even envy those that are Ship-wrack'd, for I was seiz'd by Barbarous hands; nor was I fette∣red so much with the Gripe, as with the load, o•• my Chains; I was put under Hatches, where al•• was aflote, and my very leanness made my shac∣kles hang loose. Who would not forgive ever•• body, that, after such an example as mine, is e'n•• afraid to go to Sea? I had but one hope to dri•••• my wretched Life along, and that was to write 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Letter to my Father to ransom me, and (I ca•••• God to witness) I wrote to none but him. Fo•• what would People say, I thought of my Father affection, if, as long as he was living, I had sough•• to another, for my ransom? That only relie•• which, next to my Father, Fortune had provide•• for me, that I could not so much as hope fo•• in the condition I was in. And indeed, to what pur∣pose was it to write to my Friend, as long as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 knew he had not wherewithal to ransom me 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Shall I never have a lucky hour, to complain 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my Father of his Friends, who tryed to detain him when he was willing to go? And who cast i•• delays on his Pious forwardness? Certainly, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would ha' gon, thô against all their wills, (fo••

what Father would not do so for his Son) if my Friend, in the mean time, had not prevented him: The danger of the Sea, the Creeks infested with Corsairs, and the nearer lesson of my mis∣fortune did not deter him. I wonder at this less in my Friend, but this is that, no courtesie can requite, his Father did not keep him back as he was a going; nay more, whatever his parsimoni∣ous frugality had laid up for the stay of his Life, he brought it out all, at spent it on the Char∣ges of his Voyage, Oh unhappy Old Man, here thou begann'st to want. Shall I now tell you, through what Seas this brave Youth sailed, what Rocks he passed by, what huge Bays he coasted? They, who never were at Sea, think this nothing. He, with all the hast he could, without any re∣gard to himself, vent'red upon all; 'tis plain, he was not sparing of his Life in seeking his Friend, and yet even he, methinks, that made all this hast, for all this came with the latest.

Hear, my Lords, pray, hear a new complaint of a Prisoner. I see now, I was not miserable among the Pyrats. My body, destin'd for But∣chery, was cramm'd, (which was worse than Fa∣mine) and I, as a contemptible Novice of a Fen∣cer, amongst all the Prisoners, was design'd to the slaughter; I learn'd every day that wicked Mistery, that so at last I might lose even the innocency of my calamity. Yet I weather'd, I bore the brunt of all this, so hard is it for a Man to dye, thô in his own occupation. And now the Fatal day was come, and abundance of People were ga∣ther'd together to behold our Punishment; now the Condemn'd Combatants appear'd upon the

Amphitheatre, and so made their own Funeral Show: The Master of the Prize took his Place, reckoning to please the People by our Combate and Blood, and whereas there was none there, that could be acquainted with my Fortune, my Birth, or my Parents, because of the Great Sea betwixt us, yet one thing ••ade me an Object of Pity to some, that I seem'd so unequally match'd. For I was pick'd out as a most certain Sacrifice, of all his Janizarys the Prize-master car'd least for me. Great stir there was about me, as preparatory to my Death, one was whetting the sword, another was making the Iron plates red hot; Rods were brought o' one side, and Whips o' t'other. You would have took 'm for Pyrates, all. The Trumpets sounded with a dolesome din, and, a Dead-mans Bier being brought in, my Funeral was present∣ed even before my Death. Nothing but wounds, groaning, gore, and extreme danger could I see, round about me. My Lords, if I am Guilty of any thing, that deservs a Turning off by my Pa∣rents, this one Crime is sufficient, that I put my Friend to such streights. It is an hard thing for the Happy, to judge aright of misery, yet you may fancy, what my mind and what my thoughts were, in those circumstances For as in such extreme hardships, the sad remembrance of For∣mer Pleasure doth naturally break in upon us, so I recollected the nobleness of my Blood, the splendor of my Fortune, my education in Learning, every thing, far more genteel than at my new Master's; my House, Family, Friends, and many fine things, never more to be seen by me, as I was in this my last expectation of Death, occurr'd to my

thoughts, while I had my base servile Arms in my hands, and when I was ready to dye an ignomi∣nious Death. And (if you will believe a poor Wretch) it troubled me to consider, where my Kindred were now, that knew nothing of all this, nor could suspect any thing worse in my conditi∣on, than what I had acquainted them by Letter; but this was far the worst of all, that I reckon'd, because he was so long a coming, my Father had been taken by Pyrates too. Whereupon all my thoughts were taken up with nothing, but Death; I expected every Moment the Bloody Villain to do my business for me. Every body may easily tell, what wou'd ha' become of me, if I had once en∣tred the Lists; for even one of the stoutest of us all was, it seems, slain at that time. As I was astonish'd with these crouding thoughts, and al∣most sunk into the Grave already, behold the sudden unlook'd for sight of my Friend shin'd upon me. I was amaz'd to see him, a chill fear seiz'd upon me, all over my Body, and I was agast, as if I had seen some Illusion or Phantôme. A••••oon as ever I came to my self, and recover'd my freedom of speech, How cost do, poor Heart, said I? what Wind blew you hither? What have the Pyrates sold you, and all? But he, taking me about the neck, sill'd my bosome with Tears, and after he had recovered his breath, which was almost gone, at last, while I was trembling, he utter'd this first, and, for a good while, on∣ly, saying. I have liv'd now long enough. But when he told me the Cause of his Voyage, and that he was come to ransom me? Where, said I, is the Money? Unless you have reconcil'd

your self to my Father, and He has sent you? Hear, O ye Foreign Nations, hearken, all ye Out∣landish People, let no usual Concourse surround this Court, yea, if it were possible, let the whole World take notice of such an Example. Be mute, all Former Ages, wherein, even from the Infancy of Mankind, very few Pairs of Friends, whose Faithfulness hath been transmitted to our times, have been more Admired; whatever Hi∣stories have reported, whatever Poets have feign∣ed, and Fabulists have devised, let it all be si∣lent in comparison of This. Who would be∣lieve, (if it be a thing that may be call'd in Question,) that of Two Friends, whereof one was free and preserv'd from misery by good for∣tune, the other fell into the hand•• of Pyrates and of a pitifull Fencer, that the condition of the Pri∣soner in hold should be the better? If I had been rich, sayes he, and well-lin'd, I had brought Chink to redeem thee, but I have brought thee all a poor Mans help, that is, my Hands, these I'le give up to the Pyrates, these shall be your Substitutes, to play the Prize for you. Forgive me, O Father, if in the high stress of my over∣doing affection, I had almost wounded you with the loss of a Child. I call God to witness, 'twas not long of my self, that I am now alive. For the Fencing-school had not made me so brutish, nor had the long practice of killing and slaying so hard'ned my heart, as to make me willing my Friend should be slain, who could find in his heart to dye for me. I own'd my Lot, and, being as it were bound to a Fencer, I refused not to Play my Prize, nor could he prevail on

me by any entreaty, thô he threatned, He would never out-live me, telling me, This is all the Case, Whether I would rather have him dye for me, or dye with me. With all the Rhetorick I had, I could not dissuade him. What did you then, you'l say? Why, My Lords, he led me to the Master of the Show, and there what strange Prayers, how never-ceasing Tears, what woful entreaties did I perceive from him? I'le tell you, no Man ever desir'd his Freedom with so much Importu∣nity: Whereupon the Arms were taken from my Body and clap't upon his, and before his Harness cou'd be fitted as shou'd be, my Fel∣low Combatant was hastned on the Theatre; tell me not of my Friends last Prayers, those Prayers that paid so dear for the relief lie sought for his Poor Old Father? Do you think, this was a Motive and Inducement to me? I profess, I am asham'd, that I put him to ask me. By this last hour of my life, says he, by all the noted faithfulness of my Love, whatever you do, don't suffer my Father to beg his Bread: Maintain him, stand by him, shew him kindness, if you think I deserve so much: Be you now my substitute for him. No more had he time to say, I gave him my last Kiss with his Helmet on; so, the Officers giving way on both sides, room was left for the Combate. Oh, how anxious a spectator was I? and with how astonish'd a mind, did I sym∣pathize with him in the same Motions of my Body? How oft did I dap down at the Pass of his Sword, as if he aimed to hit me? How oft did I raise my self up, when he made towards him? Oh, what troublesom thoughts had I? Oh,

the cruel nature of Fear? Now, Friend, there's reason, I see, why you had rather venture your Life in the Lists. 'Twas an unlucky chance, that such a Courage, and such spritefulness was not imployed in an Enemies Camp, or in a pitch'd Battel, where true Valour takes place, without the Gardez-vous, or other Laws of Fencers. With as much Force, as He began the Combate, (being inrag'd against his Adversary, as if he were mine still) the Veteran Gladiator used as much Craft, and cunningly put by all the Passes he made; so that, what strength he put forth, made against himself. Yet he might easily have come off, from such an Engagement especially, but he had no mind to live in that Profession. And therefore he offer'd his bare Body to the Swords-point, and, that he might pay my whole ransom at once, he dy'd Fighting on the Spot. He, that might have liv'd in peace and quietness, even to Old Age, in his own Country, in his own House, amongst his Kindred, without any Curb or Disturbance, is now cut and hack'd in pieces, and in the very Flower of his Youth too, he pe∣rishes, Poor heart, with the Fate due to me. But I, whose due it was to have dy'd the death Fortune design'd for him, am dismiss'd from the Fencing-school with more Guilt upon me, than I was sold thither. Nay, what Viaticum I have to bring me home, 'tis supply'd by my Poor Friend, that's gon. Let us please our selves never so much with our ample Fortunes, yet, dear Father, we shall never be able to requite the Poor Man.

Now if you'l believe me, my Lords, I am

ashamed to make a long Harangue of my Me∣rits towards him, nor can I give you reason e∣nough, why so little is objected against me: For what have I done for the Father of him, that ransom'd me, who both lost his Son and was im∣poverished too by the bargain? Even no more, than what a very Pyrate would do for his Slave, or a Fencing-master for his Apprentice, I gave him a small Alms, and a little Victuals, which yet he was to crave every day. How small a pittance must it needs be, that so watchful a Owner would not observe and miss? This is the thing, that you sit about to day, this makes all the bustle in Court, A Piece of Bread given to the Needy? And the apprehension of my willfulness is grown so high in evidence, that some suspect, I will make away my Friends with the Sword, and my Enemies by Fa∣mine. Pray, let's cast up all the Charge of my Luxury, as you call it; hear the sum of it all, and then wonder, if a Great Estate can't bear such an Expence? did my Imprisonment cost my Father so dear, when he paid so much for my ransom? How, I marvel, would you have born it, Sir, if, as a Nice wanton Yonker, especially in prospect of vast an Estate, I had borrowed my Manners and Deportment either from my Age or from my Fortune, and, like an over-free and wild Debauchee had revell'd and gam'd all night amongst my Comrades, thereby spending so much, that you must needs have found it by your Books of Account: yet kind Fathers have remit∣ted as much as that, upon the account of their Childrens Youthful years; and can you think me fit to be turn'd out of doors, and worthy to be

struck with the utmost severity of Paternal Pow∣er, for handing out to a Poor Old Man, nothing but what, to speak modestly, his own Son sent him? You do not lay to my Charge, that I pur∣chas'd a Miss, or spent my allowance in high Fare; the dear-bought Flattery of Bawds and Parasites is not cast in my dish; no, 'tis only a little re∣lief given to one Aged Man, worn out with year and crosses. Can this, Sir, shake your rich Bags? Can this drain your Family, founded on the Estates of your Father and Ancestors, before you? If you are so Near, cast up your Accounts, I, for my part, have lived upon others all this while. But perhaps this Throng, that compasses your Judgment-seat, and all this Company, that are ignorant of my Case, expert some great and portentous Crime to be laid to my Charge. What, Father, do you turn me off so quickly? I came but just now home, before I was look'd for, from that fatal journey, whence you could scarce hope that I should ever return. You have paid no Vows as yet for my Return, no Sacrifices have you slain and offer'd to the Immortal Gods; I am sure, we have made no amends to my Ransomer. But I expected, your affection would have been so ardent, that you would never have had enough of my Company, and that your Con∣science would have so checkt you, for exposing me to so much danger in an unlucky Voyage, that for ever after, you would never let me stir, at least very far, out of your sight. But now, before I had scarce said my Prayers to the Houshould Gods, I am driven out, so that some may make a Question, whether ever I came

in. Do you do this, because you would have it thought, that he did nothing for you who ransom'd me? Am I so Cruel, am I so Impious, and so un∣grateful (the greatest character of all Vices) that I do not value my Fathers kindnesses? Perhaps I know not, to whom I owe my Life, his Merits and Obligations have no room in my thoughts. What an unhappy man am I, that I cannot pay what I am in debt.

Thô indeed, my Father fetches the Causes of my Expulsion higher than so, he inquires into matters be∣fore my Voyage, and that, upon a double accompt. First, that the Defendant, whom the heynousnes of the Crimes, he is accused of, could not crush, their number might. In the next place, that a Fathers censure might carry more weight with it, because 'tis he Condemns me, that should by right Pardon me. Why, says he, must you, when the beggarly Father was my Enemy, make his Son your Friend? Here, my Lord, I'le lay aside all Fend∣ing and Proving, I acknowledge, I have don amiss, I ask his Pardon; as a Son may offend, so, I hope, a Father may Pardon. The likeness of our Age drew me, his Kindnesses won upon me, his Faith∣fulness took me so, that I cou'd not find in my Heart to Hate him that Lov'd me. Nevertheless, I have suffer'd enough and enough, and, if I well understand your affection to me, 'tis more, I hope, than you would have me. Let me offend never so much, what could the surliest Don exact more? Was I not punish'd enough by being sold to the Fencing-School? What, will you put no end to my undoing? Is it a small matter (think you) that I have weather'd raging Seas, that, being given

over to cruel storms, I was hurryed aloft at the Pleasure of the Winds? Is it nothing, that I fell, as if Prey, into the wicked hands of Rogues? And, (which is the hardest condition of the worst of Slaves) that I was sold without any Conditions made on my behalf? So that my very Enemy might have bought me, if he had listed? Is it no∣thing, that the Pyrats kept me so long in Prison, because I told them that my Father was a Rich man, and would send to ransom me, and that at last they sold me to a Sword-man, seeing they thought, I had Cheated them? That by a dayly Practice of Arms, I was so long aforehand learn∣ing to dye? That being all-ready, and arm'd, I had entred on the Stage, and so had Perished, if I had been a better Freind, unless a new Tempest, assaulting me as 'twere in the very Haven, had cast me out from my Fathers House and had sent me up and down, with an Hunger-starv'd Belly to other Folks doors? I can't for Shame recount my calamity step by step, first the Pyrat, then the Sword-man, and at last, my Father. But, my Lords, this part of my Crime is worthier of Praise than of Apology. For I find nothing in the World, that Nature hath provided more excellent, than Freindship; What greater Bulwark against the Assaults of Fortune, than mutual Concord? For first, she hath put a certain sociableness into our minds, beyond other Creatures, whereby we are taught to rejoyce in one another's Company, to gather a People, to build Citys, and thô she hath furnished our minds with several Inclinations, yet she hath given us no affection better, than kindness one to another. For what would be more happy

than us, men, if all of us were Friends? For then, Wars, Seditions, Robberies, and other Mischeifs that arise from our selves, would not also come upon us on the score of Fortune. But because God thinks not fit to bestow so great a Blessing on us, yet certainly at all times, and amongst all Na∣tions, 'twas ever held one of the greatest and as it were most Sacred Offices, for men to agree to∣geather in honest Principles, to observe Truth and Faithfulness, to return Love for Love, (for it be∣longs only to the best minds that are, to bestow or to receive so much Love as we speak of.) And shall I be afraid of such a Crime, as this? You should know, Dear Father, how much I would have gloried, if my Friend and My-self had come home togeather? Useless perhaps I had been drawn in with the like Vices, that I saw in my-self, and had grown Great with a debauch'd Youth; which kind of Life, thô doubtless it deserve not so much as the very name of Freindship, yet sometimes we see, that, by a Natural Rule of Like will to Like, vices themselves have counterfeited a shew of Ami∣ty. Upbraid me with my Friend, and then you have some Argument to speak against me. He was a Swordman, say you, and how could you be such a ones Freind? Here, I think, you wish, you had never don't. Alas, Father, your Greif carries you too far, seeing you are hurried with too much anger, you don't consider, whither you are a go∣ing. Do you not perceive, Dear Sir, that you upbraid me with this, that I am still alive? Can any man complain of such a Freind as this, except perhaps the Poor man? But, say you, I and his Father were at Daggers-drawing: Nay, but 'tis

sitting, that animosities and grudges, which Wise men think should of all things be the shortest-liv'd, should conclude there, where they began. For if it were otherwise, Yet Fortune still puts up endless motives of Quarrelling, thô we inherit not our Fathers Feuds, and the Enmity last longer than the Enemy himself. For all this, if the Young man himself hath acted any thing against you, Sir, let him be even my Enemy too: But if he be Inno∣cent and free from all blame, he would fain me∣rit your Love; if the Son of none of my Freinds Love me more ardently, pray, Father, how can I refuse him, how can I wrathfully thrust him away? You your self would not have hated the Poor man, if he had Loved you. He offers himself, he vyes with us in kindness? You knew the Young man performed This with all his Heart, he Lov'd me to that pass, thô you were his Fathers Enemy. Add farther, that if there hath appeared such an Ingenuity in the Youth, as no Age ever heard of: if his Faithfulness were of the Ancientest Date of all, hardly known even in those Heroick times, where∣in men had more Communion with God; if he al∣ways counted me dearer than his life, what, must I slight the opportunity of so rare and extraordinary a kindness? For my part, I shall reckon it a per∣petual honour to me, that such an Heavenly Soul cull'd me out, before any other, for an Object of his Love, and that I was approved by a Person of so great a Judgment. Upon this, Fame may spread my Name too throughout the World, and I shall be gloriously eterniz'd in the Praises of my Friend; for some good man or other may think, that I would have don as much for him.

But why, says my Father, were you all one, when we were at odds? Here I acknowledge a∣nother Fault. I confess, we did amiss, we com∣mitted an Offence, that we were Friends, when you, it seems, were Enemies. I would say more to this Accusation, my Lords, but that I am quit in Court, my own Father hath clear'd me. 'Tis a great while ago, since I incurred this Offence, 'twas never Objected to me before, nor was he ever angry with me upon that account. And why may we not be Freinds still, but that you are pleased to run so far back to fetch in Objections against me? Some of our Ill-willers, out of misconstruction, may think, that you would not ransom me, out of Spight; but if I had committed any thing wor∣thy of your hatred before, you need not have en∣tertain'd me, when I was ransom'd. And therefore 'tis plain, that the Young man was my Freind by your sufferance, which is as much as to say, You would have it so; nor were You alone of this Judgment, for the Poor man gave the same li∣berty to his Son. But if this part of my Accusa∣tion, from which I am confessedly quitted by your long silence, and is now brought in upon the neck of another Indictment, can be so happy as to deserve your Pardon, certainly it will be the easier to dis∣patch what follows; for grant, that he was the Son of an Enemy, this now is the Father of a Friend. Neither am I ignorant, my Lords, how ill this Plea deserves of all Mankind, if mercy, of it self, be of so little account, that, except some further necessity press too hard upon modesty, a piece of humanity more useful than necessary should be condemned for the highest Crime. Wherefore

if I should perchance releive a Stranger, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Person utterly unknown to me, as long as he is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Man, (there being such a publick tye and cogna∣tion between every mortal Man, on the accomp•• of one common Parent) shall it be counted Cri••••••∣••al to succcour a dying Soul, and so to have take•• pity on humanity, on the score of our Comm•••• Condition? by which act we do, as it were b•• way of Religion, present our Offering unto Fo••∣tune. If this, I say, be blame-worthy, then wha•• have I to do, but to break out in Praise of Cruchy•• and to account no mortals Sager and Wiser, tha•• Bloody Pyrats and Sword-men? Let us have T•••• Examples of mercy (at least) recorded, for th•• benefit of Mankind, both within a short space 〈◊〉〈◊〉 time, one discarded, and 'tother slain, for his Co••∣passion. But if I must own it for a Fault, I ca•• say this, that I did not create my-self, nor a•• my Passions govern'd, as I please. I was made a•• Nature would have me, which forms the mi•••• of all men, and I brought my Crime into th•• World with me. For, whether it be Gods Pro••••∣dence, or blind Chance, or the Necessity, th•• seizeth us at our Birth, from the Course of th•• Stars, whether 'twas this or that, yet so it is, th•••• they have given us several Inclinations, and the•• is as much variety in our Souls as of our Body There are some, that can't endure to see so mu•••• as a Malefactor punished, that grow pale wh•••• any Mans Blood is shed, be he what he will, th•••• are ready to weep for the woful ends of those, th•••• were ••ere strangers to them. Some there are 〈◊〉〈◊〉 'tother side, who have no relent even for their o•• Freinds, in such cases. As for me, I am of a 〈◊〉〈◊〉

disposition, and my tender heart trembles within me at the sight of any mans misery. Do not make a Judgment of me by my Fortune, good Fa∣ther, for I'le assure you, I have not a Sword-mans hard Heart. I wish my Cause would suffer me to vaunt thus, A Young man was I, Born of Noble Parentage, and thinking it was the only advan∣tage of such a brave Fortune, to be able to do good to others, and to open as it were a secure Port of humanity against all distresses whatsoever, I aim'd at the Credit of a Civick Garland, in sa∣ving a man that was perishing, whether he were ••••ndon by Shipwrack, by Fire, or by Robbery. I set him at rights again, I restor'd him to his Life and Fortunes. Now I am even with the Re∣publick, who lost one of her Commoners on my ac∣count. I had rather be expensive this way, than ••n buying fine Clothes, Plate or Offices. For where can Money be better laid out, than when we re∣••eive our Charity with the largest Interest. 'Tis a great satisfaction in point of Conscience, to have merited Happyness. What care I, thô he be a Fo∣••einer or a Stranger; I enquire not, what he was before, after he has don what he did, he must be my Freind. And to speak Truth, the Greater a∣ny one is, and the Wider he lies open to the At∣••acks of Fortune, he ought more to mind and to remember, what huge Power she hath over us, and on how ticklish a point human things stand. For neither my guilded Seilings, my glittering Marble Pillars, nor my thick inlaid Pargetings have, or shall, make me unmindful of my frail Condi∣tion. Many Crosses often fall even to the Richest, and the greatest heights sink as low. I have seen

in my time a Poor man be an Assistant to a Rich at a dead lift. But let long Felicity make a pist at Ca∣lamity, and thô too much security may despise another Mans hap, yet I, as often as I see any one sue for relief in distress, cannot but be mo∣ved with my own Fortune. That time comes pre∣sently to my mind, when once I my self petiti∣oned for the mercy and help of others. Pardon me, dear Father, if this affection be deeply root∣ed in me; I was miserable my self, and I could not choose but love mercy ever since.

But, still, He is my Enemy, says my Father. Pray, Sir, who would commend us, I wonder, if we had done so much only for a Friend? This is that, which is to be commended in us for Virtue, this is that moderation of spirit to be ad∣mir'd, when we can overcome our spleen, and, in the midst of our Feuds, remember the Man. Thus* 1.15Fabius Maximus got immortal Honour for delivering his private Adversary out of the E∣nemies hand, so all the World admir'd Tiberius Gracchus, when he would not suffer Scipio to be dragg'd to Prison: The same Greatness of mind will also perfume your memory to Posterity. For 'tis at your Charge that your Enemy subsists. Whatever it was the Poor Old Man received from our House, if you will give me leave to say it, 'twas you your self allow'd it, you, and none but you, must have the Honour thereof. As for me, if I bestow any thing on the Father of him that saved my life, I am not Praise-wor∣thy.

Nor can you expect, Father, that in this place I should use such Pleas as these, viz. that mutual Hate is always honestly laid down and buried; or that, since grudges teem with nothing but a desire of mischief, 'tis a glorious change of mind for the better, and a noble example too, when Men can joyn Hands into a near allyance, that before were almost ready to go together by the Ears. How came this Poor Man to be so Considerable, that you should look upon him as your Enemy? You may see, that he is a lonely indigent Old Man, that hath no House nor Friend; don't you disgrace your ampler Fortune, by ha∣ting such a Man, and by thinking you shall get any great matter by his Death. You can attain to no greater revenge than this, that he is so miserably poor, that even we our selves have some pity for him. Oh, 'tis a mighty punish∣ment sure, that you mean to take upon your Old Adversary, to snatch the bread out of a Beggars mouth, and thereby to augment the pressure of his Fortune, which was hard enough before. Tell me, pray, uppose he were dead, would you kick his Corps up and down. The wildest Beasts, that are of the most generous kind, pass by those that are prostrate. I don't mention those greater Examples, of defending Prisoners of War, or reedifyng taken Citys? I urge only what I see, even Sword-men spare those, that they have worsted. After the loss of his Son, after his penury, what worse thing can befal him, than what he himself desires? Can you imagine, that a more terrible revenge can be sought for, or that it can possibly be found

out in nature? Who would not have thought you the most unmerciful of all Mankind, if you had but wish't such a thing against your Em∣my? Certainly, if your hatred were irreconcile∣able, and your Enmity out-went whatever is recorded in Fable, yet I durst aver, if you had lost your Children for his sake, you could not have refused such a satisfaction at Fortunes hands; at least to avoid the Censure of Insolence, which does sometimes carp at Greatness undeservedly, lest while the over-pityed Beggar walk up and down the Town, People lay the Cause upon the First Author of his Misery. For I know not how it comes to pass, all Favour inclines to him, that's going down the wind, nor does any Victory ob∣tain a lasting welcome, but that which is temperate. Let him be kept, chiefly by our kindness, the ra∣ther lest others should pity him in our stead.

The Tenor of my defence, as, I hope, you ob∣serve, my Lords, goes on pretty roundly. But before I begin to urge my unquestionable Plea, my conscience is afraid, and my reason, being as it were engaged between two Rocks, knows not which way to turn it self, one thing being obje∣cted and another pleaded. I dare not insist on my Courtesies, you have heard me open my Breviate: I have told you, how great and how incredible the merits of this Good Man have been towards me? All which, to be sure, he made good upon me. But to what purpose? I am a nice kind of debt∣••r: What shall I pretend, my Lords, in this part of my defence? I will say, I desire to return ••••me amends for his Courtesie. Can any Man

book it, to see his Friends Father go a begging from door to door? But he redeem'd me, without any requital at all from me. Shall I say, I was wrought upon by my Friends last entreaties? There's a fine comparison indeed? But what he did for me, 'twas without my asking. Which way shall I turn my self? Shall I call it a lauda∣ble Fact, or shall I call it a necessary one? This is more easily to be dispatch'd, but I think it just, and the Interest of Truth requires it, that t'other should have its due Praise. The maintenance, that you think you give gratis to the Poor Man, pray, Father, consider how much it cost him. If, when he heard the news of my Imprisonment, the Young Man, without any Entreaty or Letter of mine, had of his own accord undertook a Voyage to rid me from the Pyrates Bondage, how should I ever re∣quite him, for performing that, which I could only look for at a Fathers hands? To venture to Sea, especially after so frightful an Instance in my self, to go and seek out the raging Pyrates, and that too, when he had nothing wherewith to redeem me, but his own Person; to sail on with a longing desire after Imprisonment, who could do all this, but he, that was willing, if need be, even to dye for his Friend? This, my Lords, is a Great thing of it self, and scarce to be believed in this Age of Ours. But what follows is above all Rhetorical Encomiums: He left all and made a Voyage to redeem me, when he knew his own Father would go a begging the while. 'Tis true, he might have hop'd, that his Friend would have been redeem'd notwithstanding, without any ha∣zard of his own, seeing I had a very sufficient

Father. Ay, but he would not stay to make long preparations for his Voyage, he hurryed away, that not a minuts-time of my redemption might be lost. Hear, O Heavens, hearken, O Earth, what post∣haste did he make to redeem his Freind, whose own Father was backward enough? The Ancients have Recorded, That Terence, whom† 1.16Scipio Africanus had Freed, a∣mong other Prisoners, in the second Punick War, was gaz'd at in the Tri∣umph, for that Liberty which he had receiv'd, he wearing a* 1.17Pileus on his Head, in Testimony thereof. 'Tis true, he had his share in the Publick Happiness, by means of that Victory, which was more upon his Heart, yet he thought he ow'd also a private acknow∣ledgment of his Kindness to the Conqueror. How much then am I bound to him, and none but him, for my Liberty, who sought after me thrô the Seas, thô infested with Pyrats? Who has restor'd me my Life, my Liberty, and whatever else I owe to my Fa∣ther, not in Ignorance, as at the first hour I was born, but in full knowledge and notice? Nor was I alone en∣rich'd with these mercys, but withal I was freed from the greatest miseries? Shall I not own, that I re∣ceived my Life from so true a Freind? And that I am bound to him in stronger tyes than to the other? Oh thou most wretched, who art yet the most faithful too of all Freinds, thy death hath made me ungrateful to thee? What 〈◊〉〈◊〉 poor business is

it, that still I am speaking of my unlucky hap a∣mongst the Pyrats? That is but a small misfor∣tune, and, you now see, it admits some cessati∣on. Pyrats are wont to expect some body to come to ransom their Captives. But I was got to the Fencing-School. No Villany ever sm••rted un∣der a greater punishment; in comparison of it, a Prison is not worth the speaking of. It you had known so much, dear Father, I dare affirm and pass my word upon it, such is your Piety, that no body living would have made more hast toward me, than you. I presume now, you would have me relate my Condition? I dwelt amongst Villains, Boutefeus, and, which is the onely Excel∣lency of Sword-wen, Murtherers, lock't up in a filthier Confinement than they, in nasty dirty Pri∣son-Cells. I was come now to that pass, that if I had been worsted, you could not take me home, nor would you desire it, if I had the better. So it was, that the very hour of my Punishment was at hand, there was no putting of it off, I was present∣ly to offer up my Throat, and to spill my Life with my Blood. There could no doubt at all be made of the Issue; for I found my Sampler, one Kill'd before my Face. If Money could have re∣deemed me from these perils that hung over me, yet nevertheless the Curtesie would have been more than the Money. But amongst Malign Censu∣rers of things, he may seem to have in his Eye some hope of the Future or some Pleasure of the Present, time. This is to be admired, and can be refer∣red only to his Piety; He bestowed a Kindness which could never be requited; he was not like to enjoy the Friend he redeemed, so that he bought

only a Noble Consciencious design to dye. Look then, how he transferr'd my Fortune on Himself, and all, that he thought would have been mise∣rable to me, he underwent it, not only bravely, but chearfully too. Here's a thing hardly to be beleiv'd, The Gladiator was dismist, and his Re∣deemer slain in his stead. He received the point of Sword to rights and with a full body, as if he wou'd have transfus'd that Life, which he let out, into my Breast; and when he died, he greived only for this, that he should never see his Friend again. Go then, you Poetical Tribe, Founders of old Stories, think not, that you have done any great matter in your Verses to encourage true Friendship, when you tell us, that some have tra∣velled o're Sea and Land to accompany their Friends in their misfortunes, or that a Greek Hero engaged himself in inauspicious Wars for the death of his Murther'd Friend. For in that most admirable case, where Brother would dye for Brother, yet the death was alternate, it con∣cerned one as well as the other. There is† 1.18one onely Dame, pretended to have redeemed the Life of her dying Husband with the loss of her own; and that which adds to the miracle of the story is, she did that which his own Fa∣ther would not do: But now, behold the indubi∣table Glory of this Age, and that which is above all Fiction whatever: My Freind, to dye for me, leaves his own Father; my own Father would not have done so much. And indeed, my Fathers hast would have done me little good, thô he had come to redeem me sooner than my Freind? No body else would ever have ransom'd me at so deer

a rate. Nor was his dying for me so much, seeing Life lost has Recompence made it by his Glorious Name and Title; but this I reckon to be harder than that, namely to stoop so low, as to take the name of a Butcherly Gladiator upon him, and to endure a Sword-man for his Master. My dear Freind, I should have less reason to praise thee, if thou hadst got the better. What should a man or such a Spirit return to his Hole, should he under∣go a fulsome dyet, should he endure a Master and a Raskal too? You fought for my sake, my dear Friend, but you dyed for your own. Yet he took off all these blots, of the basest and lowest Fortune, from me, and put them on himself. He came upon the Stage, as a man neither wicked nor unlucky. Did you ever hear such a thing be∣fore, my Lords? 'Twas his Goodness made him a Gladiator. I wish, my Lords, these things, which are so Glorious in him, were as Creditable for me also. As oft as I cast my Eye upon the unhap∣py Old man, by whose destitution I live, when I consider that he is quite undon, and only kept a∣live for a Punishment, I must needs confess, I am ashamed, I cost him so dear. I see the Old man bu∣ried before-hand in what he counts his better part, I see him Childless, Destitute and one that hath Out-liv'd all his hope: Yet this is some comfort to me, that, unless I had had such a Friend, all these dolesome things, Father, would have been spoken of you: He being such a Father, and in want too, I hope (Sir) some of your spightful Liberali∣ty, will fall to his share, it will be Criminal too, as being earn'd before by his Son's death. Other∣wise, we shall both be in want alike, and go beg

an Alms together, at every bodies, even at Stran∣gers, doors. If there be any Parent of Years, he will pity the Old man; if there be a Yonker, and a Son too, he will pity the Youth. Perhaps, when I go a begging, it will be something in my way, that I, when time was, did maintain a poor man, when he was in want. Accept of this satisfacti∣on, my dear Friend, in what part soever of the Universe, thou hast a Being. I did not forget thy Charge, but Fortune fail'd me, my Estate is taken away. All that I can do, is, I promise my hands as Substitutes for thy Father. Would you have me do something else? Shall I set my self to Coun∣try-work, being bred as I have been? My For∣tune taught me no such lesson? Besides, the wag•••• of every days work will not be enough for us both. Wo is me, if I will be as good as my word, I must, I think, return into the Fencing-School a∣gain.

Sepulcrum Incantatum: OR, The Enchanted Sepul∣chre.

DECLAMATION X.

The Argument.

The LAW. A Wife may have an Acti∣on of Ill-Treatment against her Hus∣band. The CASE. A certain Gen∣tlewoman saw the Appearance of her Son in the Night-season, who was dead

and buried: She acquaints her Hus∣band therewith; He sends for a Magi∣tian, that Inchanted his Sepulchre, so that her Son appear'd to her no more. Whereupon She accuses her Husband of Unkind Treatment.

For the Wife against the Husband.

THô, my Lords, amongst those, who are left destitute by the loss of their Chil∣dren, and who carry out, before them, all their Wishes and Hopes prepar'd a∣gainst their Old Age, this bitter contest and dis∣pute uses to arise, that every one thinks, a kind of dignity and preeminence accrues to his mournful Tears, if he seem the Miserablest of all the Com∣pany: Yet this woman, who is become pityable on no ordinary or common account, do's, I hope, without Impudency, affect to claim the Cheif and Principal place of Mourners, amongst all Mothers, who have lost their dear or their onely Children, in their Youth; such is the specialty of her strange misfortune, the she only, would you think it, of all the women in the World is so unhappy, as to undergo a double destitution in the loss only of one of her Sons. Her first loss she underwent as stout∣ly as she could, it being common to others, and also hapning by the Law of Fate. For the poor woman lost nothing of her Son, but his Company in the day-time; 'twas come to that pass, she did not fear at all, that Son should dye any more, whose Company she did still enjoy. She was come to that, if you will give me leave to say it, that she was not so immoderate in her Mournful Tears and

beating of her Breast, nor did she suffer her grief to lanch out too far, as long as her Son was coming to her every Night. But now she is be∣reav'd of all comfort, and deceiv'd in her opinion, while she thought, he was not quite lost, whom she had leave to see, and her unkindness hath de∣priv'd her of her New Relation. The Poor Touth, unless he had been hindred, by this time had come to his Father too. The Woful Mother, desires on∣ly, that she may not seem to lose less, than she misses.

The Ghost took his appearance not from some vain persuasion, or Phanciful thought of the mourning Parent, nor did a light skipping Image trouble her half-broken slumbers, nor was his Countenance begrim'd with the Ashes of his sad Urn, nor his gastly Pole cover'd with Embers in the Dark; No, her Son appeared, as fine as he was before, Youthful, and sightly to behold; who was not contented to be seen only and look'd up∣on, but, if you will believe the Poor Womans longing who only saw him, he kiss'd and embrac'd her, as if he had been alive, all night long. The Mother now hath lost much, if this were real, and as much, if it did but seem so. But now she lyes waking by her sleeping Husband, and being quite desolate, she, with Weeping Eyes, measures out the long darksome Nights, without any com∣fortable Apparition: I say, he was not form'd by phancy, disguis'd in his Hue, nor as is usually seen in vain flitting dreams, but she saw plainly, that the whole Person of the Man was not dead, and therefore she expected that, which was not de∣vour'd by Flames, nor extinct by Ashes, nor de∣tained

fast enough under Urns and Sepulchres. Now she thinks, his Soul is lock'd up in a Prison, and that he strives against the Magick Iron-Bars, that detain him. The most unhappy of Mothers thinks her Son to be something more than a Shade, seeing he can be kept in durance; and, the loss of her Child being disanull'd as it were, she is now troubled not so much for her pain and af∣fliction, that she can see him no more, but rather for this, that he cannot come, thô he desires it with all his heart. Now he knocks all night and beats upon the ground, that is made burthensom to him by the Barbarous murmur of the Inchantment, and he wonders, that, whereas before he could make his way through Infernal darkness, now the Poor Ghost can't remove so much as his own Grave∣stone. Poor Man, that is shut up, not only by a bare Charm of Words, (for that perhaps he might have broken through) but Iron Bars and solid links have reduc'd him even to Death again. How strait, think ye, is the Poor Thing kept, that can't come, so much as to make his complaint?

I take pity on the Woman, to spight whom, all this gear is imputed. The Husband hath got him so inchanted up, as if the Mother complain'd, he had disturb'd him. So then, my Lords, no Man need wonder, if the Ghost came not to so cruel and unkind a Father. He knew well enough, where he might find Tears, and where Groans, and who would miss him most. As for the Father, he had an heart of iron, steel-hard, he had no sense at all of the loss of his Child. What Father can be found more Inhuman and Merciless, than he. He envyed the Mother, that she might

not enjoy her Son; Nor did he do this, because he had rather have the sight of him, himself; for alas, while he was living and well, he had not such a kindness for him, thô he deserv'd it well e∣nough, that he should reserve any affection for the deceas'd, and so seem to be his Father, even af∣ter he was buried. The Mother did take on so much the more, as answering her own duty and her Husbands too. She, of the Two, was paler in her Fears, prompter and readier for her Prayers and Wishes, 'twas she, that had no rest by day nor by night. And the poor defunct understood, which of his Parents had the most and readiest af∣fection for him; And therefore he came to kiss her, to chuse, he hung about her neck only. Now because it were too tedious to run through all the past particulars of her Motherly affection, take a view of her carriage in his last sickness only, when he left us his frail mortal body behind; how extremely, how exemplarily did the Poor Woman sometimes weep out her Eyes over his pale Visage, sometimes complain, that she had Suckled him in vain, and otherwhile, she beat her Body, that had brought him into the World? The Poor Youth ob∣serv'd this, as he was drawing on, and told the Fates, Who it was that was loth to part with him. Where are Ye now, who bid us stint our Weep∣ing for a Friend? Who don't like, we should take on too much? We see, the Ghost paid his re∣quital to his Mother. I know and am well assured, when any Dead Corps lies in the midst amongst all his Mourning Kindred, and seems to take Care for nothing, that then, even then, it observes, under∣stands, and knows, which of them all is kindest

to him. Therefore I advise you, if you will be rul'd by me, you that have lost all your Chil∣dren before you, I advise you, I say, to be li∣beral in your Tears, to make a greater ado at their Funerals; and never believe that the Dead are sensless. The Ghost of a Son is angry with that Parent, to whom he doth not come and ap∣pear. Now the standing Blood of his Chill bo∣dy had contracted all his Veins for Death, and the last shine of his twinkling Eyes was going out, when the Father believ'd the despairing Physicians, yet even then the Mother hop'd still, and what part soever of his Body the Poor Woman warm'd with her Kisses, she cry'd out straight, Oh, 'tis the very warmth of Life, without question. She could not endure the last Fire, she could not a∣bide to hear of the Funeral Pile, she would ra∣ther have the Body laid up safe, and all his limbs kept entire. And now it more repents the unhap∣py Mother, that she buried him at all, seeing he could come again. You your selves know, how hardly she was pull'd away from her Son on the day of his Funeral, and how long she held his Bo∣dy, even while the Flames were playing about it. For how could she hope, ever to see him again? How could she recover a view of him after he was gon? Now the Poor Woman, even sought for a* 1.19 Magician to raise him from the Dead. For the rest, Poor Woman, you were best tell it your self to the Judges, for unless, by your Loss and your Tears, your Voice be changed all into groan∣ings, you would deplore your Night-stories better with your own Mouth? However, I will do it, as well as I can. Be contented, Poor Woman,

be contented, at least with the remembrance o•• that day, when we all went to the Burial of your only Son. For now, says she, I have spent al•• my groans and tears, and I rejoyc'd to see dark∣ness come upon me, as much as if it were a per∣petual one. Now our Attendant Kinsfolks were wearied off their Legs, and deep sleep had put an end to the Out-crys of the Family. Pray, let no Body cast such an affront upon the Mother, as to say, her Son came to her, while she was asleep. For how, I pray, could the Poor Woman take any rest, at that time? As for you, the Husband, I don't complain at all of you. You would have been punished sufficiently, if you had but wept, as I did, all Night long. For then you would have seen him, not as airy imaginations are wont to clothe things with a Body in our Fancies, or as foclish Whims••es do create appearances, when the judgment is asleep, but your own very Son, such as he was, when most Lovely, and such as I shall see him again, if he can get away. He stood presently by my side, the Curtains of Darkness be∣ing drawn aside, not as when he was pale or ma∣cerated with his acute disease, nor yet as he look'd upon the Funeral Pile and amidst the Flames, but fresh, youthful and brave to see to. I wonder, where he lest all that was Death, bebind him. His Hair was not sing'd with the Fire, nor his Face smutted with Funeral smother, nor was he much discolour'd by the Flame, as Fresh Shades use to be, afore their Ashes are well laid up. His unhappy Mother would have hardly complain'd; if she had ceas'd to see him, even in such a Case. The first time he only stood still, and permitted him∣self

to be known, Who he was; white I was won∣derfully frighted, and did not dare so much as to kiss or embrace him. I unhappily lost the First night, in fearing he would be gone. Do you call this, my Persuasion or Fancy only, Husband, and a vain mistake of my mournful Melancholy Spirit? Whatever it was of a Son, it seemed more to a Mother, when she cou'd see him no longer. Would you know, Sir, in short, what you have abridg'd your Wife of? Why, she hath nothing now to hope for from her departed Child. Now came the next night, and assoon as ever it was dark, Who was there but her Son, not stand∣ing aloof off, as Yester-night, for a Prospect only, but bolder and nearer he came, even up to his Mothers hand, like a very very Body: And he went not away till 'twas broad day, and all the Stars had disappear'd; then he vanish'd out of sight as it were unwillingly too, with many a stop, and looking backward, as if he would have promis'd to come again the next Night after. Now there was no time for grief, the Mother saw her Son in the Night, and she expected to see him in the Day too. 'Tis to no purpose to relate every par∣ticular? There was never a Night, that I was left destitute, says she, as long as I (now, naugh∣ty Woman) kept my own Counsel. I was sated with his kisses, with his embraces: I spake to him, and He to me; Poor Woman, how much more am I a loser, if no Body will believe this!

And now, Cruel Husband as you are, I began to plead for you too, and desir'd Our Youth to appear to his Father in as gladsom a posture: And I was willing, O Ungrateful Man, that the

Ghost should part the Night betwixt us. And the Poor Youth, what did he do, but promis'd me he would. This Confidence was my undoing, for it made me break the matter to you. Pray, what could she do, more like a Woman, or more like a Mother? Oh Husband, said she, I'le tell you joyful News, to morrow Night perhaps you'l see your Son; whom you consumed in the Cruel Fu∣neral Flames, and left nothing of him behind, but his Ashes and a few Bones, him you'l see in his Prime, and there is Hopes perhaps, that you see him by Day-light too. For my part, all the Night long, I am no Childless Mother, I see him, I en∣joy him, and now I tell you as much. Would you know, what comes of his Fatherly affection? Why, he was afraid (forsooth) to see his Son. So this Projector, that devis'd a new Death for his Child, goes me to a Magician, unknown to the Mother, one, by whose horrid Mumblings, and all-com∣manding Charms, Celestial and Infernal Spirits both are vex'd and disturb'd, his errand was not, that those appeas'd Spirits might be removed, nor that the Ghost, being rais'd up by his Night-yellings, might go whither it wou'd; no, but as if the Grave had not made him sure enough, and the weight of his Tomb were too light, My Son, says he, is not laid low enough yet; he enjoys the bright∣ness of the Stars above still, and our Night-shine here below. For when the day ends, he is dead no more, he comes home to his Fathers House, as when he was alive, and disturbs his Mother's rest: Pray, find our, find out, I say, some strong binding Charms, use all your art and employ all your pains possible, so to do. You will get a

great deal of Credit, if you can lay up that Son fast, that comes, even after he is dead, to his Mother. Hereupon his Grave was encompass'd with a mischievous Charm, so the Urn was closed by those horrible words; then, and not before, was he made a Dead Shade. Go your ways now, and persuade your selves, that the Mothers So∣lace was delusory only: If she had seen her Son but in her Fancy, and vain imagination, she would see him so still. But what Torment did the unhap∣py Mother endure in the very first Night of the Inchantment? When all the House and Family were in their first sound sleep, when all was husht-night, then came the Mothers sweet and welcom hour. When she lay awake and restless, nay, says she, now he will appear, sure he'l come presently: Yet he never came so late before. Ah Poor Woman, Thou, my Son, wer't here last Night by this time: I see now by the Stars, that half the Night is spent; you have fretted, you have angred me, you can't satisfie me otherwise, un∣less you have been with your Father. Oh woful me, now, to spight me, it begins to grow day. When de' think of coming? 'Tis time now, that you should return again. But after the Poor wo∣man had past over two or three Nights in such vain Complaints, then her Mourning was louder, then she put on her frowzy apparrel, then her arms, that were almost well before, were made bloody again with repeated beatings. No Body can be more unhappy than that Mother, who loses something of her Son, even after she has Buried him. But when she found, that her Young Son's Night-appearances were intercepted

by a Magick ligature, in his Inchanted Grave, Oh, how oft did she, beat the sealed and fast-clo∣sed Sepulchre with her naked Breasts? With what abundance of Tears did she drench his Monument? with what loud groans did she fruitlessly call up∣on the Ghost, who perhaps heard her, and was as willing to come forth? Oh Cruel Nature! That a Conjurer shou'd have more Power than an Own Mother! Where are those, that complain of the inevitable necessity of bitter Death, of the Iron-de∣crees of Fate, and of the unalterable Laws of the Airy Shades, that no Mourning can reverse? Un∣happy Woman, 'twas not the load of Earth, laid on his Grave, that shut up thy Son amongst the Spirits below, nor did the gross Mist of an Eter∣nal Night and Darkness beep him in, nor the Fam'd* 1.20 Lake of the Fabulous Poets, nor those Fiery Torrents, so mush spoken of for their turning and winding Streams; no, he pass'd, he broke through, all these in the Night, and made his Death easier to her, than if he had gone a journey, or had been otherwise absent on a good account. And now his Case would be less wo∣ful, but that he knows and feels his hindrance. He, who comes not now, as being translated, from his Tomb, to I know not what Prison or Inclosure, labours under such Witchcrafts, as Men do, when they are Alive. Great therefore are the Chains, that fetter Ghosts, that straitly tye and bind the Soul, (thô it be but a flitting Airy Shadow) to Death, as if it were a true Body bound over to Prison. But to inclose a Ghost with Iron-bonds and Stones, as Men use to fortifie the Gates of a City in time of War, to Imprison it in Chains and Bar∣ricados

I don't say, 'tis a Cruel, nay rather 'tis a Monstrous and Abominable thing, especially if he, that is the Cause of this, believes his Son is sensible thereof. And now the woful Mother is ready to think, that those Spikes do enter into his very Limbs, all his Body over. O thou sa∣vage, hard-hearted, Conjurer, that hast so many tricks to make us lament, I wish you had not shown so Great an Experiment of your Black Art. We can't chuse but be angry with you, thô we are forc'd to Flatter you too. For when you lock up the Ghost, we perceive you are the only He, that can disinchant and raise him too.

Therefore the Woman seems to depart from a Grief befitting her dignity, when she brings such Womanish grievances, and as it were squeamish complaints of Ladies, into Court. 'Tis not for gawdy Apparel, for guilded finery, for a stately Dress, that she Sues, her destitution is contented with course weeds. Nor is she touch'd with grief for a Rival harlot, as if out of Impatience and Womanish Foolery, she did bewayle the Close Amours of her Husband. Nor doth she revenge her forsaken Marriage-bed, as a poor despised Wife; no, she hath quite other Concerns for every one of her Nights. Never fear, whatever is her Decorum, 'tis the Grandeur of Grief; the Poor Woman complains of nothing, but what's as bad as the loss of a Son, but what beseems a Mother, what all the Town may well grieve for, and what may fetch Tears even from Strangers Eyes. For would you know, how great a wrong she received from her Husband? Her Son dyed to his Mother alone, and yet she can't blame Death

neither. Therefore, before, you know, My Lords, what kind of Grief, what Mourning, and how much Impatience has broke out in her, that she should at last forget her sweet beloved Nights, and now endure the Bright Glare of broad Day (the Day, I say, that she hated when she was at home,) in Court and amongst Lawyers, where, being drawn from her Sons Grave, she is made a Spectacle to be gazd at; you see, 'tis clear, that the Complaints of the Miserable, in such a Case, proceed not from boldness, impudence or in∣discretion. What is true, if that be not, which Men cry out on in Calamity, nor do fained and counterfeit groans ordinarily proceed from the Wretched? A Woman that holds up her Bloody Hands to the Bench, a Woman that appears be∣fore them with a rent and torn face, and with a Breast all black and blew, by no small grief is compell'd to do so, rather than to kiss her Sons Ashes, or to embrace his Urn. Her Orbity is a witness of the reality of her grief, beyond all exception. But before I come to the Nature of the Injury, so unreasonably offer'd, Why, Sir, a Woman, that lost her Son by your means, do's complain against you? Cruel you, you wound her destitution with another fresh grief, as if her longing desire, after her only Son, did not wast and pine her enough: You do not suffer the Poor Heart to spend her time in mourning, who owe your bosom, your solace, your embraces to her. How miserable is that Woman, who com∣plains of him, that should have been a Comfort to her? Let a Wife do what she will, as to mourn∣ing, do you nothing harshly, nought against her Will.

Every Mother in misery hath a certain Privi∣lege; soft hands and gentle Fomentations must be applyed to wide Wounds. If a Wound be permitted to be launc'd after all this, 'tis as great as can be: A Mans heart perhaps may struggle more against Grief, he being of the stronger Sex, than a weak Womans can. Wherefore the whole of Mourning belongs to the Woman, and assoon as Orbity invades her weak Breast, the Heart, which gives way to its Mourning, begins to have a liber∣ty to shed Tears. I beseech you, Sir Husband, let your Wife have leave to weep her fill, to be sated with Mourning, let her Orbity be allow'd to weep afresh, as it pleases. Who can endure a Father, that, when he has lost a Son himself, grudges that the Mother mourns for him too much?

But why then, say you, do's she Complain? First of all, that like a naughty unkind Man, you do not miss your Son, as much as you ought to do. You have a stou•• heart under your loss, you say only that he was Mortal, and reckon that nothing survives of him, after his Funeral-Pile. Your Wife stands weeping and wailing by your side, and you have as many Tears as Milstones. She makes Funeral Howlings and Laments all Night long, while you snug close and sleep soundly, like a Pig. O Cruel Father, O Father that hast soon forget thy Child, What can we object more against you, than This? Since the first hour you lost your Son, you were never so fond of him, as to desire to see him again. Besides, you have depriv'd the Mother of her solace, suppose it were a vain empty foolish one? I would not have you

censure her by any means, I would not have you chide her, you should know how great the sol••ce was, if you could but Grieve as much as she. There can't be a more unworthy thing, than when a Man requires to be believ'd in that, which he never saw. Pray, give her leave to suppose it was but a Fancy, excuse it in her, they that bewail their lost Children are content to be deceived. In such a condition, a mistake many times may help a Man to bear great pressures, because miserable Persons indulge their own Fan∣cys and persuasions. The less it is, that belongs to the wretched, the greater cruelty 'tis, to take it from 'm. Therefore the unhappy Mother crys out again and again, if you should take away from me any Image of my Son, either when he was a little one, or when he was shooting up, or last∣ly when he was in his Youth, yet I, Poor Woman, would lay fast hold on that Image, as if it were a ••eal Body; I would, with Tears in my Eyes, re∣tain that lively Portraiture and Similitude, those pretty Eyes, that sweet Face, those plain Features of his Countenance, so artificially drawn by a Cunning Artist. But I have lost the Original, from whence I would draw this Image, this Likeness, this Solace. O my Son, I have lost more this day, than on the day I buried thee. For I saw thee, even after thou wert Dead. I profess, if you should strive to take away any Suit of Apparel, that my Only Son wore, I would say, Don?t abridge me of my Solace. All these are as good to me as the very Body and Touches of my Child, I will kiss them, I will embrace them, I will weep over them. Perhaps, I have no Reason for it.

Why then, what ever goes beyond Reason is Af∣fection. There is nothing more wicked, than a prudential Orbity.

But what, says he, these are but small mat∣ters, you yet speak of, For certain I saw my Son. What good hap was it, and what state of Nature, which indulg'd you so brave a visit? Thô you lost him, yet you could see him still. Now, Good Woman, 'twas come to this, you thought your Child was only absent in the day-time. Death hath lost it's greatest bitterness, if you can be ad∣mitted to see him, whom you have lost. Then 'twas your hap, it seems, Madam, to have a sight of his countenance, of his meen, of his per∣son and gate. I should not believe her, but that she is sensible, she has lost so much: Death and you parted Stakes between you, for every Night you enjoy'd your Son as if he had been alive, even after all, that Death could do. How great your loss was, may be judg'd by this, if this had not hapned to you, you could never have been so presumptuous, as to have wish'd for it. Here's a Man (O Piety!) dead and buried, his remaining Corps turn'd to Ashes and Em∣bers; yet he assum'd a Body in the Night, and, being restored to the Limbs he had, when he was alive, he presents himself to his Mother so to the Life, that she could nor believe, he would ever disappear or vanish away. Nor have we any reason to complain of the Day-time neither, for there he was to be seen, as much as he might. And you, Good Woman, it seems, saw him, and en∣joy'd his presence. I did, says she; and what matter is't to any body, if I were deceived? But

why do I call Thee to Witness? I give credit to the Conjurer, I believe thou didst see thy Son, but now thou dost not see him. But you, Poor wo∣man, expected nothing more cruel from your Hus∣band, than that he would not believe you. Let no body, says she say, that I may not trust my Eyes. O my Son, most lovely and affectionate Son, I saw thee again and again. 'Tis for cer∣tain, I am fix'd upon it, no man shall ever per∣suade me out on't. How impious is the Father, who labours to deny thee this, that I may not be∣lieve, thou camest to me? This I did not prated of, nor foolishly blaze abroad, no, I told no body of your coming, but he that ought to have wished, you might do so. I told it only to your Father, your Father, I say, (pardon a Poor dreaming wo∣man) I confestt it to him, when I ask'd him, Whether he had seen you too. Therefore, O unhappy woman, you undergo too great, too hard, a punishment. The Conjurer was the Cause you did not see your Son, and he left only this with you, To remember that you had seen him. Pray then, Poor woman, tell, if you can, the All of your solace▪ and first confess honestly, Whether it were the weight of sleep, and a vain imaginati∣on, when you were fast and thought of nothing. Grant it were so, yet I should have thought, that the poor Mother was unhappy and wretched e∣nough, if she had lost but such a fine Dream.

But, says she, be not so cruel, Gentlemen, think better, I pray, of my affections. I had not wea∣ried my self with mourning, when I perceived Night to steal in upon me; O my all-waking eyes, you deserve to see my Son, but whilest I was in a

fear at first, the Spirit appeared of a sudden, Heavens! What Joy, what Happiness did that ••ight make me Mistress of? My Son stood before me, as plainly as if 'twere day, I hope, I shall so part with him. I leap't out of my Bed present∣ly, and came to him, I view'd his Face, his Locks, and Visage; 'twas my own very very Son. How spritely was he, how merry did he present him∣self, how greatly did he persuade me, that I should not beleive, he was dead? Oh wicked Hus∣band, you don't know, how like your Living Son 'twas, that you have enchanted and shut up? I traverst all his Body over with my Eye, and could not perceive, what hurt, his Funeral-Fire had don him I said every foot, Is this the He, I bu∣ried? Did I lay Him on the Pile? Did I gather up his Bones and Ashes? If he be so much the same, what reason have I to mourn? I had no reason to think, that my Son was dead, but that I could not shew him to his Father. I will also honestly confess, that, the first night, I could hard∣ly believe my self, I was angry with my Eyes, as if they had wrought upon me; Poor woman, I blush'd and was ashamed for fear I was asleep; When lo, the Youth comes again, and now he comes every day. How must I construe this? That which is always so, must needs be true. The last time he came not as a bodiless shape, but he sate down by me and embrac'd me. I perceived his embraces and took them kindly: As oft as the whole House was laid fast asleep, then came He, in such a po∣sture as the propitious Gods do offer themselves to mortal sight, and such as the pleasantest deity is, when he suffers himself to be seen. As all the Religi∣ous

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Worship in Temples and Consecrated Groves▪ when Mortals are all hush't asleep, and Prof•••••• persons are far out of the way, is said to enjoy Solitude and to come forth out of its shrine; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my Young man represented my Son all night long and enjoy'd his Fathers House and every Room in it, Sweet, Gentle and Kind to his Mother, as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Deity or God uses to slide down from the Stan, and to shoot throw the Region of the pure and liquid Air.

What Imprecation shall I bestow on such a bad unreasonable Father? He would try, whether it were a Ghost, or no? Have pity on me, my Lords, with What sentiment, will you entertain this Fact? It is fouler than Parricide; 'tis more hey∣nous than if he had quite thrown down his Sons Monument, or if he had broken his Urn, and scatter'd about the Stones, consecrated by his death; yea, and disturb'd his Bones and Ashes in their Re∣ligious rest. He sends for a Fellow, whose Art 'tis to go clean against the Grain of Nature; who, assoon as he had thundred out a barbarous noise from his nasty mouth, he caused the Powers a∣bove to fear, the Infernal Spirits to hear him, and the Earth to shake and tremble, as Fame re∣ports from Experience. He appear'd by the Poor Youths Tomb, as a second and surer death. Now, says he, O ye Powers of darkness, give me, that am your Proselyte, sutable assistance in my Blind-night-work. Now every Deity, black and white, and the mysterious Right which I direct to him, come in and assist. I must now take more pains, than when the Stars are pluck'd out of the Firmament, or when Winter-inundations of Rivers are com∣manded

to be stopt, or when Serpents, being not ••ble to hold out against my powerful Charms, are ••urst, as with a stronger Poyson, upon my very Trangums. Here's a Young man to be laid up, ••o be confin'd to the Infernal Holds, he is a Wan∣derer and must be shut up in thicker and straiter darkness. Were it not an easier buisiness by far, to raise him up again? Hereupon, 'tis said, he fell prostrate on the Urn, and so seal'd up his words between the Bones and the Ashes. Yet he oft look'd back and confessed, That the Ghost was unwilling. Therefore, says he, I beleive my Charms are not strong enough, let us make fast every side of the Tomb, and cramp it with Iron∣spikes. So, now 'tis well, he is dead at last; he can neither be seen nor stir out. Whether I lye or no, you shall know to morrow-night. Cer∣tainly, all Parents, especially those that have lost their Children ought to fly upon this mans Eyes, in his head. Do you lay up your Sons Ghost so, as guity Spirits use to be laid up, which, wandring up and down in sick Families, and sad Infected Houses, are pretended to be laid by Magick Va∣nity? What did he hang himself, after he was condemned by the Jury? Was he guilty of Self-Murther, by stabbing himself? Or did he Poyson himself before hand, out of a guilty Conscience? So that he could not be laid, till he was shut in by a Charm. When, when, I say, did he trouble your House, or your Self either, with his gastly frightful appearance? O thou cruellest Father that ever was, Thou hast made a guilty Ghost of thy own Son! What were the thoughts of your poor Wife now, think you? Now my Son, says she,

lies fast tyed, in piteous torment, and cannot get out thence, whence he used to come. He com∣plains now, that the Earth lies harder upon him, especially when he perceives, that night i•• come, the time, when more happy shades are l•••• loose, to go home to their Mothers. And if there be any discourse amongst Spirits, as I believe there may, one or other of them may say to my Young man, How vile and contemptible were you to your Friends? How easily have they parted with you? What say you of your Mother, whom you used to visit so kindly. These Chains, these Fetters, are these all the requital she makes you for your kindness? So unhappy is the Case of the Poor wo∣man, that, if the Conjurer should be discharged, she yet runs this hazard, That her Son may think, he came to her, against her will.

But now, the Husband pleads his Cause with more Gravity, Depth, and Wisdom, as a man above Greif. He says, There are no Sprites, he main∣tains, that all perishes with the Body, and that nothing, endu'd with Sense and Understanding, re∣turns from the Grave. As for Ghosts, there's no such thing, they are only imagined not seen, and our Eyes assent to our Melancholy. If this be so, Why, pray, did he send for a Magitian? He is the very worst of Parents, who usually weep only when they bury their Children, that they may re∣turn strait from the Funeral with dry Eyes; but be denies, that deceased Spirits and Ghosts are any thing the better for our waylings; he says plainly, That our Tears, Sighs and Sobs are spilt and lost. Oh wicked man, who mourns for the deceas'd, and yet thinks it to no purpose neither. So then,

all Wise men have been mightily mistaken, hither∣to, who have taught us, that man is made up of a Soul, and an Elementary Body. The Body is Brittle, Frail, Earthly, as Drought and Moisture, Heat and Cold, Volatile and Fixt don't agree, sometimes we are subject to pain, or at last to be dissolv'd by Old Age. But our Soul, they have told us, is the Effort of a Fiery Vigor, deriving its perennity not from our Common Fire, but that Spirit which moves the Stars in their Courses and Wheeles about the Sacred Orbs of Heaven, from thence that Spirit comes, which gives Life to us and eve∣ry thing beside. It dies not, nor is dissipated, nei∣ther is it affected with the Fate of Mortal Na∣tures: But whensoever it breaks through the Pri∣son or Enclosure of a human breast, and, having put off all its Mortal part, hath lustrated it self with a light Fire, then it ascends to its seat among the Stars, till, being mastred by Time, it alters its Condition by Transmigration; and there too it remembers his Former Habitation. Hence comes it, that Spirits are raised by Invocation; hence they borrow the Person, the Countenance, and what∣ever we see of them, hence they appear as be∣loved Portraitures to their Friends, and sometimes turn Oracles too, giving us mid-night admonitions; hence thev are sensible, what Monumental Pre∣sents we bring to them, and they perceive, what Honour we do them at their Burials. I beseech you, when a Son dies, is it not better to believe so of him? Oh but, says he, I did it for your sake, that you might take your rest, and not be troubled with terrible frights, which made you pass the nights, in anxiety and suspense perpe∣tually.

So then, you, Murtherous man, have made the Villany in Common: And yet do you upbraid and twit me, that I too must not see my Son any more? For I minded my sleep and pleasant slumbering before. Bur now, 'tis you, O Cruel man, that have disturb'd and affrigted a Mother, so that she can have no benefit of her Nights. Could you think the shade of your Son could be a Bugbear or Hobgoblin? Oh, 'twas a sweet Bugbear, 'twas a fair desirable Hobgoblin! What could ever caress the Eye, more? What could a weeping Mother desire more to gaze upon? The shade of ones Son is no more to be fear'd, than the Relicks of his Corps, 'Tis necessary, that a Terrible Spectre must always be a Strangers Ghost. But perhaps others Images may fright us, and we use to call those Spirits, who are unknown to us. And therefore, 'tis wisely don, when they ap∣pear only to their own Friends. A Wicked and an Impious man is he, who sees his deceas'd Child, and yet thinks it can't be he, because he buried him before. You were frighted, says he again, and you laboured under haunted nights. How cruel a Husband are you? What, wou'd you have laid up your Son, if he had appear'd to you? I tell you, says he, there was no such thing, as a Ghosh, laid up by the Conjurer, he only relieved your Fancy: And therefore you think your Son do's not appear, because he appear'd not before, and nothing was don, whereby your rest was distur∣bed: If you say right in this, then the Mother be∣gins to comfort herself thereby. He is not lock'd up, says he, he is not fast bound with any Charm, or grip'd with any Iron-Links: Do but remove

then all the Premises, and I'le ask him a Question. Ah, did I, Wicked woman, so quickly beleive, that he would not appear to me, if he were unbound and at liberty? Would he not shew himself to these Eyes of mine, and run in to these Embraces? For when did the Young man find me, but I was a weep∣ing! When did he not behold my Breast black and blew, and my Arms all Bloody, for him? When was he not afraid, that he should in the least fright his poor Mother? No, the Poor Child is made fast by Magick, I say, by the Black Art is he de∣tained. What would you have Charms do for you, more? They have perform'd, what they pro∣mised you. Can you leave blushing now, when your Son appears no more?

But You, Sir Faustus, by whose Laws the Gods above and below are tortur'd, who by your terri∣ble night yellings do shake the profound Abyss, and the very Center of the Earth, who one while art a laier of Spirits, that obey thy Commands, and other while art as cruel and inexorable a Jaylor, hear now the Prayer of the Mother, as you did of the Father. I'le contract and bargain with you for what you will; you shall, if you please, have all the Estate of a poor Mourner; I would not have you take too much pains neither, or betake your self to your horrid Incantations; no, I would have you only take off the Iron. Chains, you put on, and speak your own Charms backward, I would have you do nothing, only unbind him, and then you have as good as raised him for me. I know, what you did was not in Cruelty, you only obey'd the Fathers Commands; but then be so kind, as to do something too for the Mothers Tears and bit∣ter

plaints; do something for your own Credit. O thou man of Art, you will your self be more abo∣minably hated, if you will be more easily intreat∣ed by the Father, to shut up his Son. And you, Husband, be not afraid to be disturb'd with the vain Frights and Apparitions of the revengful Ghost: No, you will sleep the better for't; when he is dismissed, he knows to whom he must come. O thou Dutiful Child, O thou Sweet Kind Youth, never Shade or Sprite to thy Mother, if thou caust free thy self from thy Magick weight, and from the Enchanting words, which are beyond all frights and terrours, by the Conjurers leave, then, Come to me, Sweet-heart, says thy woful Mother, come to my Weeping, and to my Embraces, which still are living ones to me, poor woman. I know now, what did prejudice me, I understand what 'twas, that did mischeif and torment me. When you come, I will enjoy the Sight, and I'le tell it to no Flesh alive.

Dives Accusatus Proditionis, OR, A Rich Man Accus'd of TREASON.

DECLAMATION XI.

The Argument.

There was a Poor and a Rich Man, that were Enemys one to 'tother, and they had both Three Children a piece; there hapned a War in the Country, wherein the Rich Man was made General, and took the Field. In his absence, a Report was raised, that he had betray'd the Common-wealth,

Whereupon the Poor Man went to the Se∣nate, and accus'd Him of Treason. Ʋpon which the People Ston'd his Children to Death, while He was in the Camp. The Rich Man at last return'd a Conqueror from the War. And finding his Children put to death, he requires, the Poor Mans Sons should undergo the same Punishment: Their Father offers himself in their room. The Rich Man opposes him; for the Law ran, that a Traitor should be punish'd with Death; and that a false Accuser, should suffer the same Punishment, as the Accu∣sed Person was to do, if he were Convi∣cted.

For the Rich Man against the Poor.

I Was full of expectation, Country-men all, that no dispute would have been made concern∣ing the Punishment of my Adversary, nor did I think it possible, I could be deceiv'd in a Revenge and satisfaction, that a City, which was saved by me, does justly owe to my Grief; but, seeing I am arriv'd at such an extraordinary and strange kind of misery, that, in the first place, you think good to Consult Laws and Statutes a∣bout my satisfaction, I beseech you, it may not make for the Poor Man, that he can't be defend∣ed, without some sort of Punishment inflicted. The Fellow deserves to suffer, more than I, who, you see (by his own Confession) is worthy of Death! This, of all my hardships, my Lords, is most unsupportable to me, the Poor Fellow thinks, he hath e'ne liv'd long enough, after he hath de∣stroy'd my Children. He thinks it worth the while, to make himself a compleat happy Father, seeing I make such a stir to be reveng'd; and he adds this also to the glut of his joy, to bequeath my Orbity to his own Children; I beseech you, my Lords, let it be no prejudice to my Cause, that I prosecute, and seek my satisfaction from a Good Father: I would nor give This for my Revenge, if the Poor Fellow were willing to part with his

Children rather. One thing, My Lords, I much admire in this Impudent Fellow, he Murthers my Children, to the shame of our Abused City, and now he calls me Cruel too. He shews me his Children are but little, that he alledges, as if I may not rather complain, that any Father may do the same; nor doth he consider, how much accrues to my justly Impatient Grief, since I have suffer'd that, which 'twould even pity one to seek satisfaction for; 'tis a sad Case, my Lords, that a Man shall be hardly thought of, for the misery, he has undergon. You should look upon my satisfaction in this light, as if, when he Kill'd my Children, he Kill'd his own too. Nor am I ignorant, My Lords, that many do believe, that the Cunning Fellow is not willing to dye neither, so that, when he lays open his Throat, and puts forward his Breast, these are only Tricks to save his Life. Bur I, for my part, don't think he dissembles, I, who know, what I would have yet more than he offers. None, but one, that could hardly part with his Child, would ever have found out such an Expedient against me, he has devis'd a new-sound way of suffering at my suit, out of his dear affection to his own Children. No Man can desire to do worse with his Enemy, than put him to that, he cannot bear himself.

My Lords, the Innocency of us, Great Ones, hath this inconvenience with it; that we know not who 'tis, that hurts us, till we feel the smart. And when an Inferiour hates us, then we lye o∣pen to all manner of Treacherous Assaults whate∣ver; A Fellow, because he was so poor and base himself, was therefore inraged against his Supe∣riours,

he thought it a kind of Liberty and Pro∣perty in him to hate his Betters; having no love, no Affection, in regard he was himself low and despicable, he grew up to such a madness, as he durst cope and grapple with me. First of all, he pretended I was his Enemy: Oh Heavens! What a Monstrous cunning Fellow have I had to do with? What a wild Gamester have I encoun∣tred? I reckon'd him an Enemy, who could find in his heart to Kill me, and then to Dye himself: I give thanks to you , my Country-men all, that, in those Extremities, wherein yon did no∣thing for favour or affection, I was commended by the very testimony of our dangers. You in∣trusted me with the fate and issue of the Publick, then in hazard. Now I could not have done the p••rt of a better Commander, than when I left my Children behind me: A General, that wou'd ha' betray'd you, wou'd never have don't. I think, My Lords, 'tis not now to be question'd, from what ground those Sham-stories and false fears did break our, of a sudden, and who the Ras∣kal was, that first fill'd the Ears of your Poor trembling City with such a Confounded Report, when you see, who so wrought with you, as to make you believe it. He observ'd and laid hold of the Opportunity in the midst of your Tears; and be∣cause, when Men are in trouble, they are apt to believe the worst, he abus'd you with this pre∣tence, that he might seem to be solicitous for the Publick, as well as you. So that the Fellow, who could name no Complice, nor Article any Crime against me, hop'd he should be believ'd, even by the very greatness of his Damn'd Accusation.

So, Gentlemen, when you were persuaded by my Accuser, that I wou'd have betray'd your Ci∣ty, you dealt with me, as bad as he would have you. You Murther'd my Poor Children, whom my Enemy had pointed at all along his Speech, af∣ter the manner, as Innocent Persons commonly use to suffer in a hurry; give me leave, my Lords, to speak freely? I must needs say, you have done a thing hardly to be copy'd, even thô I had betray'd you.

I know, my Lords, You admire I should be clearly Innocent, as to this my Accusation; for assoon as ever the News of my sad disaster was brought to me, into the Camp, I threw down no Arms, I did not stinch or stir from my Line or Ground: I turn'd all the Anger of my Chil∣drens loss upon the Enemy, even as if they had been Murther'd by them. My Lords, if ever any such Profane thoughts could have took place in me, if I could ever have hated my Country, even for my Childrens sake, then certainly you had made me a Traitor: When I return'd, my Lords, this must needs he my First Out cry, what, ha's my Enemy any Children still? Is his Family as big, as when I left it? Oh unhappy Presumption! Oh False defeated Thoughts? Was this to come home, as if I had a recompense? What Indignati∣on of your Soldiers, what pain of your Gallant Men about me, did I appease, when I promis'd them all, their Children were safe, and when I modestly reckon'd, whatever I did could not chal∣lenge such a satisfaction? Let all imaginable Pu∣nishments be heap'd up together upon the great∣est Villain in the World, yet I have lost the Main

comfort of my satisfaction, because you your selves should rather have fum'd against mine Adversary. But seeing 'tis so, that I must try it out with this Fellow by Statute-Law, I demand his Children for Punishment, instead of their Fa∣ther. What can I wish, bad enough, to fall upon that Man, who ha's fore'd me to demand such a satisfaction? Oh but, says he, The False Accuser must undergo the same kind of Punishment, that the Accused Persons should. My Lords, my calamity do's give me leave to object against this very law, as not making i••fficient provision of Quid pro Quo; It ha's found out a way of satisfaction against my right, where with I ought not to be contented. Can any Mortal Man term his Gene∣rous Act, his Punishment? Do's any Mans Heart ake so much, for a just Punishment as for a dire Calamity? Oh, he never considers in the least, how great a resolution it creates to hear his grief, what hardiness it brings to both Body and Spirit, to own, he's justly Punish'd. There must be In∣nocence in the case, wheresoever any pain makes us miserable; suppose, he ha's as many Children, to be given up to suffer, as I had, Murther'd, and the Justice of the Law do's allow as many of his to be slain, yet the Law comes not home, unless they be Innocent too. And whatsoever they suffer, after they are apprehended, althô it be sufficient recompence according to the strictness of Law perhaps, yet in reason and equity 'tis too little: You can make the Punishment and the Crime, of an Offender, equal no other way, unless you make it unsupportable. In vain do you reckon, how Cruel, and how Bloody a thing 'tis,

I require, because it exceeds all usual kinds of punishment: The spightfulness and odium of a Law is taken off, my Lords, when a Man suffers that, wh••c•• he acted before. Besides, Is not this alone a kind of punishment, where an offender can com∣plain of none but himself; and ought he not the less to be pitied, the more heavily Men take it that he suffers? What can be thought, or found o••••, more equitable and more just? He that ha's Murther'd a Man on the Highway, let his own Life answer for't; ha's he temper'd Poyson for another, let him drink it off himself; has he run and tore out another Mans Eyes, let his own he pluckt our, to make him amends. I can't en∣dure, that any Man living should refuse to suf∣fer, what his own wickedness hath deserv'd. 'Tis the shortest way of doing vindicative Justice, when the Offence and Punishment are Commensurate. And if you well consider the nature of a Compensa∣tion, a Man is best aveng'd in the same way and method, he was wrong'd.

I beseech ye, my Lords, don't you therefore think it just, what the defendant desires, because I am against it; you would not like, that I should have desir'd their Fathers Death, if he had offer'd his Children; yet of all the Men, that ever have suffer'd after a strange and unusual manner, I think none are more worthy to have right done them by this Law , than they, whose Children have been Murther'd. What doth the Law say to this? What requital can she make me? How am I reliev'd? Where shall I receive any com∣fort? 'Tis well remembred, my grief has very well remembred me, let me have leave to

••••ize upon those, those I say, who now are dearer ••nd better belov'd than they were, whose price is ••ais'd by my destitution. Yet after all this, we ••hall come short, unless the Children be full as ma∣ny, unless their tender Ages be equal and alike, and above all, unless they have a Father, excellently kind and good. You had got the better of me, Oh Fortune, you had been too hard for me, if he had had never a Child, who had committed such a grand offence against me. Besides, let's com∣pare all unrighteousness whatsoever, no Man in the World is more detestable than He, that makes the Laws themselves, blame-worthy. Upon your co••n account, you ought so highly to be imaged a∣gainst False Accusers, whose villany can do no harm, but by and thrô the Judges Act. Good night to all human safety, if Lyes may be so bold with your Accusations; nor was there ever any Innocent yet so happy, as to be able to baffle the diligence of Knights o' th' Post. If any mortal Man, in a matter that he hath forg'd and devis'd him∣self, find any thing which he can call a Proof, and so make out the Fact by a voluble Tongue, why then we must hate the Lye the more, because it apes the Truth so much. Whenever 'tis plain, that a Man hath been put to death unjustly, you must therefore be more incens'd against a False Accuser, that you may excuse them, that believ'd him. Add also to this Cursed Crime, that he accus'd me, when I was in the War, and for no less than Treason too, when I was a General, and all this he did upon pretens'd malice. He has no pretence to shelter himself under the Publick mistake, nor can he make his Apology, as if he also be∣liev'd

those who had coyned the Lye to his hand; No man was ever so deceiv'd, that he should ha•• to tell a Lye of his Enemy. The rumour was, says he, that you had betray'd the City? Now I re∣member it, I thank you for that, for this very ru∣mour is the chief thing I retort upon you, for your slander. For, my Lords, who knows not, but that this is the very Nature of Fame, to take its Rise, at first, from one mans impudent sham-report? The whole Body of a People do never discourse of any thing at an instant; was ever any thing so sud∣denly started abroad, that the Talk of all the Town should presently agree about it? What City would not be disturb'd, what People would not have their Heads full, if you should tell all as and every body else, if you should speak of it in all Companys, and then at last, in a thing merely of your own devising, you should say, it was a rumour? What a mighty subject might you have to make your Lies, on every occasion of the least danger? There is nothing more capa∣ble of malignant buzzes and misconstructions, than War. What matter is it, whence the Report had its Rise? You can't deny this, 'twas you that made a long Harangue about it, 'twas you that manag'd my Accusation, 'twas you that made me Guilty, by Hearsay. In every rumour, for which you have no Proof, nor Argument to produce, 'tis a kind of base calumny, to be the First, that credits it.

But says he, 'tis I must dye, because the Law, on which I accus'd you, Ordains, that a Traytor must be serv'd the same sawce. I might answer in a word, that the Law, which Enacts, A False Accuser should suffer the same punishment, doth ex∣act

the penalty of that Act, which he had don, not ••f that which he intended to do. Yet, let us sup∣pose, the Poor Fellow did not aim at what follow∣••d, at whose door, I pray, must the sad Issu be ••aid, that proceeded from the mistaken persuasi∣••n of the Commons, upon your calumny? May I ••••tart here another Question, my Lords, of which that ••••••nal Law had no prospect? He accus'd me at that ••very nick of time, when, if I had been condemned, I could not have suffred. Go now, and say, if you can, I war not the Cause, your Children were ••lain, but call it, if you dare, the City's Act; yet, by all your skill, you shall never make me, not to pity my Country more than my self; 'twas she, that suffer'd under the mischief of that Villany, as much as the Father. She was plainly forc'd to Murther the Children of her Victorious General. He is much mistaken, my Lords, who thinks any Fact in the World comes first from the Mobile. What the Generality of a City does, proceeds from the Ascendant, that seducing Orators have over them; whatever the Commonalty does, they are never angry, but according as they are exaspera∣ted. Thus our bodies receive no motion but from our Spirit; and our Limbs lie quiet, till our minds use them. There is nothing more easie, than to work the Common People to any Passion whatso∣ever. When we meet together in our Assemblies, no body brings his own private thoughts, his pri∣vate sentiments, private persuasion or reason along with him into the Senate. Nor has any Conven∣tion the Wisdom or Humour of single persons; whe∣ther it be, that the Publick Interest doth not enter to much into us; or else, because a man is more

negligent, when he thinks he is not to give a r••••••son, alone; and therefore when many are gather•• together, we vote things in confidence of the whol••▪ What Commonwealth can there be, but would 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much troubled and put into Confusion, if any bo¦dy should cry out of a sudden, Your General h•••••• betray'd you, look to it in time, you are Bought a•••• Sold by him; and yet this your General now, has 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Children among you? I know assuredly, that if after this very Speech, O thou wicked Adversary thou hadst sh••w'd them the Temple, they would immediately have ventred upon Sacriledge to burn•••• down; if thou would'st have had them pluck down Shrines and Images, their audacious Impiety would not have stuck to abuse the very Deities. Would you know, that whatever the City did, 'twa•••• your own Act? I'le tell you, you would have been proud and have boasted of it too, if I had be∣tray'd it indeed.

There is no Cause, my Lord, that your sorrow▪ for such a satisfaction, should take you off from the strictness of Justice, upon this account, be∣cause my Enemy offers up his own life; no ma•• would ever beg death, except he, that, by right ought not to be Executed. Setting then aside for a while, that satisfaction, which my greif may justly challenge, I only ask this of your Wisdom•• in the name of all mankind, that you would not le•• any Malefactor chuse his own Punishment. My Lords, you will open a door to a boundless pres••m∣tion in wicked men, if a Condemned Person may pic•••• and chuse what Punishment, he please himself; nor can you keep any mans Innocency within the ••ear of Law, if when a Criminal is apprehended,

he may suffer what he list. It eases all Pain and Torment whatever, when the mind is prepar'd be∣fore-hand for its suffering. He is mistaken, that thinks human Tortures are measur'd only by the Cruel Appellations, they go by: No, there can be no such thing as Punishment, but to him that is loth to come to it; No man is pained, but when he is made to abide that, which he can't abide: For 'tis Terrour that makes any thing Cruel and Piteous. ••••'s any man call that a Punishment, which he freely leaps at? Which he earnestly desires? Which be eares not, how soon it comes? No, no, drag, I beseech you, your Condemned Persons thither, thi∣ther I say, where they are loth to follow you. Then call it Punishment, when the sufferer trembles at it, when he will go no further, when he plucks back his Chains with all his might. Let me see the pale visage, let me hear the deep groans of a man, that's going to his Execution: Let me see him look about him, as if he sought for pity. I beseech you, my Lords, again and again, let no Criminal have the choice of his Fatal Punishment. 'Tis better, a Guilty person should scape his Pu∣nishment than scorn it. Whoever allows present death to a Malefactor, do's him a favour; nor in∣deed can there be any other Courtesie, do•• him, in such a Case. He is out of the way, that thinks death is the upshot of all Punishments: To be slain outright is no Punishment, but a deliverance ra∣ther: For whenever we look upon it as our Fate to dye, it do's not admit a strugle of Impati∣ence or Greif at all. What if you now must leave your Children, leave them did I say, nay, you preserve them rather? What a brave joyful

Issue is it, and full of comfort? He makes a gain of his death, thô it be never so cruel, that is cry'd up for dying. Kill me, says he. O my Enemy, no body wonders at what you desire, but he that is wholly Childless. O thou Bloody, Cruel one! Shall I do thee the kindness, to let thee go to't? But what better to my self, can I wish? Dost thou not see the grand heynousness of the Villany, that thou hast committed? I was not allow'd to of∣fer the same for my Children. Hold thou thy little ones in thy Arms, that they may breath their last in thy Embraces, to chuse; yet for all this, you shall not scape the Law nor put we off. Which way soever they desired Orbity draws thee, I will be at thy heels: If thou hast prepared any Poison, I will poure it clean out; I will take away every Instrument of death; I will cut the Rope, that thou hast fastned on a beam; if thou wouldst throw thy self down headlong from a Precipice, I would pull thee back. When all thy Children are slain, O my Cruel Enemy, thou wilt not suffer what I did, unless thy Life be sav'd.

Nor do I fear, my Lords, lest you should think, that both our Orbitys are to be treated alike. For lo, my Children shall be brought into Court against my Tears, which no body will know, they are so mortify'd. The small Children of an Innocent Father were Murthered, whom if they had been now alive, you would have carried in Triumph about your Temples, and about whom all your Festival hurrys would have been emploied. 'Tis unjust, my Lords, that we should take less pity of them, whose Murtherous deaths are past and gon. I don't find, how the hate of the Father

should advantage the Children at all: For, you see, those Children perished, whose very Farther deserv'd no death at my hands. Oh, what a Case am I in, thou wilt still have many things, which I, even when I am revenged, shall envy thee for! Thou wilt give them a parting Kiss before they dye, thou wilt speak to them, thou wilt receive their last requests, and thou wilt have opportunity to promise them, that thou wilt nor tarry long be∣hind them. Thou wilt ease thy Greif, when thou shalt promise every one of them his several Mo∣nument. But this will most of all wipe away ••••ars from thine Eyes, that now thou wilt see my H••••se Des••late and Childless too. Did ever any man see so miserable a Case as mine! 'Twill be only the Poor mans comfort, that we are both equally miserable. Besides, if we compare the very kind of their deaths, will thy Children suffer the same, as mine? They perhaps may be killed at one blow, and the Punishment inflicted on them, will be only by the hands of one Executioner. But my Poor little ones, were Murther'd by tag, rag, and longtaile, every Sex, every Age, even the weak∣est, every one that could, or could not, hold a stone, made a shift to hurle it at them. There's nothing more Cruel, than the Murthers of those, whom the Rabble do destroy. And this is the only death, wherein they allow no pity nor reverence to our dead Bodies. Do you think now, that I lament my self only for this, that I was not sated with the sight of my Children, before they dyed? Oh wretched man! could not come near their Bodies, after they were dead; I could not bring them into the Sepulchres of our Ancestors with my

own hands; neither had I opportunity to cry out over their Carkasses, 'Twas not I, that Murther'd you. Oh my dear Country, what a day did I lose, the day, when I your General, and Commanders, return'd from a concluded War! The joyful Sol∣diery did nor make a Lane for me, nor did the numerously scatter'd Citizens dance and skip a∣bout my Chariot, with a Triumphant Jollity; no, I follow'd my Prisoners, being sadder than they, thô I brought home Victory; the Soldiers round about me were very Melancholy, my Kindred met me with tears in their Eyes, and the People knew not, whether they might give me joy or no, for they blusht at my return. Oh the majera∣ble condition, even of my good success? so that, I can't relate my very Victory without weeping nor shall any of my Friends or Kindred speak a word of the War, in my hearing. There is no∣thing more intolerable than that calamity, that Festival joy recalls to our mind. As oft as that your Anniversary Feast shall, for the memory of my punishment, come about, bring me mourning weeds; you, my Servants, begin your laments afresh; prepare Cordials for me, my dear Kindred. No Children are more impatiently miss'd, than they, who were Murther'd for their Fathers sake. But to tell Truth, my Lords, I am very much a∣fraid, that I shall not hold out to receive my sa∣tisfaction; and lest that affection, wherewith I am incens'd for my Children, should fail me in the midst of my revengeful Execution. But assist and pity me, all ye my Kindred, help me all my Friends; and, if perhaps I should not hold out, do you, good Citizens, make up my satis∣faction.

I am so tender-hearted, that I fear, when the Executioner draws near, I shall cry out all of a sudden, I had rather now, 'twere the Father. But you, mine Eyes, if you have any Shame in you, put away Tears, away with groans, I must compose and frame my self before-hand to be a Bloody-minded and Merciless Person, and yet miserable too. Then, Oh thou craftiest of Mor∣tals, I shall catch this passionate affection, that you now counterfeit and ape out; then I shall know, what was in your mind, when you desir'd to dye, rather than your Children. But if I well understand your wicked heart, which no manner of villany or mischief comes amiss to, thou wilt live, Oh my Enemy, and that gladly and stoutly too, yea as one, that had got the better.

Pasti Cadaveribus: OR, Citizens, (in time of Famine) devouring one another.

DECLAMATION XII.

The Argument.

When the Famine rag'd in a certain City, the Inhabitants thereof sent an Envoy beyond Sea, to buy 'm some Corn, injoyn∣ing him to return at a day prefix'd. He went and bought it; but, in his Voy∣age homewards, was carryed, by a Tem∣pest, to another City; where he sold his

Corn for double the, price, and went and bought a double Quantity of Corn with the Money. By reason of this his delay, his Country-men were fain to eat one another. He returns at the day appointed, yet is Accus'd, and Arraign'd for his Life, as a Traitor to the Com∣mon-wealth.

For the Citizens against their Envoy.

ALthô, my Lords, reasons innumerable, of Indignation, do put me to a Non-plus in the very beginning of my Plea, be∣cause I can't speak 'm out all once; nor can I stop my Flood of Grief, which crowds and breaks in with might and main upon me, (for 'tis a light Grief, than can be marshall'd) yet that, I had almost call'd it, Fury of my mind, challenges the first place, which hath its rise from the present sitting of this Court, and the demur of our too slow revenge: when we do implead a Person, so vilely wicked, that he ha's drawn us in too; that we suffer him to make his defence; that we pray the Court he may be punished; and, when he is condemned, that he may be put to death, that death, which we, in our dreadful Famine, did even heartily wish for, as long as we cou'd commit our dead to the ground, undevoured: Or else, that he suffer by Banishment, a penalty, how little he regards, appears by his slow return to his own Country. Yet of what Banishment do I speak? Let us brand him with all the Infamy we can, and vend him packing from us, he knows whither to go. Why did nor our whole Town tear him in pieces, when he first set foot on shore, and, (seeing we are at

last us'd to it, and begin in sober sadness to be a City of Wild-beasts and Cannibals) why was not he himself made the First morsel of his too slow Provision? For so he ought to have been Quar∣ter'd, so torn in pieces, so devour'd every hit, by all the right in the World. Who can believe me, that I could abstain from eating up that Man, when I was famish'd and inrag'd too? But all our mind was upon the Corn, our Eye was fix'd on nothing, but that. Oh, how great was that Famine, that Master'd so grand a rage! For my part, if such a revenge had took place, if I had vindicated my self on so nefarious a de∣stroyer of the Common-wealth, not with my Tongue but my Teeth, yet I had offer'd up little or no sa∣crifice to my wrath, or to my revenge: For why? I did the same, even to my own Relations. The Bowels of our Kindred, buried in our Paunches, do yet boyle up, and seem to swell and struggle within us, and so rejounce upon us, who too late repent, we devour'd them. For now, we are at leisure to mourn, now we can bury what fed us, now we can burn our Bowels? For the rest shall be buried with us. Oh Famine never the like heard of, in which to be hunger-starv'd is the least of our miseries! Yet pardon me, All ye my dead Relati∣on, whom I violated, for now I speak to you, par∣don me, I say, that I debauch'd my mouth, that I degenerated from, and threw off, all humanity. 'Twas not so much to maintain and keep a poor Life and Soul together, nor to prolong an hated Being; there was but one reason, why we de∣ferr'd our deaths, because, if we had dyed, we should have been serv'd the like, as well as they.

And indeed, I can excuse my self to those I have devour'd, because I cannot be angry at my self, for it: But this Envoy, as you see, stands cramm'd and in good plight, after so long a Voyage, and is well battled upon the Publick Provision; at the mentioning of our Food, he makes a Face at it, and those that look as if they would drop down he bids 'm reckon, how much Corn there is for every one; as if I might not readily own, he had brought enough and too much too. For now, there are but a few of us left, we walk but thinly about the s••reets; and thô all the People be call'd forth from their Chambers, for the ve∣ry hate they bear to him that has ruin'd them, yet, you see, they do not fill up the Seats, fit∣ted for them. There are but a few of us, fed after a wicked and barbarous manner, kept a∣live by other's deaths, self-condemn'd and a bur∣then to themselves because they live still, that, with much ado, have brought our sick and pi∣ning Bodies into the Publick. This, that you see, is All that's left of the City; we are so worn a∣way, that, poor wretches, we can shew not live nor dead. This is the Body of the People, this is all their strength, these their hopes and all the Grandour they have. Unless at last, Mr. L' En∣voy, you had return'd to make good your pro∣mise, we had not had provision for many days. But to what purpose, so much Corn, now? Why, your Vessel so laden with Provisions? You have made a sweet Voyage of 't. We see Corn, but we see no People. It do's us no good, we have no need of it, now you may e'ne go and sell's. While you, the buyer and seller of the Publick

health and wealth, do batter away the next Chap∣man; while you trade either in our Funerals or ••n our unnatural cruelties; while you are an En∣••v••y, forsooth, to another City, strangers to us, and your own Country-men perish with Famine the while; in the Interim, we find Food from ••ur Plagues, our hunger seeds itself, and our very miseries make us barbarous; we may suffer thee to make thy defence, if withal we could be absolv'd our selves.

Now for this, my Lords, is it only I, that complain? Do these things concern me, more than other? Have I suffer'd any thing, by my ••elf? Don't I accuse him upon a Grievance com∣mon to you all, my Lords, with me? Can one Man be less interested in this revenge, than ano∣ther? Was it not a general starving, was not the Beggery Universal, of one and all? Unless you think 'twas no Famine, because we fill'd our Bellies with Cruel viands, and with wicked repasts. We are Banish'd and Out-law'd among all Nations and for all Ages to come, all Men will tell of these Barbarous Prodigies, and they will all Curse us to the Pit of Hell, except such, as will not believe it. We have cast a foul blur even upon Famine it self, and, (that which is the last comfort to the miserable) we have for∣feited all our Title to Pity. Yet we had still one poor defence, that we were forc'd to do this by reason of his delay; But now, if this Man be Innocent, the Crime will lye at our ow•• doors. May I tell you our publick mise∣ries, and so upbraid our lamentable state? Can I get out a word? Will a sentence follow? Shall I

not be Tongue-ty'd? What can I not do ? Let me•• survey, and take a view of the Order of our ca¦lamity, and tell all and every particular very plainly? None so fit to speak it, as my self. Bu•• we felt it and remember it too well: I suppose, the Judg need not inform about it; we may declare these things to the Person Accused, who was out of the reach of all our miseries, who with∣out all dispute owes a great obligation to hi•• Country, that he alone was sent away from starv∣ing▪ Hearken therefore, Oh Man, hearken at∣tentively, that Corn, which you brought home at last with interest, how much it cost us?

Some perhaps, my Lords, may wonder, that, thô the Fruits of the last dismal year were spent, the happy fruitfulness of many former years should be likewise exhausted; and they may raise a doubt, what the cause should be, why such a wealthy City, as Ours heretofore was, should have no stock of provision garner'd up, but only in their Ex∣pectations and Hopes? It must needs be so, when we sell Corn to our Neighbour City, and where a little pidling gain did tempt us: Thus the we•••• publick is regardlessly bought and sold, and Fa∣mine comes to take possession without resistance: And if there were any remainder of the Provi∣sions of the precedent year left, yet some Men to sell it dearer, kept it in, to enhaunce the price. Yet I appeal to your Consciences, we did not complain at all, as long as Corn was but double its usual price. For 'twas not a Common scarcity of Corn, nor a Fayler of Land, that makes the Farmers labour to be lost and the unwelcom har∣vest not answer his hopes, which some Hus∣bandmen

are wont to complain of; No, it was a ••ew, unheard of, and a cursed blast on Corn, that ••e•••• nothing almost to Man, but Mans flesh, to ••••at. Either the seed sown rotted away under the Furrows, without striving to put forth, or ••elfe, if a small root shot out with too little moi∣••••••, the blade hung its head on the ground; ••r else the dying Corn look'd wan and pale, when the blade or stalk was parch'd by the cor••hing Sun. No showres laid the dust of the Thirsty Ground, nor did so much as the shadow of a Cloud hover over the too too dry Land. The winds blew hot, so that the heat intercepted 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ripeness of Fruits: And if perhaps, in any place, some poor lank blade of Corn, make a shift to get up above the ground, yet the em∣•••• Ears frustrated the Farmers hopes, and the ••••r Husband-man winnowed his empty Corn, and ••here was nothing left in the barns flower. These ••re but petty Circumstances; for the Meadows ••ere parch'd up, Leaves were blasted, Trees did not put forth; the Earth was bare, the Clods ••ere hard, and Fountains were dry'd up. If I ••id not speak all this, to them that knew the ••••uth of 'm, I might seem to complain, without ••ause, of this▪ year wherein, our Envoy knows, ••••e sold so much Corn. Ah, wou'd the woods ••ould have afforded us their wild and simple ••••••d, that we might pick berries, shake down ••••rns or gather straw-berries, wou'd the pesti∣••nt year had left us, whatever the Men of old ••und out to appease their hunger, before Heaven ••ent us gentler reflections: I was no nice Fellow; ••ut Oh woful remembrance! Oh sad and deadly

necessity! We had nothing left to keep us alive but bare Trees. Yet we can't complain of Go•• altogether, for we found the Seas, at least, fa∣vourable to us. If our Envoy would but have improv'd the day, which the happy season p•••• into his hands, he might have brought us Co••••∣twice by this time.

Assoon as the sense of our great misery wa•• nois'd all the Town over, and, our wan•• encreasing, we were pinch'd every day mo•••• and more, thô our Case was bad yet we fear'•• 'twould be worse, for there was no hope of a∣ny relief from our Neighbouring Cities, be∣cause they were in the same case with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 selves: 'Tis true, there was a small matter o•• Provision left in our Neighbourhood, but 'twa•• come to that, not a jot would any Body se•••• Whereupon, when we saw, that we must pro∣vide for the Publick weal, from beyond Sea, e∣very Man of us ran into the Town-house. A•• in an Alarm, we cry Arm, Arm; and in a ven∣ture by Fire, Water, Water; so with one consent without respect of Age or Dignity, all Fellow•• we related our Case, we sat, and determin'd wit•• one accord, we were wholly guided by th•• sense of our necessity, without Punctillio's of Ord•••• or Observance. Many offer'd to go on the ••••∣rand, but this Man was chosen, not by any preference of Innocency, Authority or Desert, th•• only reason that mov'd us, was, because he pr••∣mis'd to make a sudden return. We gave him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 power of Money, without stint, we bid him g•••• as much Corn, as ever he cou'd. This we 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cry'd out for, as one Man, nor were we long 〈◊〉〈◊〉

doing it, that we might not hinder his Voyage; the voyce of us all was this, (which he laid hold of, as a certain kind of Argument he might stay the longer) If you don't come within the limited ••ime, you were as good bring us no Corn at all; We bore this our Envoy with our own hands to the Ship, and for fear he should stay, every one brought in his Quota of Provision for the Voy∣age, we cut the Cables, and, going ashore, we ••ut off the Vessel with all our stress. Then we follow'd the Flying sailes with our Eyes, and, as ••f we our selves had been a Ship board too, we ••rish'd him a good market, the wind fair, and a Sea without storm. Who can believe, what suc∣••••••, we, Poor Men, had? We obtain'd all, that we desir'd, of the Gods above; only one thing was defective, we should have put up our Pray∣••rs for that other strange City too, that he re∣••iev'd. He arriv'd quickly there, and had as ••uick a market, yea and return'd with as much past, whither he listed. What are we the better for waiting? Another City was Elder-hand, and ••ur precise Commissioner, forsooth, stays for his ••ppointed day. We in the mean time first plun∣der our Cattle out of our grounds, we tear and ••evour every bit, yea that no Provision might be made, no not for the succeeding year, our Plow-Oxen were not spar'd: Then we sent our slaves a ••acking, and our Poor lay groveling at the doors of our Grandees, and breath'd their last, in begging ••heir bread. When our Children cry'd to us, we told 'm, poor Things, our Commissioner was a ••oming. At last, every Man was fain to shift •• r himself. Yet I mention none of all this, no

not now, to aggravate the Crime of our Envy•• for as yet, he might have come to us first. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hitherto, we have born our misfortunes, for the ••••¦ther, we may thank our Envoy.

If you have any human Flesh and Blood left i•• you, unless, your Belly being over-full, you ha•••• quit all thoughts of your Friends, that are a starv¦ing, consider the hard Case of your Country, hav•• some regard to the cruel pinch, we are put to. W•• sent you in our Extremity, your pale and almo•••• Bloodless Country-men look for you, that l•••••• breath, they have yet left, is till'd on in hope of your return Fa••cy, and set before your Ey•••• those thin-iaw'd Visages, the decay of your Co••••¦try-men, that are a dying every day, and the•••• strength that was decay'd long before. You can•• be ignorant of any of this, if we may believe you a•• all, for you saw with your Eyes, how our Ci•••• labour'd with Famine, before you went. Mak•• hast, while there are any of us alive, to take a•• account of your Commission; Oh, make hast, le•••• we be driven to commit something worse tha•• Death; certainly we deserve all the Corn, you ca•• bring. Why do you bring another Cities Fami•••• upon us too? If we miscount not, we have s••••¦fer'd a double misery by your means. You l•••• snoring on the deck with our Corn in the Hold, an•• you travel round about the Sea Coasts, as if yo•• meant to be an Hydrographer. You, the gra•••• Dispenser of Fate between Two Cities, the Pres••••¦vation of a strange one, and the Destruction 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your own, mete out our necessary Food a•••• sustenance to Foreigners; and having a Fair wi•••• to bring you back into your own Country, yo••

wish, it were Contrary. We, mean while, run∣ning too and fro over the parched Fields, pluck ••ip the roots of wither'd Herbs, and we pull the ••arder, as hoping, if possible, we may light up∣on poyson, whil'st we are vent'ring upon food, we were never us'd to before. Now if we hap upon a richer piece of Ground, we are ready to quarrel for our Pasture. We pill the bitter bark of Trees, and we crop off the russet Leaves of the sadly-withered boughs. Whatever our drooping hunger scrap'd together, all went down. Now we dye, even in our Forage, and ever and anon one or other of our Company drops down on the ground, as Sheep do when infected with the C••ath or Murrain. Now we dye thicker and thic∣ker every day, the Bill increases; and (wo to say it!) now! we had nothing to feed upon any longer. What Powers shall I call to witness? The Heavenly ones above, alas, we have driven them from amongst us, by so great a Cruelty? Or, the Powers below, as for them we are their Fellow Citizens, as bad as they? Or, shall vve appeal to our own guilty consciences, that we did all things before, that no Man ever did, besides us? We slew our Cattle, we gruh'd up our Fields, we disforested our Woods, at last nothing was lest but Hunger and Death?

If you will believe me, I would willingly put off this Branch of my Accusation, for a while; for when so horrible a wickedness is to be related, a Man vvould fain gain a fevv moments of time; and besides, I must needs lay open to the Accu∣sed Person, vvho vvas far enough off from us and our miseries, to hovv many he came not at

the day appointed. Pardon us, O all ye Gods and Men, pardon us for this highest of Villanies; 'twas woful enough, we confess, to us when we were to commit it. But good Manners and Hun∣ger can never cotton together; and when that Tyrannical Dame hath once got possession, she tames even the monstrousest sorts of Beasts. Those that were a dying, took a mouthful of the very ground in their mouthes: I would have eaten my self, if I had had nothing else to feed upon; but I must own this, I had something, without being beholding to our Commissioner. After that our inflamed hunger had master'd all our Patience, and all our hope was gon, which is the last Anchor to Men in misery, so that now our hearts durst not so much as wish for that sustenance, which was in vain so often promis'd us, then we began to run mad and out of our wits, and our Hun∣ger did whatever it listed. Our hearts were stu∣pify'd with our hard condition, our Palats were pall'd and dead with our uncouth repast, we began to eat the very beasts of Prey. Yet at first, we fell to this monstrous kind of dyet by stealth, every one sneak'd into an hole; so that if thou hadst come sooner, we might have wip'd our mouths and deny'd it. If any were missing of the dead bodies, we reckon'd he was interr'd, but no body said a word, nor did any one find it out. No Man was led on by Example to do this, every Man was his own Teacher; after we had been all guilty, then we all began to fina•• out one another. Yet before I touch'd a bit, how oft did I hye me to the Key? How oft did I weary my Eyes in gazing, whether there were any vessel upon

the Main? you, Sir Envoy, 'twas easie for you to prolong the time, who had sold all, but your own share. Look you to it, how long you can stay above, for my part I can't stay a whole week. And therefore, like so many mad Dogs, we fell upon the Carkasses, and we were fain to shut our Eyes, as if we made more conscience of seeing than doing, thus we devour'd whole bodies bit after bit. This we could not do neither, without hor∣••our for the Fact, hating and loathing our selves, weaping and wailing, when we had done. But when we started back from our dismal suste∣nance, our hunger pricks us again, and we ga∣ther up the Mammocks we had disgorg'd before. Now these things seem ugly and abominable to me, Limbs all-torn, Bones gnaw'd bare, and Breasts, flead of their skin, vinew'd and mouldy within. Now, methinks, I see the Entrals thrown about, the Flesh black and blew, the gore ex∣press'd and squeez'd out with my Teeth, and the marrow suck't out of the bones. 'Twas little or ••othing of a Body the Famine left us. Now I ••bhor that time, when I lighted upon an Hand or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Head to eat, or any other part, that by a pro∣per mark shew'd it was a Man. Now comes ••o my remembrance, that uncouth food, which I durst not set upon a Table. For we ••an't deny, we devour'd the Men, & that greedily too, ••or we had not eaten a bit along time; and yet for ••ll that, 'twas hard to begin. But after we be∣••an to count it no sin, and none in the City were sham'd to confess it, what did we do then, but ••••ovide for to morrow, and store up dead bodies 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our Pantries. We either arrested dead Corps's,

and brought 'm back from carrying to their gravel▪ or we quarrell'd for them at the Funeral-Pile. The Heir takes possession of a dead, body, faln to him. 'Twas a riddle, a monstrous incredible thing, but that we saw it, there was a Pestilence yet no Fu∣neral. There was no Bill of Mortality, how ma∣ny dy'd; vve knevv that some were dead, only because we did not see them among the living. The Sick were afraid of their Attendants, and call'd back their fainting souls, when they took the last Farewel of their Domesticks; and the first thing they desir'd of them, was, an Entire burial But when a greater necessity began to urge, the•• 'twas counted a courtesie, to keep Hands off till the breath were out of the body. No Man was so near of kin or in blood, that our duty vvould make us abstain from. We eat up our Kindred, our nearest Kindred; For if we should have desir'd a Neighbours body, none durst, none would, le•• us, for they did eat 'm themselves.

Yet notwithstanding, you have no cause to be angry,* 1.21 for I have told you, How much you made of it: We sold our Corn for double the price, s•• our crafty Envoy cheated our Neighbour-City▪ Now our Garners are full, there's a good ac∣count of his Voyage, our Vessels are full fraught and to inhance our joy for so great a Blessing the fewer Guests, the better Chear. As for the Ex∣cuse he makes in point of time, I suppose 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hath no reason to be troubled: For, I wis, he di•• not light upon a People, desolate and forlorn, there was no reason he should make such hast, v•••••• could have stay'd yet longer. We are the onl•• Men, that can't be destroy'd by Famine.

D'e think, I'le pass over what he can say for himself? I confess, he came at the very last day, he brought our Grain, let's rejoyce, that now neither of the Two Cities do pine with Fa∣mine. Oh that I were strong enough, that my Lungs would hold out, that I could get some word or other out of my long-dry'd Larynx; for hovv great must that Indignation be, when One must grieve for the whole Tovvn? This being so, let all of us, here present in this Assembly, vvith full cry agree and consent unanimously to accuse this Man, yet the Odium vvould not be equal to the Crime, for hovv fevv of us are left, to make our Complaint? Let every one consider vvith him∣self, vvhat vvoful misery he hath undergon, and vvhat odious Crimes he hath committed. Sure∣ly, he is a monstrous Beast, vvho, having fill'd his belly so wickedly not for need only, is not an∣gry vvith himself for eating Mans-Flesh. Let me call to mind my grief and my late vomitings, and my avengeful discontent at my self. Come hither, thou Tyrannous necessity of so long a Fa∣mishing; and You, my Kindred, vvhom I have de∣vour'd vvithin me, stir, if you can, and break ••orth out of my baleful Paunch, vvhile vve expiate ••he wickedness, vve have committed, by this de∣voted person, and so, making as it vvere a so∣••emn Lustration of the City, vve send this dismal Sacrifice to the wronged Ghosts: For such dire Sacrifices become us well. I have brought your Crimes in common into Court, and I vvould fain ••alliate the dishonour of our poor City. We are ••ffenders, every one; yet here is one, if you ••lease, Guilty enough for us all. I accuse him for

dealing treacherously with the Common-wealth: by cherously did I say? I am sure you wonder at the lowness of the word, whereby I seem to under∣stand, as if our Country were slightly ras'd only, and had receiv'd a Filliping (as they say) rather than a Wound, when yet our City is fully and wholly consum'd, and our People pin'd away. But this injury of Nature is to be born here, as well as in other cases, that she hath not given us words, high enough to express such monstrous Facts; our cursed Famishing is only call'd, Famine; our abo∣minable Gobbets are call'd, dyet; and after all, the Common-wealth a little treacherously dealt with, or so. Nor, forsooth, shall this Offendor be pu∣nish'd, without a legal and orderly Tryal: Pray, let all things be done with scruple of Conscience, for fear we do amiss. See, that we are angry after a legal manner, thô we have violated all Law to save our Lives. Yea, if you like it, let us have patience to hear his defence, let him yet keep us a little longer still. Let him deny, he has injur'd the Common-wealth, because he hath much more than injur'd it, as we all know. We do not lay to his charge, that he spoil'd the Angles of our Palaces, that he cut down the Trees of our sacred Groves, nor demolish'd the Walls of our publick Temples. If he think good, he may perhaps put in, that 'tis not the Common-wealth that he ruin'd; for 'tis brought now to that pass, that that very Name is extinct. Perhaps, he may come to this too, as to deny, we ever wanted vi∣ctuals. Yet I can't deny, that his Great wicked∣ness is not properly nor fully enough expressed by this Law-Term. For our Ancestors would not

have the Common-wealth injur'd, no not in the least, wherein, I judge, that this Case of ours is comprehended. But no Man ever fear'd, that a Crime would ever be absolved, that was greater than the Law. Besides, he endeavours to ward off the Accusation of Treason against the Common-wealth, and to dwindle it into the Fault of an ill-manag'd Embassy and Commission, only. The Accused party chuses the species of his Crime, which is as much as to say; a condemn'd Man would chuse his own Gallows.

I can't endure, my Lords, in so great a Com∣motion of my Spirit to hunt for Topicks, to argue upon; nor doth the effort and vehemence of mine Anger stoop or descend to the method of First, Second, and Third, &c. Yet this I know, that a Grief for the Publick comes under no starch'd form. Yea, if the Judges so far forget what they have suffered, that they can endure these evading Pretences, which do not clear him of the Crime but only stave it off, must the People too pass over his offence without its due reward, by down-right stoning? You shall not prescribe to me, how to lay my Attainder. I can accuse you for ill-managing your Commission and Trust too. For, look ye, if I should lay to your charge, here are so many Men kill'd out-right, are not you the Cause of their Deaths? If I charge you, that our Sepulchres are violated, did not we rob the Grave by means of your delay? But you had a Commission, forsooth, and what was that, I pray, but to manage something for the Common-wealth? And he that manages it ill, I hope is guilty of do∣ing her wrong. Do you think Commission'd En∣voys

have such Licence to offend, that whatever Villany they commit in their Employments, they may set all at rights by this one Plea? Oh, how over-grievous were the case of your Envoy, if he had leave given him to break the Law and to starve the People, too! But if I do mistake, and our Laws are grown out of date by disusage, be∣cause we have kept no Courts to put 'm in Exe∣cution, yet how do you avoid our Law afore∣said? For unless I am mop'd by my misery, there are Two things which in such an Accusation are to be inquir'd into; viz. First, Whether the Common-wealth be indeed injur'd; and next, whe∣ther by the Party, that is Accus'd. In which points, if you had any confidence at all in your Innocen∣cy, you wou'd not throw off one Crime upon a∣nother, or run from punishment to punishment, but you would rather, ward off that, which is now levell'd against you. We say, The Common-wealth was injur'd. Now should I lanch out into a long Oration, and cast about, as other Accusers use to do, how to aggravate the matter by Flourish of words. But the commemoration of our Calamities have so horrible a report, that if we could forget or nor reach them, yet our publick ruin must not be declar'd so much by Words, as expos'd a specta∣cle to our Eyes. Go too then, if you will, let us walk out of our Gates, and there you may see our Pastures burnt up, our Corn-Fields over∣grown with thorns and bryars, and the barks of our Trees half eaten away. Our Lands are de∣solate for want of an Husbandman to till 'am, the Innocent Beasts pack away from our hunger, our Farms are empty, and our forsaken Barns

are ready to fall down. No ground lies neat af∣ter 'tis plow'd and harrow'd, not so much as a Clod is turn'd up by the Plow-share. So that now we may fear a Famine next year too. Go home again to your Houses, there you shall see your ve∣ry Hearths all-bloody, your Fires put out with the streams of gore, running out from Carkasses, your Rooms thick-strew'd with dead-bodies; and at best, when we carry out our dead (Bones, rather than Men) to be entomb'd, we are fain to cover 'm; what is left we bury in this fashion; we com∣mit our broken Corps's to the Flame. But where the Famine hath swept away whole Families (which is the greatest Part by far,) there our Empty Houses are over-grown with dust and cob∣webs, and there lyes the Lumber without any Heir to challenge it. When you have gon all the House over, at last perhaps the Master of it may be found, lock't up in some close room, as in a Coffin, I mean, if he has scap'd being devour'd be∣fore, and when his Neighbours look'd after him they could not find him, or if he were the last Man that dyed of the Family: But whither do I send you? Behold this very Assembly, see the whole City presents you with the Image of one single dying Person, the Head lank and lean, the Eyes quite sunk into the Head, the Skin loose and flaggy, our trembling lips cannot hide our Teeth, our Faces stark and stiff, our Cheeks pitted with holes, and the recesses of our Throats empty. Our Necks stoop forward, our Back is rugged the Bones staring out, we are like Infernal Spectres, and we are even filthy Carkasses already. Or if any one of us look not o' this Fashion, let him

own, that he has Feasted too hard on the deceas'd. Let every Man examin his own wretched bowds and his full Paunch, that's accus'd and can't deny't. Say now, Our Commissioner, say, if you will, I am Guiltless, because I came at the day. But I am sure my Conscience is Guilty, that I made a shift to live so long, by such woful means.

What miseries, compar'd with ours, do not oc∣casion tears, more nice and sparing? Suppose an Enemy should besiege and shut up a City within their own gates, 'tis not unusual that the besieg∣ed are driven to great scarcity of vicluals, but yet they may deliver the Town up; and then the Conqueror will either kill his Prisoners or give them meat. Some have undergon the Tortures of Py∣rates, happy they, so they were Innocent. Death certainly is a Period to all, and our Cruelty should not go beyond Life. But if a Man should be so stript of all humanity, that he will chuse to pu∣nish there, where there is no sense of the misery, yet he would throw Carkasses to Beasts not to Men. Some have been burnt by Fire, but their very punishment ends in a sepulture. But we have de∣stroy'd our very Funeral Ashes, and our very ru∣in is ruin'd it self. All Men see, what our mise∣ries were, the Fire did not burn our dead, the wild-beasts did not devour them, the Fowls did not meddle with them, yet we can reckon how many have dyed by our eating their Carkasses, We are afflicted beyond the hope, yea and beyond the wish too, of any recovery; every day a greater dislike of what we have done, seizes us, for my part I am e'ne asham'd that I am alive, I dare not look up to the Sun or the Stars, I call the

dead every foot happy Persons, and being prick'd with the Gripes of an Evil Conscience, I judge none in a better case, than they, who at any rate whatever, are laid up in their long home. Now also I envy our very food, I am silent of what's past, our store and plenty hurts us by our excessive greediness; we throw down unsatiably our long desired Food, and we choke out wearied hunger with too much cramming. And now we dye, e∣ven by the relief, you brought us. But the other parts of the Common-wealth, which are appointed for the use of the People and run to decay with less damage, are easily cur'd by repairing what's amiss. Our stately Edifices may be rebuilt, our Treasury may be replenished again, our Ships and Tackle may be repaired, but our wound here pierces deep, here our very heart-blood is struck at, when the People drop down dead, and every Age and Sex are laid low with never-ceasing Funerals. Our City is drain'd, our Houses are desolate, not a Man to be seen upon our Walls. A sad remem∣brance of our once flourishing Condition. Do you ask, how many have perished among us? 'Tis the least portion, that is lest alive; which you may know by this, they were as many as sufficed an hungry and ravenous People: Yea, but 'tis very considerable, how they came by their ends; They, who dye by Pestilence, or they who dye in Battle, dye happily, yea, in a word, every death, but This, is supportable: But cruel Famine consumes the Bowels, it wasts the Entrals, it is the Wrack of the mind, the wasting of the Body, a Tut'ress to do mischief, the most intolerable of all extre∣mities, and the most hated and ugliest of all mi∣series.

'Tis she, that makes noble hands stoop to base Offices, 'tis she, that throws us down at other Mens feet in a begging posture, she oft breaks Faith with our Allys, she hath administred Poyson openly to the People, and she hath driven, even affectionate tender-hearted, Persons to Murther their own Kin∣dred. Yet we had one remedy lest us, viz. not to stay till the day of our death, but to release our Souls, that were a pining every day, from al the calamities that were to supervene; For in a Famine, at last no Man scapes. Now 'tis true, 'twas not your fault, that the Famine began; but yet, when we were wounded thereby, you kill'd us out-right; when we stagger'd thrô weakness, you threw us quite down; and when we were in a disposition to burn, you set Fire to us.

Now to deal fairly with you, our miseries were of several sorts; the beginning of our Famine I lay at Fortunes doors, but the fatal Catastrophe thereof, at yours. I distinguish, between the time of your Voy∣age, and the time of your stay: But I begin then to charge our extreme want upon you, since we smart∣ed under it, by your means. And therefore, I grant, that the dearth of our Corn and Provision, our thin harvest, the slaying and pulling our Cattle in pieces, may be imputed to Fortune, to the barrenness of the year, or to the drougth of the season, but we can't impute to her the death of our People, nor our ravenous tearing of their Carkasses, nor such Food as is worse than starving. This part of our Fa∣mine must be charg'd upon your account, and up∣on no bodies else. Suppose at present, to urge no∣thing more against yon but this one thing, You came later than you might. I don't yet object, that

you staid twice your time, nor that you traverst the Sea so often too and again, nor your long lying at Anchor, I don't yet make mention of so much time wasted, as was sufficient for an Embassy. If we had nothing to answer for, in keeping our vile Carkasses alive, yet you would have destroy'd us all in one seaven days. For Famine hath con∣tracted the bounds of human life. We perish, we can't subsist. If you have any pity at all, make hast, make use of every Gale, nay if the winds be favourable, and fill all your sailes, yet don't be content with that, but ply your Oars besides. For the publick life and health is aboard you, you are laden with the very Spirit of your Country∣men, that ship of yours is fraught with the life∣blood of us all. We vow and swear to the Gods, what we'le do, if you return, we lye on our Faces all along the staires of our Temples, and make our Vows, we stretch out our hands; for as for sacrifices to offer, there's no such thing in nature. Why do you bind our publick hope and expectation to your sinking Anchors? Time flies all the while, and death comes on us, all a flaunt with full-sail. Make hast, I pray, and our first Founders will not reach your merit, yea the Gods themselves will not do more for us. To thee we owe our selves, our Children, and whatever is dear to Men, to thee we owe whatever thou affordedst to our Neigh∣bour-City. I don't say all that I could say, for sup∣pose you ship the vast Waves of she Sea; sup∣pose your Vessel is hid in the surges, that we can't distinguish your Sailes amidst the white hoary foamings of the working Main; suppose the Sea wambles up sand from its very bottom, that Light∣nings

flash round about you, that the Heaven•• thunder, that the Tempest whistles, while your Cables crack, and in fine the Winter stormy-star is a setting; yet, do you go on still, waft thr••, 'tis Bread you carry; it may be you are troubled with none of all this, and therefore make the more hast. I should have complain'd of you, if you had over-stow'd your Ship, even with Provi∣sions, when you were bound to return in so much hast; wou'd you had brought but half so much. We are not Coy, we do not desire abundance for our Luxury, but any little tiny thing at present to save us from starving, only to keep life and S•••• together. If we have need of more hereafter, you shall go again. Our Jaws are dry and a faint panting widens our Mouthes. Now poor Chil∣dren do in vain lament in their Parents laps, and Infants, not yet born, are even sensible of the Fa∣mine in the womb: Rich or Poor, no difference now. We gape after the air, we lick up the dew, now our Hope it self is a Torment to us, our strength fails us day by day. Now we go no more to the Sea-side, but despairingly come back from it. The People sit upon High Rocks to wait for your Ship, they return no more into the Pastures. We even run into the very water, and all stand gazing after you, and none but you; and when all fa••ls, we dye away. We dye, I say, while our Eyes are set in waiting for Thee, and our dead bodies pitc•• into the Sea. When we saw any white Clou•• shine from the reflection of the Sun, was you•• Ship straight; how oft, when the hoary wav•• were broken with the wind, did we call it, your Sailes. Oh, the unsteady hopes of the miserable▪

••ow do they incline to every spill of comfort upon ••rery little occasion? Nay, say we, this certain∣•••• is his Ship, look ye, she is under sail, she draws ••earer and nearer, and, as she makes her way, ••••e seems bigger and bigger. It must be Ours, she ••as had a fair wind going and coming, the winds ••ave been govern'd according to our Prayers and ••••ishes. This is our Note, mean while our Fancy'd ••hip vanishes away. Then we do nothing but ••••wle and despair, and hate even our very life: ••••or nothing torments Men more grievously, than ••••eir disappointed hopes. We could not so much as ••••k or inquire after you, for no Man put a shore. ••••ere we were all in suspence, and knew not what 〈◊〉〈◊〉 do, no news at all of any thing for our good. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we cou'd but have known, where you had sold ••••ut Corn, we would have fetch'd it, ourselves. ••ut how were our minds changed every minute? ••e said, 'tis very well, the Sun set clear, 'tis like 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be a pure day, and the wind sits for us. Now ••••re, he'le com. In the mean time, we are in an ••••certain starving condition, our hunger puts us 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from time to time, yet so, that she reckons every ••••ot, how long she has to live: Yet, what is she ••••e better, hitherto? You remember, when the ••nd began to blow contrary, and the Waves were ••••rryed from the shore to the main, what publick ••ailing, what Lammentation was there, He will be ••pt back, (said they) he will run a ground, he will 〈◊〉〈◊〉 distressed. But, if it please Heaven, Our Com∣••••••s;sioner might then sail with the most prosperous ••••e••ze of all. Whilst we, in this unfortunate ••••d heavy case, were thus employ'd in our thoughts; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hold, you were traversing all the Creeks and

Bays of the Sea, and were Cruising all along the shore, according to the turning and winding of th•• Land. At this rate, you may take pleasure in keep¦ing the Sea long enough; you scap'd no fair h••••¦ven, you visited every famous City, yet let m•••• not lye, you touch'd too upon a City in Famine, a•• well as we. Moreover, if when possibly yo•• complain of Fear only, I can't endure your stay how can I sufficiently accuse and charge you, if yo•• make your Markets there too? You rob us o•• our very life and give it to another, you expo•••• our health and safety. The Publick Innocency which for a long while could not be valued, yo•• huckster away and sell. Our Corn we lost not by Shipwrack or Pyracy, no, we lost it by filthy lu¦cre. A Tempest might possibly have driven a S•••••• on the strand, and the Waves might have sway low'd up all a numerous Fleet; but we lost o•••• Corn, because our Fleet came safe to shore; Th•••• we sent an Agent, forsooth, to another City, an•• like poor devoted Souls, we starve while our Neig••¦bours fill'd their bellies with our dainties. No•• we have no more spirit left in us, we stand up•••• the very brink of death, we wait for our Ag•••• and our Corn with an open mouth, when alas! o•••• Fleet, mean while, makes a Trading Voyage on•••• and barters for the plenty of a Neighbour City. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Ship was almost come in ken, when he turn'd back and there was but a small matter between 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and seeing the dust of our Corn-heaps; so mu•••• time ha's past, since vve club'd our Money, a•••• since vve Commission'd him for our Envoy. No•••• reckoning the time, vvhich the prosperous wi•••• made to seem shorter, I am dayly in hope, ce••¦••ainly

he is ne•••• But stay, our Commissioner is ••ut just now gon to buy. To. the•• therefore I im∣••ute so many deaths of our Country-men, and so ••reat a destruction of our People. To thee, I say, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 impute the lamentable havook of Parents and Children: Yea, what we have suffer'd, and, that which is worse, what we have done too, all lies) ••t thy door.

And do you hope, that the noise of double Money will drive the Odium of your great wickedness out of our minds? Alas, you know not how many ••hings you have sold. I sold it for double, say ••ou! What did our misery entice you to turn Merchant? Than I suffred my own Country-men ••o dye for hunger; that I undid my own City to ••ave yours, that I tack'd about, when I was so near ••heir shore, that I can't come back at the day, What is it worth? What will you give me under∣••••and? Double, do say? Alas that will only help ••e to make my excuse to my Country-men. But ••e, like a Pack of silly Fools, did complain of Fa∣••ine, intolerable and miserable scarcity lay heavy ••pon us, death stood ready at the door. Are we ••to bound to gibe thanks to our Industrious Agent?* 1.22 Our People dye round the Town, the richer for him Our religious Merchant, without doubt, hath ••ound out a fit time to sell his Cargo. I wonder. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my heart, seeing your Market was so good, why ••ou did hot bring us home our use Money? I sold 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for double 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much, says he. You deceiv'd our Neighbour-City, you fetck'd 'm off, so that they ••re angry with you for it. I sold it, says he again, ••or double. It must needs come to that, when ••ou transport it thither, you must sell it so high.

They considered your Voyage, they considered the Interest of your Money; I, for my part, am glad that you sold it for so much; for now it ap∣pears plainly, that there was no force at all upon you. But if you once make an Out-cry and Pub∣lick sale of our life and health, if you will admit Chap-men to buy theirs, pray, let us know 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you will make the better Market. We are rea∣dy to amass all that we have in our Houses, and all that we have in our Temples, and all that the City can call her own, to traffick with you. L•••• all the Money, we have, rebuy the Corn, we'l sell our Liberty for it, we'l deliver up our Territories: Thô our Neighbour-City promise thee all the same, yet she cannot do more. Let us have the benefit, that Chapmen use to have, we paid. our Money, beforehand. Here's Treble, Quadruple, t••ke 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much as you can ask; take it, and with that M••∣ney go and buy Corn, and transport it freely, th•• it be to our Neighbours. If you allow us nothing of out own Provisions, then we'l e'ne fell ••••••∣selves to our Neighbour-City. We are content to be Slaves, where there's something to put in o•••• heads. 'Tis no pidling matter this, we traffick for our Life, for a place of Burial, and for our un∣tainted Innocence: This Provision cannot be ••ong•••• so dear, as is cost us to expect it.

But, says be, unlese I had sold it to that City the Famine was so great, I was afraid they would have taken it away by Force. And therefore forsooth,* 1.23 you would prevent 'm, that you migh•• be the only Person, to do us the wrong. Cer∣tainly, My Lords, you are mightily▪ mistaken i•• your opinions, if you think that any: Cause, th••

never so evident, can be brought into a Court, that not so much as a lye can be cast over it, to cover its nakedness. He defends himself with his own surmises; and where no body can disapprove a Man, he brings himself as his own Witness. You were not solicitous, lest we should have pe∣rished; you were not afraid, that the Prov••sions should come a day after the Fair, I mean, after the day of our death. Thô our misery was such, that we could well strange at nothing, yet, I con∣fess, notwithstanding our Fears of Tempests and doubtful hazards at Sea, we never fear'd we should lose our Corn, and yet our Fleet safe the while. Suppose they pretended to take it by Force; suppose that a Company of People stood up∣on the shore, like a pack of Robbers, to seize it, whether you wou'd or no: I don't say now, re∣sist them, avoid them, or entreat them. But this I say, you should tell 'm, you would either burn or sink your Ship, rather than all the Provision should be lost to the true Owners, in the Case they are in; give them some, gratis if you will, so that you bring home a little to us to keep us alive: Nay, which is the wofullest thing of all, suffer them to take it by Force. Let Fortune do her pleasure, an Envoy must not depart from his Precept. At least, you should ha' made us ac∣quainted with our wrong, you shou'd ha' dispatch'd a Messenger to us, then we wou'd all ha' forget our hunger, we would ha' took up Arms in a fu∣ry, and ha' ran out every Man, to beleagure that cursed ugly City, without Listing ourselves or staying for a Muster. In the mean time, I will plunder their Borders, that is to say, I will feed on

anothers Common. If I can catch any Cattle on their Grounds, I'le quarter 'm, my Hostility shall maintain me. You shall sooner arrive at the Corn this way, than you will make your return there. with. The just Military Oaths we have taken will encourage us to fight. If Fortune shall part stakes betwixt us, I mean to receive Provision more than my own share; if not, I hope, I shall have the privilege to dye honourably. Let's come hand to hand, and Charge 'm in the Field; Let 'm the•• retire within their Walls and the Seidge hold longer yet even then we had better live on our Enem•• Carkalles, than our Own. But alas, there was no Force at all, no external violence offer'd, no body in the World took away any of your Corn. We are made miserable, after a Legal way, we are undone by the very Conditions, we made with our own Envoy. He sold what he wou'd, and for as much as he wou'd; and perhaps, that he might add▪ this delay also to our Expectation; he used many words over his Corn, to put it off the better. All the Money was very honestly paid. How do I infer, this, say you? Thus, my Lords, He that sells for what price he will, may chuse whether he will sell or no. For, judg you, if they both cou'd and wou'd have taken away another Mans Corn by force, why did they pay a double pri•••• for it? For as in a great scarcity, whatever can be bought is cheap, so when you can have it for nothing, 'tis dear to pay double the worth. But, you may believe me, that is but a colourable ex∣cuse, and a Plea meditated before-hand at li•••• and leisure. There never was, or can be, such 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Famine, as Ours. The Constellations of Heaven,

this year, were so malign to us, and the Fate of our People so hard, that not only what we sow'd, but also what we bought, fail'd us. We sent for Corn with ready Money, a ready Fleet, a ready Commissioner, the wind was fair,* 1.24 the Voyage pro∣sperous, yet for all this, we lost our Provision. Alas, we are further off from our Corn, than e∣ver. Our Merchant might p••y frequently to that City, and bring his laden Fleet thither. They had no need to send any Commissioners; they need not fetch Provision from afar off: it hapned to them, as when Corn is most plenty, when there's? wealth enough, and Money at will, they need buy no∣thing, but what was brought home to their own doors. So that there was no reason for that fear, you pretend, nor was any thing of Force offer'd you. You made choice of your Market, and be∣cause you thought you had time enough, you wou'd make bargains by the way. I thought, they wou'd ha' robb'd me, say you; robb'd me, dost say? Why, O thou naughty Man, if thou didst fear that, why would'st thou put in there? Thou, being a Traveller, having a great charge about thee, dost thou take up thy Ledging among Thieves? dost thou run our publick Provision on the rock of scarcity, on purpose to cast it away? And dost thou bring the Anchors of thy Fleet, that's full of Corn, before a Famish'd City? Would you not keep off from them, as from dangerous Quick∣sands, and from the All-devouring Charybdis? should you not ha' made all the sail you cou'd, to scape 'm? The credit of your Embassy was ne∣ver more dangerously Ship wrack'd, than amongst them: You your self were the Cause, that you

might have been pillag'd, and that your Corn might have been taken away, by your coming thither: We shall have just so much, as the Man∣ners of their hungry bellies have left us. What dost thou boast of thy double gain? They might have chus'd, whether they wou'd ha' paid thee a Great. The Corn, you brought back, is their kind∣ness, not yours.

Now here's another Lye coyn'd. I was dri∣ven in thither, says he, by a storm. Indeed! Are you so unhappy a Sea-man, that the winds do not answer your wishes? Do we not know, that thou hadst a better Voyage, than we could expect? Can we he ignorant, that you made Two Voya∣ges for Two Fraights? Can we be ignorant, that in one Expedition, the winds were prosperous no less than Four times? 'Tis enough, our Nay for your Yea. Don't hope, to put your Shams and Cheat•• thus, upon our poor City? By what damage can you make out your storm? What less did you sustam? To be sure, all the Corn came safe to harbour, neither were you in any stress at all; Thô you pretend your Ships were over-laden, yet, it seems, they could carry double the Fraight. You can't complain that your Tackle was disord'red, that your Cables were 'tangled, or, the folds o•• your Sails rent; No, your Fleet went quickly out▪ and, as a sign that 'twas not endamag'd at all, i•• made as quick a return. Moreover, if a Tempe•• had drove you to one point, could not you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your Sailes to the other? If you can't go any further, then land short. But by all means, avoi•• your R••bbers, avoid those that will not let yo•• stir out again. If nothing else can be done, the••

go halves with the storm, and run your Ship a∣ground on some desert shore. But what did we get, by avoiding the storm? To what purpose did our Fleet withdraw from the Frowning stormy weather? All of us, you see, were Shipwrack'd in the very Haven; and we lost our Corn, when our Fleet was at Anchor, But, says he, I did bring Corn, yea and a double Quantity too. Oh, what an happy People are we! Now let's break our Bellies with cramming, lei's eat for the time we ha' lost, and let's recompense our starving with cruel gutling. Have you brought Corn, d'•• say? Ay, but. Phy∣sick is too late to put into a dead Mans Mouth. Will any Man pour on Water, when the Fire is out? Does not even the† 1.25 Novendial Solemnity come too late, when a People is wholly extinct? What do not I now stand in need of Corn? You take away the Plank from a Person that's perishing by Shipwrack; after he is drown'd you offer him your Ship. 'Tis a double Quantity, you'l say. Pray shoot it out over their Graves, and mete it over their Tombs. There are the Gentlemen, that gave you your Commission. What have you effected by bringing us Corn, but to make us repent of what we have done, hitherto? Now I am more ashamed, than I was; now I could chide my feed∣ing, yesterday I might have reframed. Oh sad! In what a wicked posture did your Provisions find me? Do you thus cry Quits? Hitherto, we have had nothing; but now, forsooth, we have enough and to lay up too?* 1.26 But who will ever adjust ne∣cessaries with superfluities. You brought double, but to them that are gon, you brought nothing at all. But we can't now undo what we have done; what

comes too late is commonly as good as nothing. But such things are more precious, and rarer, according to the Critical minute. Would you know, what difference there is, between This time and That▪ Try then your Market, now you can't sell the whole of what you have, for half the price.

There is only one Plea remaining, and therein lyes all the hope of his desperate and profligate Cause. I came, says he, at the day. Stay here, at least a while, my Lords, this Excuse is scarce tolerable, deep sorrow overwhelms me. Dost thou protract our publick shame and confusion thus fan, thô de∣sperate and as it were buried under-ground long before? Why did we not wait so long? Why did we not hold out our hunger, till the appointed day, forsooth▪ Why did we venture on so gre•••• wickedness, before? Our Publick Case, my Lords, hangs in this Ballance, either he did, what he did, too slow; or we, too soon. This was that, forsooth, that you staid for;* 1.27 and that you might not su∣pererogate in your duty, by returning too soon, you trifl'd out the time on purpose. There was no∣thing of storm in the Case, nor was there any vi∣olence offer'd you by any City, you made a stop for this one reason only, because your day prefix'd was not yet come. How, have we so soon for∣got our Publick Woes then? Are we so bemop'd at our new-come Provisions, as to be able to he•••• such Pleas, as these? Can this one pretence make the guiltiest Man, that we, or our Fore-fa∣thers before us, ever beard of, clearly Innocent? This Confounder and Destroyer of our City, unless we can capitally punish him, let him be quitted Our Defendant is return'd with this in his mouth, I

return'd at the very day, you yourselves gave me. But stay, if you bad been hindred by Tempest and so had came too late, then, I warrant you, you would have laid the Fault upon the stormy Sea, or the cross scanty Winds, and you would have thought, you had made a sufficient Excuse, only by saying, I could not possibly come any sooner. And the truth is, we allow'd for this in our thoughts, and that was the reason we gave you so long a day. 'Tis true, we gave you that day; but be∣cause you made a quicker Market, than we expe∣cted, your Voyage was above our wishes. Your Fleet cou'd arrive soon enough at our Neighbour-City. Can I be sufficiently meens'd against you? Good Fortune we had sent us, and you destroy'd it. You out-staid your time; you exceeded your day, as much as in you lay: We can suffer no worse than we do, but our suffering need not have been so long. Make the best advantage of your favourable Winds, of your happy Current and of your rich liberal City, that sold you as much Corn as was enough for Two Cities, for us your Coun∣try-men. Boast you never so much of your speed, yet compute, I beseech you, from the time that you first touch'd at our Neighbour-Port, with your full-Fraighted Fleet, how slow hast you have made, from thence? But, forsooth, he defends himself by his sincere intention; and he asks, what reason he could have, to plague his own City. The truth is, This I should have ask'd of him. But, my Lords, I cannot insist on every particular; If I had a mind to ask Questions, I cou'd ask many. Your Mer∣chants use, they say, beside their open over-hand price, to agree for something for themselves, under∣hand,

too, especially when they sell for another Man. 'Tis likely at first he intended such gain, as I speak of, but afterwards at leisure it came into his mind, how he should order his Plea and ma∣nage his Excuse. Perhaps he sold the Corn upon the prospect of gain, but he bought more, to make his defence: Perhaps he might curry Favour with the City he relieved, and might have some secret grudges against his own, which (God knows) ma∣ny times will arise from slight Causes. Many things offer themselves, my Lords, but (if you will believe me) none more intolerable than this, that he destroy'd his own City without any Cause in the world. Whatever your Reason, or your Intention was, pray mark what we have suffered, since the time, you might have been with us. I shall not mention the Plague of our scarcity, the meagerness of our bodies, nor our Food grub'd ou•• of the Ground, or peel'd off the boughs of Trees; nor that our Altars were bare of Sacrifices; and that our People laid the High-ways with their Bo∣dies, and that the Beggar knew not where, to ask a Penny. I would not have thee serv'd, as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 were. Oh woful remembrance! O guslt of Con∣science, worse than all Tortures whatsoever! Break ope our Breasts of steel, shake from thence our daring Cruelty, and our Food yet alive and stir∣ring within us. The very Souls do strive in our Paunches, and dead Persons stuff our Bellies, so that they start out again. We have made all impossible old stories Credible, Happiness joyn'd with Misery, Innocence with Villany. All the destructi∣ons whatsoever, that Fame has ever recorded, may fetch encouragement from hence: Here you may

meet with Murther without Blood-shed, and Men buried without a Funeral. Whoever feigned the Stories of the Cyclops, of the Lestrigones, of Sphynx, or of the Yelpings of Sylla's Groyn, heard over all the Coast of Sicily, and whatever I learn'd at home when I was a boy, and now seek for a Parallel, here they may all borrow both Proof and Credit. Some of those Stories are basely false; as that of Thyestes, where the Sun did ne∣ver set at noon, nor made any night, when his Brother Atreus feasted him with Mans Flesh. I am sure, the Sun saw us Feed upon human Bloody Carkasses, and it shone upon us when we unbowell'd Mens Bodies, to eat them. Monstrous impiety was acted in the open Air; and our City, with one bloody mouth, committed inexpi∣able Villany. Now we are punished with some∣thing more, than Famine. Some even of the wild Beasts would not be guilty of such Feeding, and thô dumb Animals want Reason, yet most of them feed on harmless Food, as they have always used. And if any of them chance to fa∣sten their Teeth on us, that they may devour human Flesh, yet they don't tear one another; and there is no Creature so ravenous upon the Face of the Earth, but has some respect, and as it were reverence, for its own Species. But we, Men, to whom Divine Providence hath allotted a gentler Food, Who have the privilege to live in societies, to delight in mutual converse, and to behold the Stars of Heaven with our exte∣rior and interior Eyes, have even done, what was never seen before. We have imprinted the marks of our black-hunger-teeth on dead human

Carkasses, and we draw back our lips between the Famine and the Horrour, as unresolv'd, when we have begun, whether we were best bite or 〈◊〉〈◊〉. We tumble our dead all along to their Funerals; and we run as thick to their Graves, as if we were to see your Ships a coming. One Man per∣haps is breathing out his last gasp, yet he maker a shift to hold out, because he thinks another will go before him; each looks, which shall dye first; and if any one lives the longer by the Fan∣cy of his hope, he struggles with himself, whether he should bite or forbear. Every one do's not stay, till they be dead, the Father ha's a stomach for his Children; and the Mother, being grieved that her time is out, brings forth not a Son but a Dinner; her Infant, being mangled in pieces, returns into her own body again. All men make fast their doors, that none many take away their Dead from them. All our Riches lye in our Carkasses: And, like inauspicious birds, we stand gaping over those, that are giving up the Ghost. Poor wretched People run into Holes and Corners, they fly into solitary desert places; and when they find no hope of life remains, they dye, un∣seen: Sometimes they, that are ready to dye, fly to the Beasts. Gape and cleave asunder, O Earth, and, (if it be lawful to wish it) swal∣low up this Guilty City to the lowest pit of Hell. We pollute the very Air with our infected breath, we are a loathsome spectacle to the Sun and the day, we raise an Odium upon Humanity it self. We despair of any Fruits to feed on now; we deserve not, that the Gods should be favoura∣ble and propitious to us. How shall my wick∣edness

and I be parted? To what remote part of ••he World, to what inhospitable Sea, shall I re∣tire? Verily, upon sight of my Wickedness, the Torches of the Furies do scare my Guilty Soul; and, as oft as I recollect what I have done, I ••eel the lashes of an avengeful mind. The Black Goddesses haunt me; and, which way soever I turn my self, the Ghosts of my devoured Friends ••tare in my Face. I know not what Punish∣ments nestle in my Breast; and that I may not ••scape these Fears, even by my Death, the grie∣vous torments of Hell do seize me before-hand, as Ixions Wheel, and old Tantalus his playsome Tree. What? Can there be any Punishment, even in Hell it self, greater than Famine? Yet this was all his Punishment, who set Mans Flesh on the Table before the Gods. The* 1.28 Stone ho∣vers over us, the Iron-gates open for us, 'tis up∣on our account that Minos his Urn now is set, ••••s our inconsumptible Liver, that's dayly re∣••ew'd, (for Prometheus's Eagle or Vulture,) for ••n Hell itself none but Ravenous Birds feed upon Mans Flesh. The Ghosts of our buried ••indred stare upon us, on the Bank-side. Alas, Alas! Is all this true, or do I only fancy it? I ••ee the Ghosts torn and mangled, and their Bo∣dies wanting, here a Leg and there an Arm. Look ye, what's yonder? The Ghosts of our Country-men rise, not out of their Graves, nor do they issue from any Gulph of the gaping Earth; ••o, they come out of the Crowd. Meddle not with us, get you thither, thrust your Torches in His Face, hit him with your stinging Snakes, and make him give an account, why he staid so long.

Let him tell you, I brought double: Let him plead to you, I came at my time. For my pan•• if I shall see a sufficient Penalty inflicted upon him, I may then render some reasonable account why I liv'd so long.

Apes Pauperis, OR, The Poor Mans BEES.

DECLAMATION XIII.

The Argument.

The Law allows an Action of the Case, (as they call it) for a damage wrongfully su∣stained. The Case. There was a Poor Man and a Rich in the Country, that were near Neighbours, so that their Gar∣dens adjoin'd one to t'other. The Rich Man had Flowers in his Garden, the Poor Man had a Stock of Bees. The Rich Neighbour complain'd, that his

Flowers were nip't and injur'd by the Poor Mans Bees; whereupon he gave him Order to remove them. The Poor Man not being willing so to do, What do's the Rich, but sprinkle over all his Flowers with plain Poyson. So that the Poor Mans Bees were all kill'd. The Poor Man impleads the Rich in an Action of Damage, for doing him so much Wrong.

For the Poor Man against the Rich.

I Believe, my Lords, it will seem a wonder to many, that I, being a mean Man, and but poor, even before I lost what I had, should dare to sue a Rich Man at Law, especially a Neighbour and a known Huff, of try'd bard-heartedness, and one, that, being of so great an Estate, must needs be a dangerous Enemy, even thô he had had no Poyson at all by him. Nor am I my self ignorant of this danger, having found by costly Experience, how much it cost me once, ••hat I did not presently obey his Command. But, ••y Lords, even this Nusance of mine must needs ••e hardly tolerable for a Poor Man, when, we ••ee, the Rich are concern'd at such inconsiderable ••amages. And althô I have now almost nothing ••ft, that I can lose, at least if I shall have no sa∣••••sfaction, yet it will be some comfort to me to ••ndure the Anger, rather than the Contempt of ••y Rich Neighbour. And verily, I have no rea∣••••n to desire to live any longer, if, over and above ••ll the affronts of my low condition, that I have ••ny thing, it must walk for't; and if I lose it, that must say Mum. One thing, I beseech you, my ••ords, that the Cause of my suit may not seem ••low your Dignities to take into consideration. To ••e sure, you can't expect, that a Poor Man should

lose any great mattér, but be it never so little the Rich Man hath taken away, yet the less (I hope,) is behind. And yet, who can think it much, that a Few Bees should be vindicated by Form of Law, when a Few Flowers shall be vindicated, ever with no less than Poyson? Yet, my Lords, thô 〈◊〉〈◊〉 am utterly undone, and debarr'd from all hop•• of sustaining my self in my Low condition, I should have took it more contentedly, if, for any Fault o•• mine he had conceiv'd Anger against me, his An∣ger had been just, thô his Punishment had bee•• unjust. But for all I can see, thô I have consider∣ed all things, the Rich Man can object nothing a∣gainst me, but only that I was his Neighbour.

My Lords, I have a small piece of Ground which was left me by my Father, 'tis but a p••••∣scantling, neither planted like a Vineyard, nor fru••••∣ful like a Corn-Field: It has no rich Meadow, on∣ly a little dry Glebe, and a bank or two of lo•• humble Thyme, and a small poor Cottage in th•• Enclosure. Yet, I must needs say, I lik'd it th•• better, if 'twere but for this, that 'twas nor wor∣thy of the Rich Mans Covetize. In this little cl•••• Hermitage, as it were, for a Man to live in, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 more from the bustle of the City, I resolv'd to pa•••• my contemptible days, for from any Ambition an•• the desire of a greater Fortune; and so, quie•••• to steal away the time, whil••t my Age pass'd th•• all the Troubles that, by Natures Law, fall to o•• share. This little spot of Ground and low Coun•••• Cottage, a Contented mind made a Kingdom to me and I had Richs enough, that I desir'd no mor•••• But to what purpose? Thô I thus sneak'd in pr••∣vate, yet, it seems Envy has found me out. Yet

〈◊〉〈◊〉 first, my Lords, no Neighbour was I to the Rich Man, but Men of equal condition with my self ••v'd round about me; and there were many lit∣••••e Farms, which our Friendly Neighbour-hood did ••anage, every Man his own Tenement. But now, that was a Common before to maintain all of us, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 come to be the Peculiar Garden of one Rich Neighbour. After the Rich Mans Ground had en∣••rg'd itself, and over-run all Ours by pulling down ••ur Mounds and Hedges; it came to this, that ••••r Tenements were laid flat and level with the ••round, the Rooms, wherein we offer'd Sacrifices 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our Lares, were destroy'd, and the old Tenants ••ere sent away packing, with their Wives and ••hildren, to seek their Fortunes, yet giving, Poor ••earts, many a heavy look, backward: And thus ••e large Common, spoken of before, became the ••divided and single Property of the Rich Man, then his Ground reached so far, as to my Poor ••ees. As for my self, my Lords, while I was ••••ong enough to do hard work, I delv'd the Ground ••ith Spade in hand, and I master'd the difficulty by ••ligent labour, and I even wrung out something 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Fruitfulness from the Ground, thô it were stub∣••rn and as it were unwilling to yeeld it. Time ••es swift away, my Lords, and Age makes me ••op; my strength, which was my Estaté, is ••n; and my Old Age, spent by Labour, being a ••eat part of Death, hath already seiz'd me, and ••th left me nothing, but my diligence. When I ••••nsidered with my self, what kind of employment ••as fittest for my weak Old Age, I had some ••oughts to turn Herdsman, and to maintain my ••or Body by looking to Flocks of Cattle; but

the Rich Mans Ground lay all so close and thick a∣bout me, that I had scarce a small Path for egress and regress. Then said I to my self, what can I do? I am clos'd in, on every side, with the Fortress of a great Estate. On this side ly the Rich Mans Gardens; his Meadows, on that; here are his Vine∣yards; there, his Parks; and there is no Foot-way to stir out. I will go get me some little Crea∣ture, that can fly over all. And what Creature, I pray, has Nature found out, better than a Bee? Bees are frugal, sure, laborious: Oh Poor pretty Animals, like to us, Poor Men? And indeed the convenience of my Garden gave me an opportuni∣ty to keep 'm. For 'tis scituate to the Rising of the Winter-Sun, open and pervious to the Air, and secur'd from all Winds. There's a small Drill pas∣ses by it, arising from a Fountain hard by, with a green Bank on both sides, where the clear water makes a little murmuring, and the white bright Pebbles shine thrô it. Here I had some Flowers growing among the Quicksets, and a Green Bru∣shet, thô but of a Few Trees, which was the First place where I set my Hive; and from whence I have oft taken many a good Swarm, that did e'ne over-lade the Bough it pitch'd upon. No•• was I so much pleas'd, that I gather'd Honey from the Combs, that so I might maintain my self in my poverty by carrying something into the City to sell, for the Rich to eat; as that I had something to do in my Old Age, the better to pass away the wearisomness and Taedium thereof. It was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Pleasure to me, to wreath the tender Twigs to make Hives for the Spring-swarms, and to close the ga∣ping chinks with sticking Clay, lest the Summer

Sun or Winter-cold might; might pierce the Laden Hive; or to set some Honey for my weak and wearied Bees; or when the Swarms were up, to make a Tinckling din with Brass, that they might not fly away; or to appease their Fighting by throwing up of dust: And then, lest any danger should happen, at least to particular Bees, I scar'd away the Birds of Prey, and kept off many small in∣considerable Creatures; sometimes I search'd into the inmost Cells of the Hive, lest the Spider, that filthy Nusance, should spin her Treacherous Web in the void places thereof. Being old, I had a just dismission from Labour, for I had those poor Crea∣tures, that would labour for me.

But wicked Spight, whither wilt thou not ••each? Or what is secure from scurvy base Envy? A Rich Man, forsooth, envies a Poor Man. Once upon a time he call'd me out on a sudden, and I ••rembled all over, with all his High-flown Ruff he ••ssaulted me, How now, says he, what, can't you ••eep in your Bees? Can't you make 'm fly within ••our own bounds? Let 'm not light upon my Flow∣••rs? Let 'm not gather Ambrosia, out of any thing ••f mine? Sirrah, remove 'm, carry 'm away, I ••harge thee, to some other place. Thou proud Ty∣••annical Huff, whither can I carry 'm? What, am 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Master of so much Ground, that my Bees can't ••y cross? Yet I confess, I was not so stout-spiri∣••d, but that I was much disturbed at the threats ••f his haughty Arrogance. I was thinking to leave ••y Fathers House, and the Walls within which I ••as born, and the very Cottage where I was nurs'd; ••nd, being destin'd to Banishment, I had re∣••lv'd to remove my poor Chimney, my smoaky

House, and my little Nursery of Plants, that I h•• set with my own hand••. To deal plainly w•• you, my Lords, I was willing, I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 vow, I was ••∣ling to be gon, but I could find no piece of Gro••d, where some Rich Man or other would not have been my Neighbour Nor had I any great time allowed me, to look out! It fortun'd, there was a pure Sun-shine day, and the pleasant Gleaming of the Morning-Sun invited forth my stock of Bees, thicker and cheerfuller than Ordinary to their day∣ly Task. I my self also went forth to view their Work; (for it was always my chief delight, to behold them) I hop'd to see, how some did equi∣poyse their Wings in carrying th••ir Burthens; and others, laying down their Ladings, went abroad to seek new Provant; and thô the Passage was nar∣row, and they were in all hast, yet the Party, that went out, did not hinder those that came in; some of them drove away the lazy company of Drones from their Quarters; others, after a large flight, were weary and lay panting to fetch breath, and another would display his wings all abroad to the warm Sun. Ah Poor Man, now pardon me, if I groan a little! 'Tis more than Flowers I have lost, and more than fading Leaves, apt to fall with the next Wind. I have lost my Bees, who, when they flew abroad, were all the Refuge I had in my mean condition, and the only comfort of my Old Age. I never reckon'd my self Poor, till now. For what could I expect, but to be entertaine•• with the sad silence of the Poor Bees, in an empt•• Hive; with the Combs, but begun, and yet ••••∣wrought? Consider, my Lords, how far this Gri•••• of mine works with you; but certainly, I wou'd

ha' drunk Poyson with all my heart, if I could ••ave found it. This great loss of mine was oc∣••asion'd, not by the piercing cold of the Frosty winter, nor were the Poor Creatures starv'd by any great Drought, that parch't up the Flowers; nor did the Covetousness of the Owner, who, when he gather'd the Honey, left no Reserve behind him, de∣stroy them; neither was it any universal Murrain, that swept them away; nor any dislike of their Old Hives, that made them seek their Quarters in the silent Woods and pathless Groves. Poor Creature, I lost my Bees, whilst they were in their very Work. The wretched Man took special care to prepare so much Poyson, as would ha' destroy'd even a Rich Mans Gardens; he smear'd his Flow∣ers with such deadly juices, that he turn'd Honey itself into Poyson; he spread a Plaguy Recipe over 'm all; and by this means, did he not spoil more, than my Bees cou'd ever have done? They, poor Creatures, rising betimes, out of the desire of their dayly Task, asloon as ever the day peep'd, took their Flight abroad to their accustomed Haunts, that so they might gather the Matutine Dew, before the Sun had suckt up the dankness of the Night; and might carry their Aqua Caelestis to their Chest of Bottles, as sipping, not for themselves, but for their Works sake. But here now was a sad Spectacle, to be pityed by all, even almost by him that did the mischief. One of my Bees, at the very first sip of this balesome juyce, being astonish'd at the strange Tast, flies away; but alas! She could fly no whither, to save her life. Another, going abroad to seek for better repast, mounts aloft and there expires. Another dyes, alsoon as ever she had

but touch'd the very tip of the Flower: Here, ones Feet were stiff after Death, so that she hung, a•• she clung; There, another, being wearied with endeavouring to fly, and not having strength so to do, yet creeps faintly along the Ground. But if a slow death suffered any of them to come home to their Hives, they hung at the Port-hole, as the Fainter Bees use to do; and so being knit toge∣ther in Clusters and mutually embracing one ano∣ther, Death alone parted them. Who can imagi•• in his Fancy, much less express in Words, what se∣veral Forms and various shapes of Deaths, so many Destructions did represent? To end my sad story in one word, I must say, I lost them all. That Famous Hive of mine, known further than its Poor Master, is come to nothing.

Now go ye, and dare to provoke your Rich Neighbour, if ye have a mind to live any longer. Speak boldly and freely to him, if he offend you, and that which is the worst of all, if he hath already tamper'd with Poyson! But if Fortune had given me either strength of Wit, or Means enough, this Crime would deserve more than a Private Suit at Law. The Law forbids any Man, either to have in his Custody, or to buy, so much a•• to know the Power of Poyson; it is an inevitable Pest, that kills slowly and slily. Innocency seldom abides with that Man, who hath in his Power a secret wicked way of revenge, such as Poyson, especially if it be such, as is strong enough to dispatch a Man instantly, when it is found out, pre∣pared, and administred. What great matter is it, who drinks it? 'Twas a Man that gave it, and to a Man he might have given it. Causes o••

mutual hatred are not so much to seek now a days, that Fewds should be rare and seldom seen; yea many a Man, thô he seem to hate the Bad only, will venture to go a little further, and follow on his spightful Humour. Believe it, my Lords, 'tis a harder thing to seek out Poyson, than to find an Enemy. But being Conscious to my self of my mean condition, I'le confine my Complaints within my own Bounds. And indeed, my Lords, my own loss is big enough for me; I, Poor Man, have receiv∣ed a Blow, which, I fear, I shall lament longer be∣fore you, than seek to prove. For what need is there to spend ones pains in convincing a Man of a Crime, who confesses it himself? Rich Men affront us, that are poor, amongst other things, even with this too, that we are not so considerable in their Eye, that, for our sakes, they should be put to deny any thing. Besides, he, that justifies one that has confessed, doth not so much seek Absolution from his Fault, as liberty to commit it again. This Controversie reaches further, than I dreamt of: Our Suit is not only for what is past, but the Questi∣on is also, whether the Rich Man may not kill them too, if ever I get any more Bees. As far as I can observe, my Lords, he divides his Plea into Two Quaeries, Whether it be a real damage done? and if it be, Whether injuriously done?

For the first, he denies it to be any damage at all, because he destroyed a Creature that was wild, winged and roving, under no Mans property or command: He denies also, that it was injuriously done, because he kill'd them upon his own Ground, and because they had done him a great deal of spoil too; and last of all, that he only sprinkled a

little Poyson on a few Flowers, and the Bees can•••• of their own accord, and at their own peril. My Lords, if I had nothing to reply to all this, yet was such dealing fair betwixt Neighbours? But I'le examin particulars, and first I'le Answer his Ar∣guments, before I'le produce my own. The Questi∣on is laid so, as if it were no damage to lose th••••, which it is an Advantage to keep? Grant it be a wild Lawless Creature; I need not say, that I took the young Swarms with my own hands, and laid 'm up in a safe Hive; it was an home-bred Swarm, and I reserv'd the Combs to keep up the stock; and, because you defend the Rights of Tyranni∣cal Great Ones, I tell you, it was bred in my own Ground: Suppose I had found them in the Trunck of some hollow Tree, or in the Hole of some Rock, and so had brought 'm home; yet I would have you to know, that many things, that were at first Free, do yet pass into the Propriety of the First Occupant, as we see in Hunting, and Finding out, or Inhabiting, void Places and Countries. For grant, that Providence hath made other Creatures for Mans use, yet that which is provided for all is the reward of your diligence. For what hath not Nature made free at first? I will not instants in Slaves, whom the Injustice of War hath made a Prey to the Conquerour, thô they were born un∣der the same Laws, the same Fortune, and the same necessities with other Men. They breath in the same Common Air with others; 'tis not Na∣ture, but the Fortune of the War, has set a Master over them. Why, I pray, do you put bit and bri∣dle in your Horses Mouthes, to ride upon? Why do Men continually wear Oxens Necks bare with

an unjust Yoke? Why do we shear the Sheeps back, to cloath our own? To say nothing of the But∣chers Knife, and of Food prepar'd for us in a san∣guinary way: If all, that came free into the World, be given back to Nature, then you Rich Men will be no Richer than others: But if this be the Con∣dition, that whichsoever of these Animals is fallen to a Mans share, be the property of the present Occupant, then certainly that which is Lawfully possessed, is Unjustly taken away; I might instance in tame Birds, and others, which are fatned in Rich Mens Coops in their Country Farms; wherein their Owners have yet but an ambiguous Right; the same may be said of Cows, Herds and all kind of Cattle. But you'l say, They have One set over them to keep 'm. I reply, hath the Owner less right to those, that have no need of your Keeper? For if you say further, that nothing can be Ours, that may be taken away or destroyed, then we can Commence no suit for the loss of any Animal what∣ever. For even our Sheep use to stray; and our Slaves, to run away from us. If this be allow'd in other Creatures, why may not Bees rove a∣bout, and go abroad to their Work, not refusing a constant expedition every day to encrease our Pro∣fit by their Labour. Do they not all come home, of their own accord, at Night? Do they not end their Work, when the Sun sets? Do's not the whole Company of 'm retire to their wonted Cells, and there pass the Night in civil silence? But sup∣pose, they have no certain Owner, while they are abroad: yet, I hope, they may be called Ours, when they come home, when they may be shut up, and removed from place to place, when

they may be presented to a Friend, or sold to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Customer. Then, How can that be destroy'd with∣out damage to me, that is mine, one part or oth•••• of every day? But you'l say further, A Bee is u••∣der no Command. Is that any great Wonder, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 beseech you, if, being denyed human converse, the•• are in the same Predicament with other Animals 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Yet I can say this for them, they dwell in the Hive, that their Master allots 'm; and when a toy take 'm in the head to fly away, we fetch 'm back by Tinckling. Yea, and if a sedition be started amon•• them, upon the account of several Kings, and they are presently all in a heat and must fight it out▪ yet with throwing up a little dust among 'm, o•• with the death of one of their Leaders, all the hurly-burly is quashed. As for their sedulity an•• diligence, that is very admirable, they work from Morning to Night, and the Honey, that's taken a∣way for their Masters use, they make up again▪ Now, I pray, if they were Intelligent Creatures, whom could you lay any further Command up∣on? These are but slight Replies, and I find, I have answer'd them already, more than I need. If the Bees be not mine, then their Product is not mine, neither; but I never yet knew any Man so impudent, as to call in Question the Propriety of Ho∣ney. Can this possibly be, that the Effect should be mine, and the Efficient, another Mans? What if a Man steal away my Hives, may I not have a just Action against him? What, shall I only sue him for a Twig or too, and a little watled stuff; and must I lay my Action, as if my Hives were empty? By your good leave, I hope, I may value my Bees too. Well then, if a Man can't law∣fully

steal 'm, may he yet lawfully kill 'm? Call ••ou that no damage to me, by which I am un∣••one? By which, I lose all my Income? And by ••hich, I am depriv'd of my yearly Revenue, that ••eliev'd me in my poor Condition? Is it not a ••amage to lose that, which (to touch upon my ••ext Argument) I cannot have again, unless I buy? ••nd, pray, what need had you of Poysonous ••rinkling? If you had a mind to it, might you ••ot have destroy'd 'm openly, might you not have ••urnt their Hives in the Fire, or drown'd 'm in ••he Water? Is there any Creature, but may be ••estroyed without Poyson?

But, says he, suppose it were a damage, yet I ••id it Lawfully, upon my own Ground. I beseech ••ou, My Lords, help at this dead lift. One Poor Country Client is not able to manage this Plea; here needs a publick Authority, and many Hands ••o lift up against this growing Abuse? Believe it, ••he Case is of greater moment, than my Poor Suit. You are to determin this day, in what place or whereabouts a Man may do nothing illegal. For why may he not alledge the same, in case of Ho∣micide? Or, of Robbery on the High-way? The Right is the same in Law, thô the Modality makes 〈◊〉〈◊〉 difference: A Broad-way would be opened to kil∣••••ng and slaying; and Wickedness, that hath hither∣••o been long pent up as it were by the Bars of ••he Law, would break out in a Thorough-fare, if ••he Law shall not take hold of a Man, when he ••s on his own ground: If in an open and mani∣••est Trespass, we don't enquire of the Fact so much ••s of the Place, the Land is not equally divided ••etwixt us and the Lawless: For the Propriety

of a Rich Man now a-days, where is it not? 'T•••• a small matter for them to lay flat their Neig••¦bours Bounds, and to distinguish their Possessions, a•• if they were so many Countries, by the Boundar•••••• of Mountains and Rivers: For they have alrea•••• took into their hands pathless Groves, immen•••• and lonesome Forests; many Rivers run thrô a fe•••• Mens Thickets; the Lords of Mannors thrust o•••• the Commonalty from their Borders; nor is the•••• any End of one Rich Mans Progress, till he lig•••• upon another, to stop him. Before time, th•• robbing of Passengers and the stealing of Ca•••••• he defended under this Plea, now we plead th•• same Title for Poyson. Once and again, my Lord I beseech you, consider, and ponder it well; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 seems, a Man may do nothing against Law an•• where at all; or, he may do every thing against 〈◊〉〈◊〉 within his own bounds.

But such a Man may take a just course wi•••• him, that does him wrong, says he. Let me t•••••• you, how unequal the compensation of the loss wa•• and how contrary not only to Law but to the Pu••¦lick Peace. That's the trick of barbarous Peop•••• whose nature differs little from the Brute, and wh•• are made wild and estranged from all civil Rig•••• and Society. But we, Men, have therefore r••¦ceived Magistracy and Law from our Ancestor•• that no Man might avenge his own Grievanc•••• And the ordinary Pleas for Wickedness will c••••¦fute themselves, if righting my self alters th•• Crime. Have you received any damage? Th•• Law was open, the Court and the Judge sits; u••¦less perhaps you think it below you, to vindic•••••• yourself by Law. Now, I protest, we are 〈◊〉〈◊〉

sent out to Club-law, and here's a dangerous E∣••••lation of Wrong-doing started, wherein Wrath ••••kes place instead of Law. The Weakest then ••ust needs go to the Wall, and the Commonalty ••ust endure a hard bondage under a new Oligar∣••••y Yet we, Poor Men, I hope, may have Liberty 〈◊〉〈◊〉 grieve, and thô we may be damag'd with more ••••e, yet to injure you, extends further. Lastly, ••••o you, rich Man, please your self never so much ••••th the confidence of your Wealth, if it be fitting 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me but to Live, then our Case is alike. What ••••en. If my Bees had done you any wrong, my ••••ght and Title to defend my self, would not be ••eated thereby, thô perhaps you might have a ••eater right to implead me. And now, what is ••ur grievance, say ye? Surely I have laid wast ••ur Grounds, and spoil'd your Rental: For, I ••••pe, 'tis no Flea-bit, as they say, that makes so ••••b a Man as you, to cry out. Nay but, they ••••'d my Flowers, says he. I hope, you may ••••derstand by this, my Lords, how great a grie∣••••••ce my loss is, if to lose a few Flowers can be ••••nted such a damage: It may be a little prejudice, ••••nfess, for otherwise you would have laid 'm 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and kept 'm dry for all the year, and they ••••u'd have lasted still, if my Bees had not come ••o your Garden. Pray, what is more fading and ••••ter-liv'd than a Flower? For while 'tis hide∣••••nd, as I may call it, in the Bud, you can't yet 〈◊〉〈◊〉, 'tis a Flower: Then, when it begins to bur∣•••• and swell with a brisker sap, and to shew its ••••tish Divisions, 'tis no Flower still. But when 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Pods are broken, and the Heads blow and spread ••••••mselves round, as it were in circular Clefts, so

that now their maturity is conspicuous, yet no Ma•• knows, how soon they'l fade; even without 〈◊〉〈◊〉 blast of Wind their Grace decays; nor can an•• thing be called a Flower, bur whilst it is New an•• Fresh: Wherefore if I should say, they took a∣way what would shortly have perished and lai•• flat on the Ground, and converted it to the u•••• of the Man, that own'd them; yet 'tis a spight ne∣ver heard of before, to grudge a few Bees lighti•••• upon them. Give me leave here to discourse 〈◊〉〈◊〉 little, what great damage this Poor Pilfering Cre••∣ture can do you? We don't consider, with wha•• swiftness, for the most part, she flies hither an•• thither, scarce so much as touching the Flower; sh•• runs over 'm all, and finds presently what's prop•••••• for her. And where she pitches, we don't con••••∣der, how she hangs, as it were by Geometry, b•• her Wings, and do's but sip and away. Whoeve•• found the miss of what a Poor Bee carryed away But how little or nothing is it, that they borr•••• from Garden-flowers, set by hand? 'Tis the Me••∣dows, the Woods, the ripe well-laden Vines, an•• the Hillocks fragrant with Thyme, (as far as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Man may conjecture) that afford them their L••∣ding. Neither do they gather what's fitting f•••• their work, out of all Flowers, thô they seek f•••• it indeed in every one. Nay they make this r••∣quital presently and out of hand, that on all th•• Flowers where they light, they leave the Flav•••• of Honey behind them, so that every Flo•••••• smells of the Bee. Now do you call this a d••∣mage? Do you avenge this with Poyson? Let 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tell you, it would have been an uncivil thing, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you should ha' kept them off, but with a smoth••••

For was not I the only respectful Neighbour, you had? Did not I send you the First Fruits of my Honey duly every Spring? If I lighted upon a Fresh Comb, whiter than Ordinary, was it not kept as a Present for your Table? And was not ••his Complement always added to my Poor Gift, Sir, my Bees present their humble Service to you? And now, I think, you have requited me to pur∣••ose for my labour.

But, says he, I told you of it, and charg'd you to remove them; so that I was stubborn, and ••herefore deservedly suffer, in your opinion. Yet 〈◊〉〈◊〉 do not see what that charging of yours can con∣••ribute to your defence; it was more than needs, ••f you might lawfully do what I am agrieved at, without it; and it was unjust, if you might not ••awfully do it; if it were just, right or wrong, yet ••et it not hold. What cover is this for your shame, ••o be ill-reported off, that you defend your wrong∣doing by your Greatness. What! shall you have ••o many Cattle, that your Stall, thô never so ••arge, shall not be able to hold them? Shall the whole Forest Eccho again with the bellowing of ••our Herds? Shall you Plow your Land with whole droves of Oxen? Shall such a numerous Com∣pany of Labourers go forth to dress your Grounds, ••hat your own Bayliffs can hardly distinguish ••hem? Must the Provision of all the Country de∣••end on your Barns? And yet we must envy ••one of all this, nor must any body think that ••he Greatness of your Estate is burthensom to him: ••nd shall we, Poor Men, be grudg'd at, if we have ••ut a few Bees, standing in a small narrow Or∣••hard; yea thô they make Honey for the Rich, as

well as us; must this, I say, be taken amiss? An•• that which was never heard of before, must 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Neighbour Poor Man be an Eye-sore to a Rich? S•• little are you contented to have Great Fortunes, your∣selves, that even your Slaves have something th•••• they are Masters of, yet we must be grudg'd at, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we have any thing, thô never so little, that do•••••• but exceed the very Name of Poverty? What, d•••• we live under such strange Laws, in this (as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hop'd) most equal Government, that 'tis Lawf•••• for you to deal in Poyson, and 'tis not Lawful 〈◊〉〈◊〉 us to have a Remedy?

Last of all, my Lords, I did not think to answ•••• the Rich Mans defence, but that I could not ••••∣dure, your Authority should be vilifi'd by such Contumelious Plea. Your Bees, says he, came 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their Death of their own accord: 'Tis so indeed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 otherwise,* 1.29 you had given Poyson to your o•••• Flowers, and to nothing else. My Lords, shall 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ascribe it to his Impudence only, Good Man, if 〈◊〉〈◊〉 carry this point against me before the Bench; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to his Sottishness, if he hop'd so to do? If he h•••••• offer'd Poyson to a Man, he might aswell ha' p••••∣tended, that the Man himself had put the Cup•••••• his own Lip. If he had set a Ruffian in A•••••••• to assassinate a Man, he might say, he came ••••∣luntarily into the snare. If he had thrown 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Weapon in the dark, he might alledge 'twas no•••• of his Fault. What shall I say, my Lords, in e••••∣ry Crime there are Two Main things, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to be considered, the Intention of the Party, a•••• the Issue. What was the Rich Mans Intention, wh•••• he laid the Poyson? Even, that he might des•••••• my Bees. And; what was the Issue? They w••••••

destroy'd accordingly. The summ is, my Lords, ••ho can doubt but that my loss is to be imputed to ••im, without whom it had not hap'ned? So that, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 suppose, your Wisedoms need no more Pleas in ••his Cause; nor doth your Justice and Piety ex∣••ect any Exhortation to give a True Judgment. Why then do I not break off? I'll tell you, my ••rief hinders me, and the dear miss of my wont∣••d delight. There are some things in this Case, ••hat no verdict can make me satisfaction for. Per∣••aps, my affection may exceed the Motive. Alas, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we, Poor Men, must love nothing but Poor Crea∣••••res, and those must needs be precious to us, when ••e have nothing else; then certainly, so many Pretty ••ives, that had so far oblig'd me, which were ••ut off in one moment, must needs affect me. Yea ••he very manner of their Death raises my Indig∣••ation? They were destroy'd by Poyson. What re∣••ection in this Case, can be invidious enough? What! Sweet pretty Bees destroy'd by Poyson! Is ••his the requital we make them, for their watch∣••ul Industry to do us good? And for that, they ••eave not their dayly Station and diligent Labour; ••o not when we rob them of what they have got. ••nd indeed, Nature seems to have made other ••reatures for our use, but these are made for our ••elicacy too: Those Creatures, that are us'd for ••he Plough or for Riding, we spend much pains ••bout 'm, before they bring us in any Profit; for ••hô they are to be broken and to be kept by us, ••et at last they can do nothing, without us; and what they do, they do by Force. But Bees work ••heir Combs without our bidding: Their whole ••rofit comes freely in, without any aid or assistance

of human Art. Add to this, that other Animals do either spoil our Corn, or prejudice our Vines; whence, they say, the first Cause Beasts were Sacrificed, was, because they marr'd the Fruits of the Earth. But as for Bees, their Labour, all o∣ver our Fields and Meadows, is so innocent and harmless, that nothing appears, but their work don. How can I sufficiently praise them, answerable to their Merit? Shall I say, 'tis a Creature that's as 'twere a little Picture of Man? Alas, all our w•••• could never have found out this: Yea, all our Projecting, that seeks for O••r in the Mines, and traverses the Sea, as far as the Constellations reach, could not effect or obtain this, nor do any thing like it. We, Men, are better at finding Poyson.

First, their Original is suitable to their future laudable Life; they are not begotten by lust, nor by that inward Itch that subdues all other Crea∣tures. And as Men, to excuse themselves, have delivered in their Fables, so the Off-spring and lineage of the Gods have admitted these also un∣der their Dominion. Sensual Pleasure, an Enemy of virtue, they know not what it means, their Bodies being chast and without any blemish. For they, and none but they of all Creatures, do not bring forth their Young, but create them. They, as they lye close in the Cavities of their Combs, do by degrees quicken; and as it becomes a La∣borious Creature, they spring from their own Workmanship. Then assoon as the Young Fry grow•• up, and is old and strong enough to undergo the like pains, they leave the place free to their Old ones. And, lest the Company, huddled together, should be encombred by this new accession, out of

pure modesty as it were, the Younger Tribe gives way; and dangling upon some Neighbouring bough, lies ready, waiting for Mans hand to hive 'm. And when they are hived, there they abide very honestly. And when, our wits, forsooth, (thô, as ambitious over-we••ners of our selves, we think 'm next to divine) must sweat and toyle to attain Arts and Sciences; yet every Bee is born, A Ma∣ster of Art. What can you think else, but that ••art of a divine understanding is in their minds? What shall I mention first? They do not, as o∣••her Creatures, wander up and down for Food, and know not where they shall Couch and lye, but ••ake their Quarters hap hazard, as Night comes on; No, Bees have a sure and certain Lodging. They imitate Cities by their Hives, and People by ••heir Company. They do not as the wilder Birds, who mind only their present Food, and dayly do gather what they eat: Nay, these lay up victuals ••o last all Winter, and at Spring they fill their Combs top-full, that they may be sure to have e∣••ough all the year round. Yea, when part of their ••ork is taken away for our use, they strive to ••epair what was lost, their labour is more eagerly ••nflamed by their loss, and they never give over ••s long as they have any room for more. Besides, ••hô they are Creatures, not united together by ••ommerce of words, nor firmly link'd by bonds of ••olity, yet how mighty a consent is there in their ••ork? And how wonderful an Agreement in la∣••ouring about so hard a thing? None of them does ••atch what he can to make a gain to himself, ac∣••ording to the vicious custom of us, Men; but ••hey live on a Common stock, all their store is

hoarded up in a publick Treasury, and not a B•••• must so much as sip or tast, before their stor•• house be so full, that it promises 'm all security so the Future. Besides, how great is their zeal a•• their work? How wonderful their assignation o•• Offices? Are not some appointed to gather thei•• Loads, others to receive it, others to work it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 How strict and severe are they in chastising thei•• Drones? There are many things in 'm wonderf•••• to see and hear of. They have fore-sight of a stor•• they will not trust themselves abroad in uncert•••••• weather; and if it be a Cloudy Sky, they vent•••••• not beyond the next hedge. Now if a se••r•••• Blast hurry away the poor light Creatures, th•• poize their wings with a small Peble, that th•••• may be carry'd steady to their designed place. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for the stouter and lustier Bees, they march out 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Troops for their King, they charge the Enemy, a•••• dye an Honourable Death in the Field for th•• Leader: Moreover, if any of 'm dye of Age 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Malady, the first thing they do, is, to carry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Body, and, till the Funeral Rights be perfor•• they will not stir to their work. How shall understand this, when they bind Flowers to th•• little Hips? And when they bear in their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Essences for their common Maintenance? But I m•••• of all admire the work it self. You must 〈◊〉〈◊〉 think, that they shape their Cells, for the F•••• they are immediatly to lay up, blind-fold as it w•••• and at hap hazard; no, first they make pl•••• wax, then they add an unspeakable Grace there••••∣to. For first, they hang the Ground-work by f•••••• Ligaments; then from the beginning they carry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the work equally on every side; nor is any thi••••

that's but begun; defective, but every thing as ••ompleat in its kind, as could be desir'd; They set a double Frontire upon their Combs: And when ••hey have lest so much room in each Cavity, which ••hey hope will be large enough to beget new ••warms, (for the Angles are so coherent, and so mutually united one to the other, that you may ••all the middle, which you please) then, lest ••he weighty Honey should all run out, the burden ••hereof is intercepted and shut up in these Cells. Who is not amaz'd, that such things as these ••hould be don without a hand? That such Art ••hould be shewn without any Teaching? What have they, that's not divine, but that they are Mortal? Do we Worship Bacchus as the Author of Wine? Is Ceres accounted the Goddess of Corn? ••s Minerva thought the Juventress of the Olive? And is it a jot less, to make Honey; and by ad∣ding over and above the pleasure of Tast, to do ••hat, which even Nature, of herself, could never ••ave don? Honey is good, when many Diseases do ••ssault us, yea it is a present Remedy against them: As for its usefulness in dyet, let the Rich look to ••hat. And could any Man find in his Heart to way-lay such Creatures, yea to way-lay 'm on ••urpose, because they made Honey? Could he destroy such pretty things by a fraudulent studied Death, with his damn'd Poysonous Liquors? And ••o make it much more intolerable, that he might more easily deceive 'm, did he not perhaps mix Honey with his Poyson? What cruelty could be more unnatural? What spight more monstrous? For now, you, Rich Grub, can't make use of

your old Plea, you can't pretend Grief for the loss of few Flowers; for when you resolv'd to destroy my Bees, you spoil'd your own Flowers into the bargain.

Odii Potio, OR, An Hate-procuring Potion.

DECLAMATION XIV.

The Argument.

••here was a Courtezan that gave an Hate-Potion to one of her Servants, that was but a Poor Man; so that the Youth was in Love with her no longer. Whereupon he Accuses her of down-right Witch-Craft.

For the Young Man against his Miss.

I Am sensible, my Lords, of this new Additio∣nal to my misery, that in your opinion, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 may not seem to hate this Courtezan, not yet: Nor am I ignorant, that much of the Envy of this wicked Potion is taken off, while you think me pityable, only upon the account of my former Fits of Love. Yet, I beseech you, let your Wisedoms take a survey of the whole Proof of the Mischief complain'd of, even from this, that you do not believe any such Grief, as I pro∣tend, and therefore hearken not to my Complaint: For neither do I Love her, if I can endure to ac∣cuse her; nor do I hate her, whom I had rather Love. What else can it be that I drank, but Poy∣son? Thô therefore this most wicked Woman derides me, when I accuse her, and, after the Con∣fession her most apparent Wickedness, hopes to scape by making sport at my Calamity: Yet, 'tis not this doth so much vex and torment me at this time, that I have abandoned the Love of this Naughty Woman; as that I abide the Pain of my Remedy. I implore your Justice, even your strict Justice, that it may not advantage this Harlos, that I seem rid and delivered from her, by her prevaricating pretences. Perhaps it might have been my Concern, that, I should break off so fool∣ish

a Love; but this, I am sure, was a device against me, that I should hate her, whether I wou'd or no: This then is the first thing, my Lords, that I request of the Clemency of the Court, that, because you see me so sadly habited, my Looks ruful, my Words rugged, and that I am so Fierce in my Suit; you would not therefore think, my Nature is suitable. This is the Fruit of that goodly Cure, forsooth, she has wrought up∣on me: Thus you see, what ha's alien'd my mind and disturb'd my Body Night and Day; I, that was lately so brisk, and (if you believe it) so cool a Lover, am now all in a Chafe. Pity me so far, my Lords, that this Hag of a Woman may not so impose upon you, as if she had devis'd this Trick for love of me; whereas she satisfyed her own mind therein, and complyed only with her own coy disdain. For no Body wou'd give an Hate-Potion against himself, to one that he did not hate before. I pray and beseech you therefore, most upright Men, that you wou'd take a full estimate of my Calamity. I have unhappily lost, in an instant, that good Name, that in time I might have ceas'd to Love, of my self: I am now made to abandon that perforce, which shortly I might have done voluntarily. There's a new device a∣gainst my mind and sober reason, that it seems not imputeable to my affection, that she was left. I am now a second time caught in the Harlots lock, she again makes my thoughts to turn, and me to cast a Sheeps-Eye towards her: And a Man, who would have desisted from so inconvenient an Amour, either by the Glut thereof, or by his Age, or by the Meaness of his Fortune, she hath bound up to

a perpetual restlessness, by bending the Twig 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much to the contrary side. No Disease so incur••∣ble as this, to hate perforce.

But, O my Heart, hasten, hasten, I say, to th•• wailing of my Grief, that sits so hard upon me but this late indignity hath taken thee off fro•• the sense of thy former Miseries. My Groans an•• my Complaints are to be fetch'd deeper. When 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was my Mistresses fault, that I now hate, where was in Love before; Who, think you, inveigh me to fall in Love with her first, being so p•••• a Man, as I am? For my part, my Lords, I w•••••• never one of those, to whom Fortune gave a gr•••••• Estate, and abundance of Wealth; so that, by rea∣son of their Opulency, they might take their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of wanton Love. Yet I had enough to keep Li•••• and Soul together; I had a Modicum, enough 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have afforded me Lawful Pleasure in my mean Co••∣dition: And therefore I was always content wi•••• One and the Same Miss, which is a certain sig•••• of good Husbandry, even in a Mans Pleasure. B•••• this serious and demure Dame,* 1.30 forsooth, who mu•••• will have no more of my Love, Oh, how much of it did she call for, when time was! With what Art, with what Craft did she first set upon my simplicity, and when she had catcht me, she held me fast, till I, like a credulous Cully, thô it were long first, threw all my little Fortune into he•• Lap? And now, 'tis to no purpose, that she de∣sires to seem to pity that Condition, which she hersel•• hath brought me to: Hear, I pray, in a few words, the Wickedness of this Pernicious Woman? She makes me poor, and then she can't abide me. Whether or no, my Lords, she lik'd to try an Ex∣periment,

which common Strumpets craftily devise 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Debauch and Tyrannize over the minds of Men, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 she wou'd try on me, how much one can Love, ••nd how far he can Hate? Or, being a Woman ••ostitute to all Customers, she aim'd at vainglory 〈◊〉〈◊〉 despising and disdaining of me; and thus sought 〈◊〉〈◊〉 get a Name of being such a Mistress, as was ••urted only by Men of Fashion. That which I ••nderwent afore, was not any Natural affection 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ours, that I waited at Ladies doors, that (if ••ou believe her) I made over my poor Estate to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 spent at the Becks of Harlots; my paleness, and ••••eform'd meagerness are owing to the same Potion, ••hich at present makes me chafe, fret and rage. ••o Miss understands no other device but this, to ••ake one not to be in Love with her. This then, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Lords, is the Truth and can't be deny'd, she ••ixt me a Poyson stronger than Nature and be∣••aving me of all my wits, which by its intempe∣••••te heat, and grievous working, was able to allay 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pain thô my mind was bent against it; she ••••per'd it with Conjurations, and horrible Charms, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 gave it me with a gentle look, and a soothing ••omplement, when my Stomach was scorch'd and ••••am'd before; so she drove me to Fury, she be∣•••••• me with Cruel pain, and made a great change 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me for th•• worse, whom she had more need have treated with Cordials and relieving Reme∣••••••s. Judg you, my Lords, whether she ha's ••ade me give over my Love, I am sure, she ••••s brought me to that pass, that I had rather ••••ve her, as before. Do you think, I am got ••ar off, and am come away the Merrier after ••is Jobb? Alas, Alas! I have need now, if ever,

to be Cur'd. 'Tis some comfort to a Man in di∣stress, as long as he is in Love: Lighter is that Ca∣lamity, where some kind of Delight smiles upon a Man in his Pleasure. But now I, unhappy Wretch, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 am tormented and torn in pieces, now I can't hold nor govern my self; 'Tis a Crueller thing to b•• made to hate a Miss, than it was to Love her.

I accuse her of plain Poyson. Setting aside, my Lords, at present, what I have to say concerning her Poysonous Dose, does she not seem to mak•• good the Charge, that in the very State I am in, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cannot be believed? My Lords, the Life of a Co••∣tezan is nothing but Witch-craft. She does no•• think, that Lying and Glozing is enough; and when she imploys all her care to besot us, yet 〈◊〉〈◊〉 does not think it obligation enough to afford th•• use of her Body. Nay, all her study day an•• night is about this, how she may make lustf•••• satisfactions to pass into constant affection; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 what means Fleeting and Vagrant desires may b•• fix'd to One; she labours, that the wicked 〈◊〉〈◊〉 may not be beneficial to her Paramour, in ord•••• to a possible Repentance; and that Shame an•• Modesty may not keep him off, nor the very Gl•••• of Pleasure make him take his leave. Pray to me, do you think, that any of them are ign••∣rant, by what Glances they are smi••••••n, and wh•••• things do first Debauch, and then undo, Me•••• minds, inflam'd with unfitting desires; seeing th•• she knows, by what artifices the closest Kiss, a•••• the strictest Embraces may be broken off; a•••• what, in a moment, can turn Pleasure to Pain, a•••• former Joy and Delight into Melancholy. 'Tis 〈◊〉〈◊〉 finite to tell, how by this Potion we may con••••

the knowledge of those that are worse. No Man ••ows so great a Remedy.

This Impudent Woman, my Lords, seeks to alle∣••••ate her Offence, by disguising her Drench under ••••e Name of a Potion, forsooth; and she denies it ••as Poyson, because it did not Kill. Is it well, ••y Lords, that the Guilty should escape, because ••••eir Act misses some of the Effects, which possi∣•••••• it might have produced? What's the difference, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pray, between prejudicing ones Mind, or ones ••••dy. 'Tis the same Villany to administer any ••••••tion whatever, if it be against Law. 'Tis Poy∣••••••, whatever, is given in that Case. This your ••••ccuse hitherto is from your Sex and Estate; but ••••at you may be acquainted with such things 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your own Interest, and may beget a desire ••hether Men will or no, you have devised, how ••••u may break off Conjugal Love in the heart of Married Person, and perhaps too, how the ••••••rts of Young single Persons may be alien'd ••••om the Love of other Ladies. Never any Bawd ••••d an Hate-Potion by her, only that she might feat herself, thereby. If any Body ask me, my ••••rds, if he compare the Witch-craft that I com∣••••in of, I'le say, he ought to have hated that ••••••tion less, that might have Kill'd him. For as ••••ongst the deadliest Poysons, those are the kind∣••••••, that fly out all of a sudden, and don't keep 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Man long in pain, lingring betwixt Life and ••••ath: So that Poyson is more Cruel, that's so or∣••••red, as to spare the Body and affect only the ••••ind. How say you? Is there no harm in Poy∣••••••, but in that which Kills out-right? Pray, then, ••hat shall we call that, which bereaves us of our

Eyes only? Or that, which makes one portio•• Limb of the Body to pine away? Do'st thou ••••∣ny thy self to be a Witch, that by One Potion ca•••• do as much harm, as Wrath and Grief can do 〈◊〉〈◊〉 shall Love, forsooth, that you give leave to, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 at your bidding, he shall abominably hate. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 desires must take their Rise, Ends and Mu•••• from you. Let Love and Hatred be never much Natural Affections, yet 'tis wicked W•••• craft, when they are under Command. Besi•••• that which is given to a Man against his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 can it have any other than the Force of an In••••∣ment? I see some reason, why Physick allow•• expel the Diseases of the Body and Limbs by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 or such an Infusion: And whatever may hap•••• from without, may be cured by a Potion, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out intrenching on the Soul and Sprit. But 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Affection can be driven out of its Seat in Soul by any Poyson, but by the disturbance of our Vitals? And seeing our Soul confirm such Faculties, if you attempt to deprive us any one of them, that part of the Body, wh•••• is first stopt from its exercise, and the Fa•••••• destroyed that was aim'd at, the rest also 〈◊〉〈◊〉 destroy'd by so near a Contagion. Some Medi•••• perhaps may be called by another Name, th•• that of Poyson: But to administer any thing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is forbid by Law, can be no less than Wit•••• Poysoning. What Monstrous ways hast thou 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out to Plague Man by? It had been less Wi••••∣edness, to make a Man Love, perforce. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have devised such a Drench, as is able to set Mankind together by the Ears, hateful, and ••••∣ting one another. You can tell, how to ma••••

Parents hate their Children, and how nearness of Kindred, Brother-hood and Friendship, may dash themselves one against another. No Body takes an Hate-procuring Potion, unless against a Man, whom he ought not to hate.

Here this wicked Woman endeavours to shew, that she has done me a Courtesie by her Villa∣••y. You were in Love with one, says she, that was a filthy Whore. Let me forbear, my Lords, a while my Apology for this Passion of mine. Good God! What an Abuse is offer'd to a Whore,* 1.31 when she Complains of a Mans extraordinary Affection to her? Will you, Hussy, take upon you, with the Gravity of a Censor, to examin the measure of ones Love to you? Will you allow your∣self to reckon, how oft a Man may go to the Stews? Will you, that can't exclude the lame, nor the dirty Fellow, that art exposed to the Drunkard, prostitute to the Wanton, and, which ••s the extremest baseness, a Common Hackney to Peasants every Night, will you, I say, take up∣••on you to rectifie the Manners of a Young Man? You should take it better, that a Miss should be made much of. You were my Customer, says ••he, but a shabby one. I desire, my Lords, to ••lead a little upon this Head, as if my own Friends and Kindred took upon them to re∣••rove me. I don't watch my opportunity to ••efile the Marriage-Bed; nor do I practise any ••nnatural Lust, or Embraces forbidden by Law: I ••elieve, Whores were invented at first, that poor Men might affect such Pusses, as They. Such kind of Cattle can't be Lov'd with any ardency of Affection; Those Affections are most ardent, which

are drawn forth towards the things, that are forbidden by Law. Love never passes into a kind of Fury, till it meet with difficulties in the way. Our Affection is short-liv'd in lawful Plea∣sures, and soon approaches to nauseousness. It doth not encrease nor cherish the Flame of Concupiscence, where 'tis lawful to enjoy. And whatever we find in our Fancy about permitted objects, it comes not from our Passion, but our Reason. This ve∣ry thing I object to you, Good Woman, that you have made me a Town-talk, as well as yourself. No body so fit to love a Whore, as he that a Whore can't abide: She gave a Counter-Philt•••• to a Poor Man; what de' think she gave to the Rich, then? If a Good Estate should drop down from Heaven into my Lap, I question not in the least, but she would call me back to her Af∣fection, with another Drench; and this (now) demure and moral Whore would be heartily glad to keep me, with all her former surfeit. A Whore can't Love a poor Customer, if it be but for her own sake.

But, I gave it, says she, to him, while he was in Love. If that be a Cure, she shou'd ha' let me ha' known on't. 'Tis the first step to a Mans Health to take Physick willingly, and by his own consent. Why did she not rather give it me, before I lov'd? How much better, with more fore∣cast, and more to the Patients case, had it been to have tamper'd with a Young Mans Affection, whilst it was yet but bending towards, and so to quench the Flame in the first Sparks? But you, forsooth, must give me a Potion at that time when it would put me into Two Fits at once

You put me to another Extremity; and I enter∣tain Hate, because I am not able to abide Love. I han't don, but I begin another way: My Love is not corrected, but translated elsewhere. Those are true Remedies, which, when they have Cured our Diseases and Rooted out their Causes, we hear no more of 'm; and we reckon only those Drugs harmless, which, having spent their specifick Vir∣tue in doing us good, have no more to say. But you gave me a What-shall-I-call 'm, that puts me (as we say) besides my seven senses perpetu∣ally. He'le never ha' don, that Hates without a just Cause. Thô I may think of Marrying, yet I shall Hate Thee: Thô my Country send me on a Foreign Employ, yet my words and my thoughts will still have a fling at thee. What signifies it, after what way thou affectest my mind? Or, in what manner I am disabled to quit and leave Thee? You have made me your E∣nemy, wherever you are; so that I am like e∣nough, to offer violence to you, wherever I meet you; and perhaps I may be willing, you should Drink a Drench of my Brewing. He that can't leave off to hate a Courtezan, is her Servant still.

But, unhappy Woman, you take pity of me, you say. What? with so harsh a ••••re? You should rather have dealt with me by reason, we should have said our Heads together, to have spoken out the Truth softly and gently. Then there would have been no need to shut the door upon me, or to drive me out by Force. For Force doth always axasperate, and when we find opposition in Love, we are the more Inflam'd. In the mean time, you may urge me, with the Liberty that I shall

enjoy, with time spent, with the glut I have re∣ceiv'd, and perhaps another Customer may twit you with my Condition. But when I have been so kind to you in secret, and so full of Love-Caresses, you should not mention to 'm my Po∣verty, as if you felt it, but only in a way of Pity: Thô, the Truth is, what need was there of Se∣cresie in the Case? You should ha' suffered me to be Cured, that I may give over, if, as you say, you pity and love one that is under a Force. No Cure for a Lover, but to be Lov'd again. Yet, if you think my Cure is so necessary, how many Remedies are there for Foolish Love, on this side Poyson? You might ha' sent me packing, you might ha' shut me out of doors; you might have done that by your disdaining of me, that my Poverty could never make me do. Make me rather to amend myself, to give over for Shame, and to despair at last: He only is Cur'd of the Disease of Love, that desists therefrom, upon his own Mo∣tives. Seeing then I might deservedly have taken it amiss, if any Body should but have excluded me from your Love, have I not far greater reason to complain, when I am made, not the Man I was, even an unhappy Fellow, under a contrary Passion. The Names and Appellations of things do deceive and abuse us; and he, who hates is pityable, be∣cause he cannot Love. All excess is alike grievous to the Mind; and there is no difference, no not between Health and Sickness itself, if both be alike intolerable. 'Tis in vain for a Man to sooth me up with a Medicine, which puts me to pain and tor∣ment. To give over Love, and to be Plagued with Hate, are Two different things. Do you think,

that I have now only parted from the Love of a Slut? No, I have lost the best Affection, that be∣longs to Man; Wretch that I am, that Affection is taken from me, whence all the Joy and Cheer∣fulness of my Life ariseth. That LOVE, by which the Sacred Principles of Nature, and the Elements of the whole Universe come together; that LOVE, which now fixes and keeps fast all their discords, and amidst their Quarrels and Antipathies unites them into one Bulk by a perpetual League; that LOVE, I say, is cashier'd and driven out of my Breast. So that now, unhappy Man that I am, I have not Passion enough to think of Marrying, to Love a Child, to desire any Mans Friendship, or to expect any mutual Converse. Whoever he be, that has drank an Hateful Potion, may perhaps hate One, but can Love no Body. O Heavens! What is this that I ha' drunk? What strange Poyson have I gulp'd down? It could not be One single Poyson, sure: No, Poor Man, I drank down, whatever execrable Recipes the Spleen of all Mortals could prescribe; the wildness of all Beasts, and the rage of all Stinging Serpents, lay at the bottom of the Cup. This Hate-drench, what is it else, but the dayly Plague of the mind, a sadness perpetual, that ••urns a Man over from all his Joys to the very Purlews of Grief? For 'tis utterly impossible, that ••o damn'd a Poyson should once be let down into ••ur Stomachs, and then operate only upon one ••aculty; as if such a Potion could be stinted and ••••unded, how far to work. See, Good Woman, I ••m now in perfect Hatred already, what further mischief, d'e think, your Potion will do, in my ••owels? By little and little it must needs diffuse

itself my whole Soul over, and thô the First Dose overthrew only that Affection to which it tended, yet in a short time it will master all my other Passions, and blend them into that One of Hatred. A Draught, that can shew so much Power at first in my Mind, as to alter my Passion, and to make me hate; the Issue of all, I'le warrant you, will be plain Poyson.

My Lords, I would fain answer those that say, my Condition was miserable before, upon the ac∣count of my Love: But in what grievouser pickle am I, and how more cruelly tormented, now I am Freed, as they tell me? I was more temperate, when I was in Love and more compos'd; perhaps there might be paleness in my Face, but it was innocent and harmless, 'twas a Melancholy to be ••∣veted. Men were pleas'd to entertain discourse with me, and I was thought worthy enough to be hear•• speak; but now all Men fly from me, abomina••e and hate me. Time was, when I abstain'd from going to the Stews, for very Shame; if I met oc∣casionally with a Friend, that wou'd turn me aside now all the Town gazes at me: I rave, I stop 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a sudden, I give foul Language to every Body. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 more than miserable Condition! I am scoffed, de••••∣ded and p••in••ed at, wherever I go, Not a Ma•• in the Town but knows, I drank the Hate-Potu•••• Thus, Poor Man, I endure the insultings of th•• Brothelry, the taunts and reproaches of my Corr••∣vals; nor can they sufficiently express, how grea•• my Torments are. I hate the Person, yet I neve•• seem'd to be more deeply in Love. I suppose, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Lords, you observe, that I am a Man, that p••••∣sent before you the Torments of his Soul and ••••••∣lect

only, and who complain, that I am yet alive. But, O unhappy Potion, whatsoever thou art by which I dye by Inches, my Passio•• still troubles me, and in a short time, no question, I shall be taken off. The Potion grows stronger and stronger every day. What kind of Torment, think you, is it, and what pain, when the mind is prohibited to be dire∣cted by the Eye? When the Soul is divorced from the sense of Seeing? That which do's me no good, what can it do, but dispatch me? Ah! How mi∣serable a Man am I! If that Poyson do not kill me out-right, then I must spin out a dolorous Life, yet longer: Why therefore do I set before my Eyes, the Shifts and Changes of my Mind? If this Har∣lots Presumption can do every thing, for ought I know, she may give me another Drench, to make me an Inamorato a second time.

Oddi Potio, OR, The Hate-procuring Potion.

DECLAMATION XV.

The Argument

Is contain'd in That of the former Decla∣mation.

For the Miss against the Young Man.

THô, my Lords, it be Natural to us, to grieve for nothing so much, as when we are ill-requited for our Kindness, so that nothing more inwardly afflicts good Men, than to see their Merits fall to the ground: ••et this hard Case of mine, wherein I may seem ••uilty of so horrid a Fact, shall ever make me, ••oor Woman as I am, not glad at heart, that his Fellow dares now to prefer a Bill against me. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 unhappy Woman, was miserably afraid, lest the ••oor Fellow would have been so little wrought ••pon by his Potion, that he wou'd ha' Lov'd me ••e more, after; lest the Poor Fellow, I say, who ••as always stout and stubborn, would have de∣••ated the Strength of his remedy, for the very ••rief that he was cur'd against his Will. But ••ow it makes very well of my side, that he is so ••••rrible, forsooth, and minacious, that he would ••ave me punish'd, even with the loss of my Life. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 can't be expected, he should give me Thanks ••••esently, when I cur'd him, perforce. Yet, my ••ords, when I thoroughly consider the present ••••mper of the poor Fellows Spirit, methinks I ••ave hardly cur'd him, no not yet; so that if I ••m any whit acquainted with his former furious ••its of Love, the Hate he is now in, is rather a

Fretting, than any Hatred at all. For if my R••∣medy had done him any good, to quit him fro•• his former Mad-cap Tricks, he wou'd be sensib•••• of his Recovery, and wou'd have avoided eve•••• the very sight of his Mistress still; he would n•••• have trusted himself in my Company, so far as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pretend to do himself right and he wou'd ha•••• been afraid of giving me a visit, even before you Lordships. I find at last, I was strangely mist••∣ken, when I thought my Potion had cur'd him. H•• is in Love, my Lords, he is in Love still, who com∣plains he is not belov'd.

What shall I do, my Lords, in this Case? U••∣der what Temper shall I enter upon my defen•••••• I am afraid, if I begin to commend my o•••• simple disposition, and to tell you a long Story 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my good Nature, the poor Fellow, that was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 will begin again. For, my Lords, whether it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the common malignant Opinion to call a L•••••• Beauty, that hath no Suitors, by the name of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Mistress; or else some Lover or other first p•••••• that name on a poor Woman, to whom Fort•••••• had not given enough of her exteriour perfection•• to provide for a strict Chastity Matrimonial; a•••• therefore she labours to keep up fair deal•••• under her Necessities This I am sure of, no Ma•••• Marriage-Bed was ever in the least disturb'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her: No Gentleman ever complain'd, that she ha•• debauch'd his Son. No Man ever sung Lacrym•••• for his Estate that was quotted away into her g••••∣dy Lap. And thô this ungrateful Friend of mi•••• endeavours to cast the Odium of his former A••∣fection on my poor Self, yet he can never tw•• his Miss in the Teeth with both, that she fi••••

••ade him in Love with her, and afterwards made ••im give over, too. And therefore let not this ••ccuser of mine deceive you with his Grand be∣••ailing of his Fortune, as if he were undon by ••ancying a Miss: You may be sure of my Inno∣••ence, for he was but a Shab when he came ••••rst to me, and in the same poor Condition he ••ersisted in his Love; I never knew any thing ••e had to lose amidst all his Transports, but the ••uts of his Brain. For you saw, that he was ••e neediest Fellow in the whole Town, that he ••vou'd wait at the Civil-Houses (shall I call 'm) ••ight and day: And thô he had his Will upon a ••imple too indulgent Girl, yea, thô one while he ••as assaulted with the reproaches and taunts of the ••abble, and otherwhile he got many a bang by ••is bickering with his Rivals, he could never be ••••ept or stav'd off from us. The truth is, when I ••••w this unhappy Passion of the poor Fellow, my ••ood Nature toward him did work; seeing him ••••n such a Case, I was willing to relieve him by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 matorious Embraces, but the more I made of ••im, the more was he inflam'd; and he was easi∣•••• perswaded, in this Impatience of his Affection, ••hat, because his Mistress gave him so much Free∣••om gratis, therefore she could be no other, but in Love with him. But when I saw, that my Pity ••nd my Civility did no good, then I tryed rougher ways. I charg'd him to be gon, I shut him out of doors. I us'd also Entreaties to the poor Fellow, ••nd gave him good Counsel, drawn from the To∣••ick of his low Condition. But he was too hard for all these; and the Remedies, that should ha' ••indred his Love, were all lost upon him, till at

last, I bethought my self, that a Man, who wou'd n•••• be cur'd by Reason, must be cur'd by Force. I did b••∣lieve, my Lords, 'twas in vain to give taunting an•• reviling words to a poor Man in his excessive Cou••••∣ship. The Woman Lov'd the Man the more, who•••• Love she refused. And therefore, when the Go•• Woman had try'd all her Methods of Fair an•• Foul means, and when every Body complain'd of he•• needy Shabby Servant, she light upon a Remedy that, she was told, had cur'd such another po•••• Customer, in the like case. This then is the first Ple•••• she makes for the harmlessness of the Medicine, an•• the Innocence of the Administ'rer; she do•••• not deny, but confesses, she did give it him: Nay, she further'd also what she gave; she laid 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Charge and Command on her self, to hearken n••∣ver more to his Entreaties; yea, that she migh•• not be mov'd a whit with his Complaints or Tears un∣der her Nose, she shut him quite out of door•• Wou'd you know, my Lords, what is all the Passio•• wrought in him, by the Draught I gave him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Whoever ministers an Hate-Potion, does what 〈◊〉〈◊〉 can, from that time forward, to deserve to b•• Lov'd. Prithee, Younker, when didst thou eve•••• come in better plight into this Court,* 1.32 than nou•• Now thou beginnest to act a serious Person and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 grave; now, I wis, thy talk is of Laws an•• Statutes; now, thô upbraid'st and reproach'st th•• Things, call'd Misses. Thou hadst none of thi•• Humour, when thou were lately amongst th•• Lemmans in Brothel-Houses; then thou wert ta∣ken notice of by thy scraggy leaness, thou we•••• as white as a Clout, and the Talk of the To•••••• for thy High Amours. Poor Man, thou hadst bee••

••uite undon, hadst thou not drank that, which ••••ou call'st Poyson.

He impleads me of Witch-craft, forsooth. I ••elieve, my Lords, the Ears of this grave Court ••ill be very erect and attentive at the hearing of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 high an Accusation. There's a Word with all ••y heart, what strange Impiety will it proclaim 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the World? How great would the Company 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of those who have lost their Children, ready ••••pannelled, to inquire into such black deeds, us'd ••••ly by Step-mothers? And how great would be ••••e Family of Mourners for their Heirs, that have ••een destroy'd by damn'd Cups of Poyson? Are you ••••t then ashamed to fit here, about the brangles 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Bawdy-Houses, and to hear the squabbles of pi∣••••••ul Whore-masters, brought before you? Do you ••••e yonder Fellow, with his terrible accusing Face? ••••as, he wants only a Kiss or Two, his great com∣••••aint to you, is, that his Mistress, forsooth, has ••••••sook him. Would you not advise us rather, to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 into our privacies, and there produce our ••••s and grievances, and end all amongst our∣••••••ves, when the Case is altered? Laws and Courts ••••e not to be troubled with the complaints of ••••th pitiful Shabs. None, but seri••us Grievan∣•••••• are to be heard in this place. He is not ••••rthy to be righted here, where only a Miss is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Wind. My Lords, did you ever hear any ••••dy in the World before, complain of being Be∣••••ched and Poysoned, and yet alive in Court ••ore you? Such Accusations are always abomi∣••ed upon the account of the Deaths, that fol∣•••••• them. If you Impeach one of Rob bery, you ••••st prove it, by some Blood shed or Wounds giv∣en;

if of Sacrilege, you must shew the spoils 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Deities and the plunder of their Temples: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 if you accuse a Man of Impoysoning, you m•••• produce the Carkass rotten and black and ble•••• and the Corps streaming with Gore, as it is ca••¦rying out to its Sepulchre. And wherever y•••• may object that, yet the Person must haven s••••¦fred something, when he was alive, that mig•••• be equivalent to the Odium of his Death. C•••• that, Impoysoning, that rages inwardly, which argued by the debilitation of some Limb or oth•••• Come away then, and shew me some Marks thy. Body, where the heat of the Poyson hath s••••¦ter'd it self up and down in noxious Effects; a•••• where, the surface of the Body being consumed, settles inwardly, and destroys the vitals. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your Body, I see, is lusty enough to work, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your Limbs are intire; your Mind is able for rious businesses, and strong enough to accuse lustily. Believe it, my Quondam Friend, all us, that knew you before, do perceive, t•••• your Senses are brisker and livelier than ever, a•• that your Complexion is more Sanguine, tri••¦phing in a New Edition, as it were, of your Y•••• You cou'd never ha' prov'd, you had taken y•••• Dose, but that your Miss confesses it. But, Lords, if you allow the vulgar to descant in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 fashion upon all Recipes, that are prescrib'd a••••¦tle out of course, they will misinterpret e•••• Cure to be done by Witch-craft; and it will look'd upon as an Odious Crime, to do a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 good, when he don't know't. Whereas our L•••• call that only true Poyson, which works no 〈◊〉〈◊〉 but One. There's no reason in the World,

••••uld seem Poyson, which he that drinks it may ••••ke an Antidote, if he please, My Lords, the ••nker knows, that the Crime, he lays to my ••arge, comes not within either the Letter or the ••aning of the Law: And therefore he aggra∣••es it, on the account of what Men please to ••••••l me; Tis a Whore, says he, I accuse. Believe 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Friend, yon don't consider, what grand proof 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ought to bring to make good your hor∣•••• Accusation of Witch-craft against me. I pro∣••••, I expected in the first place, that my coun∣••ance should be terrible, and my hue dismal; ••t my frowzy hair should be disordred, and that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wild Melancholy should be cruelly and merci∣•••• bent upon Mischief. A Crime, which, they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by its dismal Charms disturbs the very Gods ••••ve, and troubles the Constellations in the ••••nament; that does conjure up the dead out of it Graves, and does make Men arm themselves Villany, even to the mangling of dead Carkas∣•••• 'tis impossible but the Party accus'd thereof ••••t discover himself at first sight. But you see, this ••••••h of yours has no such horrid countenance, has a smooth and gentle Face. If you look ••ard, and consider her Plots and Designs, all Conjurations are to make herself look Fine and ••••dsom. All her Incantations tend to this, to ••••m Men with a look, and to bind 'm fast with ••••plemental blandishments. Sometimes, 'tis ••e, I spend whole Nights amidst the Bottles of ••e with my Paramours, where they draw one ••n another, and some of the Gentlemen make ••••erate Challenges. A Poor Miss hath no Witch-••••••ft but this, how to engage her Customers to

Fancy her, still. I hope, my Lords, you d•••• think it unjust for me to expect, that so hey•••• an impeachment should be carryed on agai•••••• me, not by my Mis-name, but by my Na•••••••• disposition? Consider, I pray, did ever y•••• Witch, as you call her, do the same, or any th•• like it, before? Where's the Man, that can 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this is the Woman that drove me out of my w•••••• Where's the Young Man, where's the Old M•••• where's the Rich Man, that hath any thing say against her? Yea, where's any other 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Man can complain, besides yourself? So t•••••• she is a Witch, forsooth, only to you in parti••••¦lar; to every body else, she is an Innocent M•••• Would you have me demonstrate the Innoce•••• of this Young Woman, in a word? The very s•••••• Person, which the poor Fellow abominates, a••••¦sues for her Life, he had rather be dallying 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her, as before.

All Offences, my Lords, if I mistake not, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their rise either from Love of Money, or f•••••• Variances. Now what Hatred can a Miss 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to her Creature? Or, what Booty can she get fr•••• a poor Servant. She gave me, says he, an H••••••¦ful Recipe. What, my Lords! Sure, the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Name of a Recipe may sufficiently acquit from the Infamy of Poyson? Nor do I see 〈◊〉〈◊〉 reason, why that should seem the same t•••••• that can't be call'd by the same Appellation. go too, Young Man, make out the Immanity this Potion, to the full: Tell us, I took this H••••¦ful Drench against my Wife, against my own C••••••¦dren, that I might be turn'd aside from my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 affection, and that I might utterly cast off

••••car Pledges of Matrimony. That Hate-Potion 〈◊〉〈◊〉 if you'l call it so) is ill in a Miss, if she use it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 acquire Love. So that this Plea alone is suffi∣cient to excuse her, that she gave it only against ••erself. She gave me Hatred, says he. Now here desire you, Young Man, to make the same Re∣••ection on my Condition, as you did but now. ••ell us, that 'twas a Miss that gave it you, that was a Common Strumpet bid you take it. Oh, ••••w was I afraid, lest you should have said, 'twas 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Love Potion. Come on then, stand up, * 1.33my ••riend, and make good the Horrour of the Accu∣••••tion, you have undertook, with all your might ••nd main. You may cry aloud, that the Ears 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all the Town may hear, Oh some Charitable ••eople, pity me, help me for Heavens sake, lend ••e some relief. I have drank Cruel and Merciless ••yson, so that now, poor Wretch, I can Love my ••••••iss no longer: Farewel all my Happiness, for ••••w I shall be no longer kick't and beaten up and ••••wn the Streets, by every Varlet, in my trouble∣••••me Night-walks; nor shall I stand cooling my ••••els any longer, before the Doors of Bawdy∣••ouses, till the next Morning. Now I am at li∣••erty to do any thing, I can go to Sea, I can ••••rn Husbandman, I can enter my self a Soldier; ••••w I am come to my self so far, that I may 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an honest Husband, and may provide both for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 self in my Old Age, and also for my Children. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Heavens! What greater Remedy could ever ••••ve been given, if we take in the Condition of ••••••m that took it? That Potion had made thee ••appy, if the poor Wench, that gave it, could 〈◊〉〈◊〉 made thee as Rich. So that, 'tis not this a∣lone,

my Lords, that is sufficient for the defence of the Innocent Girl, that she did nothing of what she did for her own sake? No, she deliver'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Servant of hers from Bondage, she disengag'd him who, they say, makes it her business to hold him faster, to solicite and entice Men to Love, and to corrupt their dispositions. Oh ungrateful Fellow▪ How much art thou bound to her? 'Tis true, you bring nothing with you, you are at no Cost 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not of a Farthing, but you like my Company you follow me, you stay by me, you go along with me wherever I go, you favour me, you admire me, you cry me up in all places. And therefore you have a pique against Misses, be∣cause that even Poor Men are admitted to them because they have such easie access, and are ••••∣cused from tedious Attendances. What dost thou do, * 1.34 that art a Lover, but seek to accuse us 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that for a great Crime, which is really and in∣deed a high Courtesie, so that even the Rich ma•• think well of us? No Man is forc'd to break 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his wanton Love by any, but by him that doe really Love him.

What says my Young Man? Hast thou dra•••• the Potion, saist thou, which gave thee a Qu••••••¦est from thy Passion, which quell'd thy heat, and extinguish't thy Lust? Go thy ways, withdraw 〈◊〉〈◊〉 while, whilst we give thanks in the Name of a•• Mankind to this Madam, who ha's demonstrate to us, that such a thing was possible. That F••••••¦ous Affection, which (if we believe Old Stories hath brought the Gods down from their Sta•••• Seats into the Earth, that hath made Monsters, Fable, even of the Sacred Deities, I say, that l••••¦ful

heat, that hath coupled and confounded Man with Beast, that hath made its way, thrô Iron-gates, ••in midst of Flames, that hath rov'd far and near beyond the Seas, is now check'd and defeated Yea, hearken, I beseech you, to what's a greater wonder, The Remedy against Love is found out by a Woman. No more now let Mortals be afraid of Incestuous Crimes, let no chast Affection be afraid of such abominable filthy desires. That which the Threats of Parents, that which neither our grave Kindred, nor Poverty, nor Necessity itself could bring about, one short and easie Potion has admi∣••ably effected. Oh that a Man could drink an Anti-potion to all vices, as well as this? Happy were Mankind, if we could restrain all the other ••xorbitancies and unlucky wandrings of our minds, by one Infusion. Pity 'tis, that so great a Reme∣•••••• should lose its Esteem, because of the Mis-name of its first Inventress. We should have admir'd ••ny Man, if he had found out such a Potion to de∣••••at his Whore. Yet 'twas you, Young Man, that ••••••t Inflam'd with thy immoderate lust beyond o∣••hers, that stood in need of this special Remedy, more than any. Prithee, what was thy Condi∣••••on, that thou shouldst fall in Love? We have ••eed of an Estate, lest, when we are in Love, we may be in a miserable case; thô perhaps Men do ••ot see the inconveniences of that unruly Passion, who are buoy'd under or discharg'd from the scorns ••nd contempts of their Paramours by the Riches, which undo them. Happy is he, that loses nothing ••ut a little Estate in a Stews. Thou losest thy un∣••erstanding, he his money only; thou drink'st a ••rovocative and Love-Potion, thou begg'st with piti∣ful

Tears in thy Eyes, thou su'st by the wanness of thy Cheeks: and that which is the worst of all thou must be a wretched miserable Man, that thou mayst be reckon'd a kind Gentleman. Sup∣pose thou feelest no such Torment of this thy Af∣fection, yet thou, that art not worth a Groat, ha•••• thou not reason to be ashamed of the very thing call'd Love? Thou art a Person, who canst not be at leisure to pine and languish for his Love, and thô Sick for Love, yet it becomes not thee to rest all Night; thou canst not be excused, if thou losest the day-time only; thou maintain'st thy self by thy hands, thy Estate comes by thy dayly La∣bour at thy Fingers ends, which thy dayly bread doth more than exact from thee, thou would•••• spend more thou if couldst get it; yet you, for∣sooth, must go a madding; you must mind Cares•••••• and Dalliances, which are due only to the Rich and, for which you can never be pardon'd, you make your self miserable on the account of you•• Love and Pleasure. 'Tis true, I Iook'd when Wa•••• and pinch-belly Hunger would have taught the•• better Manners. But thou began'st thy Ar••ours forsooth, when thou wert a downright Begg•••• and what room was there left then for Co••••s•• and Advice? He whom Poverty cannot Cure, th•• best way left to Cure him is, by an Hate-potion Yet now I think on't, 'twas not only the Poverty of thy Person, I tell thee, thou didst not wa•• Means only and Estate; for ought I see, thou hadst neither Kindred, Acquaintance, or Friends if thou hadst, they might have Cur'd thee better than my Antidote; or at least, if they had nev•••• heard of the vertue of this Ingredient, they mig••••

ha' bound thee hand and foot, to have kept thee at home. Why dost thou clude an Outragious Af∣fection, by kind Flattering Complements? I have given thee a Remedy for that Passion, which hath oftimes made Men hang themselves, throw them∣selves down a Precipice, and which has let out their Labouring Souls by the Port-hole of their Wounds. How far Love can Tyrannize over a Man, they best know who are Engaged.

Now let me consider, with your low Fortune, what Person 'twas you doted upon. Poor Pil∣••arlick, you lighted indeed on a Young Gentle∣woman, far from proud and far from scornful. As ••or some Whores, a Man can never come near ••m. How many things do they call for, on the ••ccount of their tender Sex; how many more, ••ecause they are Young and Handsom? They are ••lways in need of this and that; of this suit, that ••tire. A Miss is always chargeable and craving. ••he Poor Shaveling must wait all day long at his ••istresses door, that one time or other she may be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 leisure for him. He is put off and excluded 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Emulation of those Gallants, that send their ••••esents afore 'm, so that he must stay till she has 〈◊〉〈◊〉 body else. When she refuses to be kind, then ••ou art mad; if she refuse not, thy satisfaction ••••does thee. Thy joys prepare thy hope, and ••••y disappointments make thee mopish; thy de∣••••es on both sides are Inflam'd. You may believe 〈◊〉〈◊〉, who saw with our Eyes, what a State of Body ••••u were in? How pale didst thou look? How ••••••••ful and shameful was thy Melancholy? How of∣•••••• hadst thou a mind to drink Poyson? You must ••t therefore complain, Young Man, that the

gentlest Passion of your Soul is lost, 'twas not Love but Madness; not thy Delight but thy Vexa∣tion; not thy Passion but thy Whore. The Deity of Love (if we may believe the first Writers of Philosopby) is a most Antient Power, to whom the everlasting Duration of Nature owes itself▪ But that Love is gentle, grave, rejoycing in Ho∣nourable desires, and in the puissance of a Sacred Charity. It was that which first severed all things, envelop'd in the darkness of their Original Chaos, and then cemented them together agai•••• But this Flame of Love, which makes our re••••¦less hearts seek forbidden Unions, is tumultu•••• and troublesom by the woking of our yet lascivi∣ous Blood, and is armed with Killing Weapon and Funeral Torches. The former helps us to P••••¦pagation by the Accustomed Piety of Wedlock; b•••• the other drives to nothing but Incestuous L•••• to Adultery, and, in a word, to Harlots. No•• may I relate the monstrosity of mad Love in Fa∣ble, as the strong and strange fancy of a Ma•• they never saw; a Youthful Beauty that was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Love with itself; Virgins that have desperately d••••¦ted on their Aged Fathers; and the shapes of M•••• and Beasts brought out into the World, mixt a•• confounded together by our Monstrous Cop••••¦tions? Yet of all the Mischiefs, that our Pass•••••• but too too willingly, runs us into, none m•••••• grievous or crueller than this, we can meet w•••••• no Man, that desires to be cured of his Love.

But, says he, I had rather be in Love 〈◊〉〈◊〉 'Twas for that I gave thee the Potion, Man. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Reprimands would serve, no Prayers could p••••¦vail: Advices were all lost. A wanton L••••••

must be set free by some Dose, if his Mistress be his Physician. Pray, let me ask you in this place, could you have accus'd the Woman, if she had cur'd you any other way, as well as by her Potion? 'Twas in her power to demand, what you could never have paid; and then to scorn and contemn you as the dirt of her Feet. And are you now angry, because she had rather cure you by a kind gentle remedy, than by an heart-••••exing one? The Woman might have discharg'd ••er self of Thee, only by hating thee herself; but ••ow she has contrived a device, that thou shouldst ••ather hate her. But suppose, thou most pre∣••••mptuous Wretch, thou feel some grudge of Pain 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thy Cure; cou'd you expect to be perfectly ••ur'd of an immoderate Passion, in an Instant? What 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a Sick Man should complain, he is cured by ••••e smart of Abstinence? Some Vices have been ••riven out by the severe discipline of the Lash, and ••ave been covered or restrain'd by being brought ••••w: Help hath sometimes been administred by ••••re and Lancing; and that, which would have ••een a disaster in time of health, hath been ad∣••anced into the repute of a remedy, in compari∣••••n of greater hazard that attended. For you all hardly ever see a Man go away merry and ••••cund from this unruly Passion, that recedes there∣••••om out of modesty, or satiety, or upon the ac∣••unt of Penitential Thoughts. Never any Man ••ill retreat from those Evils without regret, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 can enjoy with such pleasure. 'Tis a point of ••••ve again, to cease loving and be quiet. There ••as need of as much bent to the t'other side, of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much strength as made you love at first, for

fear you should bethink yourself, and stand and muse, when you are perfectly well. I tell you, we see what Remedy should have been given to the Young Fellow, even by the Condition he is now in. If any manner of Cure was to be applyed to a Man that after an Hateful Drench complains he cannot Love, 'tis but a small thing, if he only cease h•••• Passion. Hearken then, thou most ungrateful Wight, seeing thou wilt have our secrets brought into o∣pen Court. I did give the Potion. For what else, says he, should I do, when so many other Reme∣dies were lost? I protest, I cou'd not abide, that all the Whores in the Town should begin to f•••••••• at thee. Remember, prithee, the discourse we had in those Nights, wherein I frequently admit∣ted thee to my Bed and Embraces, when another, and perhaps a better Man than you, was fain t•••• wait; did I not advise you, poor heart, not t•• strive or struggle with a Woman of my mean Con∣dition? Favour me and my low Fortune, for we are both very Poor. And thou thy self, how of∣ten didst thou cry out, weeping without intermissi∣on, and bedewing my Bosom with thy Tears, I am sensible, dear Madam, that I am mad for Love but I can't help it for my life; I am overborn by my Passion, I can't command my Eyes nor rule my Heart? Woman! I would most willingly h•••••• thee, if I could. Why then, thou most ungratef•••• of Mortal Wights, should'st thou blast my kind¦ness with the name of a Raskally Potion. I ga•••• you a Remedy, but the Hatred comes from your self. 'Tis true, you rave, you revile, you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out, but those are not the effects of my Potion but of your Old Passion, Love. You were such

before. Those are quite other gates kind of Men, who flote in pleasure being buoy'd up by a great Estate. But poor Scraps are impudent, when they think of a Miss. I remember, you kept a pother as well as the best, when I gave you admittance before; you could not endure to stay, nor to be stav'd off, you curst all the Gentlemen that came to me, you rail'd at every one you saw. What Man in the World has his Condition happily chang'd for the better, more than you? Time was, when you cou'd abide no body at all; but now, poor Man, you hate but one simple Girl. Why do you not rather give ear and hearken to some good and wholsom Counsel? Consider, where∣abouts you are? Seeing your Health is but new∣ly recover'd, why will you put it in hazard a∣gain, by such a over-eager desire of Quarreling? I protest, and declare, you squander away my wholsom Potion, the virtue of the Medicine hath not yet diffus'd itself over your whole Heart and Soul: There are Two very great Passions yet strug∣gling about you. Of the Two, I beseech you take the Potion's part. Come on, Check and run Coun∣ter to whatever appears against it, and makes such troublesom huffs and bustles in your heart. Let a perfect recovery settle all about you. Then we shall know, you are cur'd of the Passion of Love, when you have put off the Passion of Hate.

Thus, my Lords, I hope I have defended the Innocency of this Gentlewoman, well enough; yet the Greatness of her danger calls upon us to beg and beseech; Rise up, then, thou miserablest of Women, abet and make good the remainder

of thy Plea, with thy Tears. O thou, that do'st Indite her, what do'st hope for? What do'st ex∣pect? She shall never fall down on her Knees be∣fore thee. Thô thou accostest the poor Woman with all thy terrible menaces, yet she shall not kiss thy hand. Thô thou threaten her with death and destruction, yet she shall never petition thee for her Life. Don't mistake your self so far, as to promise yourself any advantage from our dan∣ger and Fear. Alas, let me tell you, the poor Girl hath no Remedy for Hatred Suppose it comes from the strength of thy Portion, that thou accusest the Innocent: Is it not sufficient satisfaction to you, that you see her look so pale for fear? Is it not sufficient to hear her sigh and groan? remember this is she, that you would not hearken to in your Youth. What do you do? Let me ask you? Can you endure to have her call'd in Question, and her very Life in so much jeopardy? Will you reckon the Votes of the Court: And if they Cast her, wilt thou, wicked Wretch, skip and rejoyce. I shall say then, thou didst never Love her at all. Perhaps you will follow her to her Execution, will ye? Will you stand by, when the Executioner touches those pretty Eyes? Can you look on, whilst that Neck, that you have so oft Kiss'd and Embrac'd, is laid bare, for the last Blow? Will nor you leap toward her? Will you not put your own breast to receive the Stroke? Will you not call out for help of God and Man? Wilt thou re∣ceive her body after Execution; and stand over her Limbs, yet panting and quavering after the Blow? Canst thou behold this? Canst thou en∣dure it? Then I'le say, thou art perfectly reco∣vered.

But if the Event of this Sentence prove yet more sad, the Gods, who are always the Revengers of Courtesies soon forgotten; the Gods, I say, (whom this Cruel Fellow, in the Arms of his Miss, did oft beseech, with Mourning and Tears, to put an end either to his Love, or to his Life,) give a just revenge on this ungrateful Youth, yet without maiming him. I don't imprecate lame∣ness, nor drowning, nor sickness on him. No, but I pray he may be poor still, and that he may love the meanest Drab in the Town, and that he may never have his belly full, nor give over.

Amici Vades, OR, Two Friends, one Surety for t'other.

DECLAMATION XVI.

The Argument

There were Two Friends, whereof one had a Mother alive, that went a long Journey together, and at last came to a Tyrants Country, where they were made Prisoners. The Mother hearing her Son was in hold, wept out her Eyes for grief. The Two Young Men proffered the Tyrant, that if

he would let one of 'm go home to see his Mother, he should return precisely at an appointed day, and if he did not, his Fel∣low Prisoner was to be put to death. And he bound himself by Oath to this purpose. The Young Man returns to his Mother, and she would not let him go back again, alledging the Law of the Country, That a Child was not to forsake his Parents in their distress.

For the Young Man against his Mother.

ALthô, most upright Lords and Judges, I seem already to have laid out all the Affection of human Breasts upon Friendship alone; and am now invidi∣ously reflected upon, as one that hath not left himself so much good Nature, as to Love even his own Mother; yet as oft as I view the whole La∣titude of my duty, (wherein this bears the least part, that I am a good Friend) I cannot but be∣wail this first hit of my choice, that I must of ne∣cessity relinquish either my Friend or my Mother. There is a Violence, most grave Judges, I say, there is a Violence, upon my ardent Affection, that I am not able to relieve them both. But a∣bove all, nothing troubles me more, than that such cross things do fall out against my Inclina∣tion, that I must seem to chuse one, which I can∣not help. What would I not give, poor Man, for the recovery of my Mothers sight, who have giv∣en up my Friend to come to see her? I beseech you, my Lords, let not my Service be lost in such great straits as these, who am willing to lay out my self upon both. The best kindness you can do me, is not to keep me there, where I can do no good. I must own, most upright Judges, that I now set before you an Instance of so great and

incredible an Example, that you may almost have some cause to think, I juggle with my Mother. I seem to have devised this colourable pretence of my own head; and while I am detained, I seem to have but a cold Friendship. Pity me, my Lords, try me, and let me go. You can't know, whe∣ther I would sain return, till ye see me return∣ed.

This, my Lords, doth vex and rend my very heart, that I fall short of my great expectation. I was full of hope, that my Mother would have done some brave thing in the Case. I had pro∣vided my self of this boast and vapour before the Tyrant, that so he might have believed, I had been sent back by her. And I was pleas'd with this kind of Ostentation, that they would wonder at the Gallantry of a Man, who left a Mother, thô destitute of comfort. But with what Sentiment will you have me to bear this, that my Mother made my Friend believe, that assuredly I should return? And for her part, she hath deceiv'd a most Noble Gentleman, that believ'd my Affection was so high and great. I cannot dissemble, my Lords, the Guilt of my Case. I had been less to blame, if I would not have returned. Let those Religious Per∣sons look to it, who look upon the Motives of Love, which they have from the ordinary Titles of Father, Brother, Son, &c. as a kind of tye and service; If you ask me, I think, as the Case stands, no affections are only born with us. For if a Man weigh all things aright he shall find, that what∣ever keeps Children, Brethren and Kindred toge∣ther is nothing else, but Friendship. For thô we Men should fly never so high in incredible expres∣sions,

yet doubtless we are not a piece of the same Soul; nor joint-burthens of the same womb. The less there is pretended in the Original, the more is there in the Affection between us. That Cha∣rity is far more admirable, that we enter into with all our Faculties: I am not ashamed, my Lords, to confess this as my Opinion, that less obligation is due to a Man, who loves his Friend, only be∣cause he cannot help it. 'Tis plain, my Lords, 'tis plain, that to be joyn'd together in the same course of Life, even from ones very Infancy, hath some inward touch of the affection of Brotherhood. Thus it came to pass, that Fame never mentioned one without t'other; and we vyed one with another in our union so far, that what hapned to the one, the like hapned to the other. Hence it was, that we scorn'd to return both together; and, as if it were easier between Two faithful Friends, we re∣solv'd to stick together, notwithstanding the ha∣zards of the Sea. And yet I would not have you think, that we went to Sea together on a Humour, or for Table-talk; no, we had great and inexpressible reasons for our Voyage, and that you may judg by this, that even my own Mother could not keep us at home. Whether then, my Lords, it was, that Friendship itself would try an Experiment upon us? Or that Fortune would trust us but little, as long as we met with no adventures in our Love? Or whether it be an En∣vy, that always sticks to great resolutions? Or that none are ever praised with so general an ap∣plause, that Envy would not try 'm, even in their very Friendship? must tell you, we arrived at the shore, Men whom their Good hap or common

report had joyn'd together. We are swallowed up with the very Terrour, which strikes fond Pa∣rents Blind immediatly. Hence it hapned, be∣cause we were both made Prisoners, together; Yet so, that he's most a Prisoner, that was set at Liberty. I am ashamed, my Lords, to say it, in this I was out-don, here my Friend got the better: Of the Two, his affection is the highest, whom the Tyrant had rather keep in Prison. O my Friend, how much am I indebted to thee? Nothing but a Mother could have divided us. You were the first that heard she was blind; and 'twas for the Passion you shew'd, that the Tyrant believ'd any such thing. What did he not do to make the Tyrant desire his body, instead of mine? He hug∣ged his very Chains. He wou'd engage I should return, even from Sea; and thô I had a Mother alive, he stipulated for such uncertainties, as if he wou'd ha' made them good in his own particu∣lar Person. Did ever any Man do so much for his own sake? My Friend perform'd, I say, he per∣form'd a thing, that the Tyrant seem'd to grant us on purpose, that it might not be performed; and the Man, who wou'd have no such affection in human breasts, we deceiv'd him, notwithstanding his Temptation. I see no reason, why my Mother should be so horribly afraid of my Imprisonment; or what she means to throw a Vayle over us, that are doom'd to death? The Tyrant hates me not, you see, for it is all one to him, to Murther ano∣ther for me. Pity me, dear Mother, if there be any Conscience for great obligations, complain, that you loved one of us so over-dearly, that, since you lost your Eyes, is as it were always ab∣sent

from you. Who should undergo this for me? What obligations do you stop? My Friends chain would admit me to my Friend; now the Tyrant wou'd open the door to me, now the Pyrate would prepare me a Vessel for my supply. I pro∣test, if I should dye before your self, Mother, you ought to return in my room at the very day. Poor Woman, do you not understand, what a far greater obligation my Friend hath laid upon you? you owe more to the Man, who sent me back to you, even for this, since you can't endure I should return.

I protest, my Lords, I cannot but pity, I say, but pity those Men, who praise me for my Return. My Friend trusted me so far, that I wou'd return. And now, forsooth, I do a brave thing, I that am so sure a Card, so wonderful and remarkable a Friend. If you will believe a Man, it seems un∣toward to me, that I know I shall not be put to death. Besides, my Lords, my Mother is conscious that she acts unworthily, and is basely guilty, if she detain me out of necessity, or an account of my duty; and therefore the poor Woman, which hath hitherto acted out of affection, now sud∣denly flies to the Law. That Mother, my Lords, has a very bad Cause, which the Law must help out, so much. Children, says she, must not for∣sake their Parents in distress. There's no reason, my Lords, this should be said to a Man, that's return'd. Can it be said, that I despised my M••∣ther, or that I slighted my duty to her in her blindness, seeing all my ambition in my misery, was laid out on this, even to contrive my return? Who in the very heigth of my troubles, never petition'••

any thing for my self? Can any one inflict on me the penalty due to a disobedient Child? Or can he aggravate things against me, for neglecting Filial Piety? I appeal to Heaven, how much it cost me, not to appear an undutiful Son? I must needs charge this on you, good Mother, that I left my Friend for your sake, to whom 'tis Impiety not to return.

My Lords, I do not yet insist either upon my own misery, or upon the merits of my Friend, my Plea at present is, that this Law is of Force only, when ones Parents alone are in distress. Provi∣dence hath freed a great part of Mankind from the obligation of Laws; nor are there any Sta∣tutes so severe, that Men, thô never so much in misery, should be subject to their Penalty. For when want and necessity do surprize me, I have as much reason to complain too, as if I were desert∣ed. When Children themselves are in distress, they are excused to their Parents; and if the Law lays hold upon any one, it must needs count another Mans misfortune, as a certain kind of Orbity too. For what if, when my Mother holds me close, another should pluck me by force from her side? What if my Country should need my Service, as a Soldier? Or what, if as an Ambassador; or (to come nearer to my present distress and complaint) what, if, when condemned, I am call'd forth to Execution? I beseech you, Mother, would you break Prison, for me to escape? Would you lay violent hands on the Executioner? And when your Son was about to suffer, would you as 'twere co∣ver his Throat, by the Authority of the Law? Oh Heavens! The Law, that retains a Man, is far

enough from concerning that Person, who comes not, in fear of punishment. For ought I see, Mo∣ther, you don't consider what a great Odi∣um Parents should raise upon those Children of theirs, who forsake them in that Case. A Mo∣ther, who complains she is forsaken, had need cry out, Alas, a Foreign Country hath drawn away my Sons heart; he withdraws the shoulder from helping me, because he hath a mind to see some other Pleasant corner of the World, in Utopia. Or, my Young Son is inveigled by some Miss or o∣ther, and the wantonness of his Eye has taken him off from observing the just Laws of his own Country. With such laments as these, should you persecute your Son, that so my being detained may be a punishment to me, but by the by. That Law doth not concern Children, who are detain'd by their own merciful dispositions. To make it a base thing to return, it must be considered, to whom the return is made; and it can be no offence at all to leave a Mother, if there be just cause to bear a man out, for so doing. I, who return to a Tyrant, if I leave my Mother out of an unduti∣ful Spirit, am worthy to be kept back. And therefore, Madam, you have no reason to ob∣ject against me the weight of Maternal obligations; nor should you think, 'tis out of disrespect to you, if I believe that there is another affection in hu∣man breasts, even that of Friendship, which Na∣ture seems to have devised on purpose, that all Mankind in general might make a coalition; and which is not as yet universally admired, because we do not find it Compleat; and yet such as it is, it would do wonders, unless you yourselves did

hinder it▪ Friendship is but one soul in many bo∣dies, my hand is thine and thine is mine, 'tis an Af∣fection stronger than the Maternal. Pray tell me, what matter is it, by what Name you call him, that loves at so high a rate? If great Merits de∣scend down to us, never ask, from whom? Wou'd you know, what my Mother herself thinks of this Affection? She thinks, that even my Friend had rather, I should not return. Suppose I should lay aside at present the great obligations I stand indebted in to my Friend, upon the account of his Merit, and that I should say only this, 'tis my Friend that is a Prisoner, Dear Mother, I'le go, that he may have leave to return, that I may com∣fort him, that I may intreat his Patreon for him; and if the cruel Man be so Tyrannical as to re∣quire it, I'le give him body for body. Pray, why do you detain me? Why d'e stop me? Now or never I must shew my self a Friend. You can't tell, whether that be true Love, which never met with any cross adventure; and if our lives have nothing but Sun-shine, a Friend is a needless Why-not. D'e think, I'le plead, that my Friend, that's in Hold expects this from me, nay all Man∣kind expects the same, and they received me ••nto the number Friends on this account, that ••o body should wonder at all, if I expressed such Faithfulness? Wou'd you know, dear Mother, what ••ffection and what reverence we ought to shew ••o a Friend in distress? Alas, he never fear'd any Law, that he should be left alone. I'le set aside ••t present the cause of Friendship, for I have a mind to speak a few words in the behalf of Hu∣manity itself, even the Tyrant believ'd that I would

return, and therefore I must return. Dear Mother, no Man living was ever trusted more, no Mans expectations ever laid a greater obligation upon me. He that trusted me was a Man of that Kidny, as to account it a Courtesie to be deceived; he seem'd to have devised this Trick against all Friends whatever, that we might impose upon him. You have no reason, dear Mother, to tell me of my capital punishment, and of all the Pre∣paration for my Execution. 'Tis an offence, to be∣lieve Men only in that which is expedient. Good∣night to all Mankind, if we must keep Faith with none, but where we gain by it. How hugely and how infinitely did the Tyrant trust me, if he puts me to death, when I return.

My Mother herself, my Lords, knows well e∣nough, what an high Seat a Friend hath in a Mans Heart, and therefore she begins to urge affection, too. Wherefore, if I mistake not, seeing I am the Subject-matter of this Suit, you should first of all consider, whether my Mother or my self have done more in this calamitous Case? In the first place, dear Mother, I must crave leave to com∣plain, that your affection is not of the right kind Pray, what did you mean, by your raving and headstrong Passion? Why did you shew your grief all outward, as if you had received the Message of your Sons Captivity with the Eye, not with the Heart? You have not lest your self Liberty to redeem me, doubtless you have ad∣ded to the Affections of a Mother, you wept ou•• your Eyes in the midst of your Orbity, but a•••• this doth not loose my Chains, nor free my Body from the Prison. What good do's that Passion o••

a Mother do her Son, that spends it self in noysy Crying? If you had undertaken a Voyage to the Tyrant, then, Mother, you had done something indeed. Grant, I am in Hold, what! will you now make your Lamentation, as if I were dying at home in my Bed; or, as if I were giving up the Ghost in your Arms? In some kind of distresses, Despair itself is none of the highest Passions; and whoever believes the loss of his Children at first hearing, what does he do, but make hast to shake hands with his Grief? Thô you twit me, dear Mother, with your great impatiency for, and unspeakable affection to, your poor Son, yet, let me tell you, my Friend had an harder piece of service to do for me, he Husbanded the matter so as to save his Eyes, that he might be made a Pri∣soner. Oh Heavens! what an high piece of me∣rit was this, he was grieved for my punishment, and yet wou'd not be releas'd. 'Tis he, that speaks a Prison to be a terrible thing, who is delivered from thence. Now the Chains would nor stick to his body it was so lean, but they fell to his heels for very weight, his countenance was piteously disfigur'd and begrim'd, and the Tears, that he shed night and day, did smear his Face all over. I beseech you, my Lords, shew some pity, let not a Merit, that is so much above expecta∣tion, lose its Authority. Imagin us to be both Prisoners under your Eye, and that a Friend re∣deem'd one; a Mother, t'other. I beseech you, which of the Two did most? Good God! How greedily, how strongly did he catch up my Chains? By what urgent Prayers, did he even compel the Tyrant to believe him. Take, says he, these my

hands, and these my Limbs, that so, if possible, my Friend may be sent back to his Mother. I my self, if you think good, will undergo the full punishment for us both; or if you will have him to return after he is discharg'd, here's my Neck, hang me up, if he don't return, at what∣ever day you your self shall name. I call God and Man to Witness, every thing, that cou'd be, was done to make my po r Friend repent his Bargain•• The poor Soul was thrown down into a dark and deep Dungeon, he must be laden, says the Pyrate, with double-irons, seeing he is so good a Friend. And presently the worst of the Felons were thrust down into the same Hole; and ever and anon, he was taunted with this mock; What! Will you buy your Friend at so dear a rate? Yet still, this was his note, this was the poor Mans constant Groan, Torture me with Fire, with red-hot Pincers, tear me in pieces, yet, I'le warrant ye, he'le return. Pity me, dear Mo∣ther, 'tis an extraordinary matter I am speaking of, now. I left my Friend at hard dispute with the Tyrant. Let all human affections excuse me, and you, Mother, above all, that I suffered such horrid things to be done. What! Could there be ever any necessity in nature so urgent, that I my self must throw such a Friend, as he was, in∣to a Prison? That I should put off my begrimed∣ness and my Fetters, and put 'm upon him, that was in as much post-hast to receive 'm? That I should appoint so short a day for my return, notwithstanding the many uncertainties of my Voyage? I appeal to my own poor Conscience, and to that Deity too, if there were any such

present in that rueful instant, how much we quar∣rell'd about my Chains, and how I did all that ever I cou'd, that, of the Two, he might rather return to my Mother. I confess, my Lords, there was but one modest thought that overcame me, and that was, if I had not accepted the Courtesie of my Friend, thô accompanied with so much difficul∣ty, he would have thought I had not believ'd him. Pity me, dear Mother, that you may not think me discharged, I have Imprison'd my second self. Those are the Chains, which gripe my Limbs, which bind me fast, notwithstanding the vast Sea, and huge distance of Land, between us. This is a Prison, that I cannot break! I envy the cunning Tyrant, he knows how to keep both of us in Pri∣son, he knows how to fetter even him too, that he has releas'd. I must needs cry out, again and again, 'twas I, that clap't my Friend in Irons; and, that I might have liberty to see you, another Man was punish'd for me. I know, with what spirit my Friend did this; but as for me, I carry'd my self, as if I would never have returned. Let me ask you, Good Mother, I say, let me ask your impa∣tient affection, if some of the Barbarous Halberdiers or Prison-Keepers had brought me back in Irons, to see you? Would you have taken any comfort ei∣ther to see or to embrace me? Don't mistake your self, as if I am now return'd to you, upon easier and slighter terms? What made him, think you, dismiss me, to go whither I pleas'd? I tell you, the Cruel Sophister knew well enough, that he had prevented us, so that we could not cozen him, if we had a mind to't. Therefore, my Mothers Plea, that she is blind, is needless in this Case. That she

aggravates things against me upon account of the loss of her Eyes, pray don't think it a sufficient Cause to detain me; for, if she had her sight, she would strive to keep me at home, still. 'Tis not the Blind Mother, than can't endure this, but the very Mother; sometimes indeed, distress makes a Mother unable to bear the Absence of her Son. Now, my Lords, if, in my opinion, my Friend be not in∣ferior to my Mother, either in his Love to, or De∣sert from me, what should your Justice consider more, than which of them would be the Greatest Sufferer? My Mother hath sated her Grief alrea∣dy, she hath spent all her Passion, her vehemency is cool'd; now she hath lost her Eyes, how can she desire her Sons presence? Besides, this her misfor∣tune, whatever it be, befals her amongst her own Friends and Kindred, thô she be weak, yet she hath all her Servants abour her, to make her broth, and to do all other necessary Offices. Would you know, how much more intolerable 'tis, that my Friend suffers? Judg of it by this, it cost you your Eyes, when you did but hear, I was so badly used in a Goal; but he must be contented with those scraps or none, that his very Executioner, and his Tor∣mentor, sets before him.

Venenum Effusum, OR, Poyson spilt on the ground.

DECLAMATION XVII.

The Argument.

There was a Gentleman, that entred Three Actions in Court against his Son, that he might have leave to Renounce and Disinherit him; but was Cast in them all. One day he found him tampering a certain Medicine in a private part of his House; and ask'd him, What it was, and for Whom

he had prepar'd it: His Son answer'd him, 'twas Poyson, and that he intended to put an end to his own life by taking it off: His Father hearing this, commands him to drink it; but he, instead of drinking it, spilt it on the ground; whereupon his Fa∣ther accuses him of an intended Parricide.

For the Son against the Father.

WEary as I am, my Lords, with the different hurries of my woful mind, my grief being the same in each of them, whilest that which pushes me on, does likewise pluck me back from every frame of Spirit I am in, so that I cannot endure either to be so hardy as to live, or so desperate as to dye; yet I humbly beg this in the first place of your Lord∣ships Clemency, (which I have already had so much experience of) that you wou'd not wonder to see me unresolv'd what to do, when so many sad distresses do press me on every side; so that by reason of my Misery, I can find no better Reme∣dy, than to dye; and by reason of my Inno∣cency, no better Expedient than to live. There∣fore, my Lords, seeing I am accused upon both accounts, in such a new and unusual kind of Action, how shall I sufficiently bewail or lament my Calamity? 'Tis true, I was a Person wil∣ling to make away my self in secret, and it had almost Kill'd me out-right, that my Fa∣ther chopt in upon me on a sudden. You see him yet quarrelling with me, as he did when we were in that close Room, where he found me. Whatever doth not destroy, and bring me

to my Grave, he calls Contumacy; so little doth he respect my absolution, or my Life. Af∣ter this, who can make any doubt, with what intent he bid me drink the Poyson, seeing he calls it Parricide, that I did not drink it? No Question, he wou'd ha' let me ha' taken it all off, if I had been willing. I beseech you there∣fore, my Lords, look narrowly into the Cause of this present Suit. Do you think my Father objects Parricide to me, upon his own account? No, he is even cut to the heart, he frets, ••e is tormented that I am alive. For this is that he can't endure to hear of; that he commanded me to kill my self, and yet could not compel me thereto; he knows, it was Wickedness in him to command it, if it were Innocence in me to refuse it. This is a great piece of Cruelty in him, he defends and excuses himself from any odious reflection by my crimes, and that you might not hate that word (Parricide) as if the deed had been done, he substitutes a miserable for a bad Father. My Lords, this is the rage of his Impi∣ety, now he is sound out. No Father would ever have his Son seem innocent, if he has a mind to destroy him.

My Lords, I humbly beseech this also of your publick Wisdoms, that none of you would ima∣gin I was not peremptorily resolv'd to dye. As yet I make my defence at the rate of my former Constancy; but if I get the better in the Suit, then I stand upon another Foot; I stand firmer as accused, than I shall be, if acquitted. For then only I shall not be able to bear my calamity, when it begins to appear, that I am

only miserable not innocent. 'Tis well for me, that my Father su's me again at Law, he oc∣casions me thereby to plead my Innocent Cause, and he does me the Favour, to make me think my death had been lost, if I had drank the Poyson. If my Father repents, that he bid me drink off the Poyson, I can't abide that I spilt it. Thô therefore the Merciless Old Man endeavours to confound publick Affections, by changing the nature and kind of his Complaint, yet we are no new Customers, we have been Plaintiff and Defendant before, nor hath the late immanity of his impious Suit discharged us? Par∣ricide in an old accusation with him. 'Tis just so, my Lords, 'tis just so, 'tis a long time ago, since I was indicted as the veriest Villain in the World. So that the first Churlish unnatural∣ness of my Father did endeavour to blast me. And now , thô you have already commanded him to desist and give over, yet this is the Man, that will trouble your Lordships still, thô he be cast never so many times, yet he's at it again. He is deceiv'd that thinks the Old Mans disposition will be tyred out and made to endure it. No, a Father, that cou'd not prevail in Law to disinherit his Son, had rather have him found Guilty than Acquitted. A Mans own Parents, when they are cast in their Suits, are the most pertinacious Accusers of all; they'le never give over. Whilst you maintain the Authority of your Power strongly by imperious affections, and , lest you should confess your shame or penitence, do vindicate error by calumny, this addition is made to my calamity, that I was

acquitted thrice. For when the Old Man found that his spight against me was successless the very first Tryal he had; he cou'd not abide I shou'd be turn'd back upon him, against his Will; and because your Lordships would not give way, he should legally disinherit me, yet he was stiff in his resolution still, to desire to do it. He kept up his belief, that it wou'd be for his advantage, if he persisted in his unjust Complaints; and he hop'd that by his common barretting against me, People at last would be weary of pitying me. What should I do in this Case? My Innocence being tir'd out as it were, whither should I turn my self? 'Twas not con∣venient, I should leave the House, for then I should seem to have own'd, what your Lord∣ships wou'd not believe; nor could I well stay at home, for he threatned me with another Set of miseries, for now he seem'd to hate me with such an additional eagerness, as he shew'd towards you for my sake. At last, poor Man, I took pity on my self, and on my Father too, for seeing I foresaw by what was past, that he would be at variance with me as long as I liv'd, I confess I catcht at every opportunity, which seem'd to me to exasperate my present State, to beseech his favour till I dy'd; and I found out this as the last Expedient I had for it, that seeing I was willing to dye for honour and reverence of him, he would at last cease hating me, even as if I had gon out of the way till his rage was over. That Son can have no other Exit but death only, that can neither be

reconciled to hit Father, nor yet be disinherited by him.

There was a private Room in our House, into which, when I was Accused, I us'd always to re∣tire myself, and when I was Acquitted in Court, I did the same; here, and no where else, I had liberty to make my Complaints and shed my Tears. Yet, let me tell you, I went not into it, as if I could deceive the watchful Guard my Father set upon me, for alas, 'twas not possible to find out any place at all, where his Spyes, that stu∣died to take even the least advantage against me, could not find me out? But as those Persons do, who are resolved to dye, I separated my self, out of modesty not out of wrath, from all things that might have diverted me from my purpose. For, to tell you the truth, I never lik'd a quarrelsom and noysy Exit out of the World; nor such as would leave any reflection upon others behind it. But what have I to do with this extraordinary sim∣plicity of Innocence? He that prepares Poyson for himself to drink, never thinks it possible that he can be discovered. Here, poor Man, considering all things, within and without, I will not deny, but I stuck a little at that Fatal business of dying; I confess, I us'd some cunctation and delay, for a good Conscience covets not an hasty death; neither do such Persons run headlong to their Graves, who dye only out of Pity to themselves. My Soul, be∣ing wholly fix't on the Contemplation of Death, was taking its flight by secret complaints; and when I was about to drink the Potion, that was to give me my Farewel from the World, my mind was inwardly pondering upon my compleat Innocence.

When lo, my Father rush'd in upon my Privacy, thô I had fill'd the Room full enough with the Impatient moans of a dying Man; I believe he was guided to the place, by the noise of my Groanings and Tears. My Lords, he can't seem to have suspected any thing of Parricide: He that put the Question to me, what I was a pounding, and for whom I was preparing it, must needs be ignorant of both. I tell you plainly, my Lords, dy∣ing Men can't counterfeit, and nothing more harm∣lesly innocent, than a Soul that's ready to part from the Body. At the sudden rushing in of my Father, I confess, I was somewhat astonished, but not as Criminals are, when they are surprised; if I had held my peace, my Countenance was not pale at all, nor did any guilty trembling betray me; nor did I stumble or falter in my Answers or Excuses, as Offenders, when they are questioned, use to do: But, when my Father, with his sud∣den Question, made me start and look about me, What are you Compounding, says he, and for whom? I Answered him truly, without any hesi∣tation or stop in the least, Sir, said I, I have a mind to put an End to my own Life: and I con∣fess'd as truly, that 'twas Poyson, I was a tam∣pering. Is there any Father, my Lords, that is unwilling his Son should Poyson himself, and yet believes him, that he will? Who, would believe him, thô he says it himself? If a Father find his Son tampering with Poyson, methinks he should ha' spilt it himself rather; but he stood stock still, fearless and huffy, thô he saw he was like to lose his Son, and thô I was resolv'd and had threatned to destroy my self therewith, yet he would make

me gulp it down presently. Drink it, says he, or I'le pour it down thy Throat. After such a word as that, my Lords, could any body expect, that I should immediatly obey him? If I had don so, I had been gon for ever. Here, O ye Heavens, and hearken O Earth, what, after three Abdica∣tions and as many Complaints, thô they were all disappointed by the Wisedom of your Lordships, what, I say, my Father, like a wild hair-brain'd Man, tells the World; Oh. says he,* 1.35 my Son is a Savage Fellow, he is a cruel Parricide; he would not drink Poyson, when I bad him. This is all my Offence, forsooth, that I am alive, that I answer him at Law, that I decline not to be tryed by the Court, that I do not fly for't. Now I don't wonder, what 'tis, that makes him fret so impatiently for the disappointment of his Cruelty, besides his joy for my loss, wherein he was disappointed too; 'tis this, he hop'd to destroy me with my own Poy∣son.

But because he thinks, he hath found out an Art to make you believe, that thô he was cast in his former Actions, yet new Causes of Grievance may bear more weight in Court, he hath there∣fore devised unusual Methods. As ever I desire to live any longer, I deny the Crime, he objects a∣gainst me, with the same plain-heartedness and integrity, as I confess'd concerning the Poyson. You accuse me of Parricide, forsooth. Sir, you have cut me off from this part of my defence, to cry out in this place, 'tis impossible such a thing should ever be. I know how much difficulty it adds to my defence, that long since you have forgot pa∣ternal duty to your Child in your own House, but

'tis plainly evident, which of us two is more prone to Impiety, and which of us had rather live, let t'other be never so much in distress. For your part, Sir, you are every day heaving at your only Son, to cast him out of doors; you wou'd be glad to see him an errant Beggar and a very Tatterdemallion, with all your heart. As for me, I kiss those hands, that throw me out in∣to the street, I cling about the knees and legs of him that wou'd kick and spurn me; and to a Fa∣ther, that hates me so mortally, I cou'd ha' no rea∣son to return, but my extraordinary Love. Per∣haps, Sir, the Authority of your paternal Name might have carryed the point against me, if this had been your first Action, about the Poyson: But you have spent already all those Pleas, which may defend Fathers from any suspition of Wickedness. A Father cannot believe any Child of his will be guilty of Parricide, unless it be such an one, that he himself is as willing to destroy. Truly, Father, if any body should ask me concerning the simple and honest ground of my unhappy opinion, I have this to say, that I believe it impossible you would ever destroy me, but with a Poyson of my own Brewing. But a Villany, which is hardly to be believ'd in any relation at all, is yet, I think, much more difficult for a Child to act. You, Fathers, can hurry your Children to their Graves, upon the ac∣count of your Authority; to Murther a Child with you, is but a point of Gravity; you disinberit 'm to make them better,* 1.36 forsooth: The rest of your Childrens punishments, you vayle under the name of reasonable Corrections; and all your rigid hard-heartedness you guild with a softer Appellation.

We, Children, can't so much as conceive so borrid a Villany in our minds, let our circumstances be what they will, either happy or miserable. Ne∣cessities, even the greatest that are, cannot drive us to so high a wickedness. All Grief and all Pas∣sion flags, before it comes to such desperate at∣tempts. And, Oh Heavens! Is it not much more difficult to be committed without a Complice, with∣out an Assistant, when the whole of the Villany must be intirely perpetrated, only by the Sons hand and heart? Besides, pray consider what horrour such an Immanity would strike into a Man, to say, You wou'd have kill'd your Father. Such an Ac∣cusation receives strength only from this, that he who is catch'd attempting it, must needs be put to death.

That you may know, says he, What I now lay to his charge is true, I had a mind to disinhe∣rit him, before. Pray, Father, don't think to make your obstinacy in complaining, as any kind of Proof against me. You, when you say, My Son wou'd have Murthered me, think, that you raise an Odi∣um upon your former Judges, and cry out, You, forsooth, were too easie, you were too merciful, you sent home my Son to me back again. But 'tis most unjust, that an Action of disinherison, which could not prevail for itself, should procure credit to a greater Crime. This is not the first time, that my modesty hath been tryed in Court; nor is this the first Suit that hath been commenc'd against me, upon the account of the precedent part of my life; 'Tis true, that Mans Innocence is more happy, that never comes under suspicion, but it is made more sure and unquestionable, when it has

stood a Tryal at Law. And as much Infamy as Objections do raise upon a Man, while they are under a probability of proof, so, when they are once clear'd and answer'd, they procure him as much credit. What! De' think, I got the better of my Father in my Suit, upon the account of Favour; and that I overthrew him by my Autho∣rity amongst Old Men, Grave Elders and Parents? Let them look to it, who are so Indulgent to themselves in their Distresses, that they think Fa∣vour and Mercy must be shew'd? to them: But a Son, that is accus'd by his own Father, Can no ways prevail over him, but by the Merits of his Cause. Yet, in earnest, let us grant, that in your first A∣ction to disinherit me, you did not spend all your stock of grief, but you were over-modest, forsooth, to complain of all my faults,* 1.37 nor could your pa∣ternal Piety in your Old Age call'm all to mind, yet, I trow, your second Actions will make sure work, even to over-measure? You are return'd to Court, now the Judges are angry? With how great terrour were all the Spectators struck, when they saw you so shameless, that after you had been so often beaten, you wou'd again come into the Pit? Grief always grows more eager, after a shameful repulse. Yea, the Judges will brow-beat those more, who come under their cognizance a se∣cond time. How many doth the Authority from the dissimilitude of the decision please, and does not the contrary sentence seem the more se∣vere? But the third Suit, Oh Heavens! What a Clutter did it make; What an Expectation did it raise? For my part, I wonder I had any leave given me to make any defence at all, that in

the very first hubbub, my Brains, had not been knock'd out? After all this, pray, what new Crime can my Father object against me? I am grown Old in a well-regulated Government, I have nothing in my manners or conversation, but the Judges know it better than myself. I beseech you, is such a thing possible in nature, that, he, which will be a Parricide hereafter, should shew no sym∣ptoms of it, before-hand? A Villany, so notorious and immane, does it not use to be ushered in by some puny Offences, as Harbingers thereunto? That sa∣vageness, that is to be expiated by the* 1.38 Culeus and by Serpents, what, can it lurk under a pleasing frame of Spirit in ones Youth? 'Tis another sort of miserable Persons, that the Clemency and Fa∣vour of the Court doth relieve. Those Persons ac∣quitted me, that knew, 'twould do me no good, that I was not disinherited. Therefore, thô you cry out, I accus'd thee ever and anon, I complain'd against thee many a time, I would have disinheri∣ted thee, thrice; yet all this ought to do no more, than make you not to be believed, if you levy any new Objections against me. For 'tis a plain non-sequitur, good Father, that you should accuse me of what you yourself are guilty; and I must be an Offender, forsooth, because you judge of me by your own naughty self. 'Tis not all your severi∣ty, nor your Cruelty, nor your Terrour, can make me a Parricide; To make me guilty of so great a Crime, you must not bring your own Passion but my Conversation in Evidence; not your grief, but the frame of my spirit. Men are exasperated less, and they hate less, on the account of other inju∣ries.

The revenge of a Son, that's Innocent, is on∣ly to kill himself.

But if it be evident, that there was nothing at that time in my Conversation, that might give any ground of suspicion of Parricide, let us consider then what Cause might afterward arise. Let me here propound a Question to your Lordships, Who, in such circumstances, ought to have had a great∣er regard to Innocency, than myself? I got the better of my Father, it was then a duty incumbent upon me, with might and main, to keep my self in your Lordships good Graces, and to study how to reward my Counsellours, and to pay you your due, by whose favour I can boldly return home; and by whose means I am not afraid of any sudden mishap, or malignant fate, from my Father. 'Tis past all belief, that Three Acquittals in Court should prove me Innocent, and yet make me a Parricide too. Besides, dear Father, my very Casting of you in your Action, how jealous and how fearful doth it make me? Do I not know, that, assoon as I re∣turn'd, the whole House had a watchful and an ill eye upon me; that I live amongst Pick-thanks, who curry Favour with you, by telling Lyes and Stories of their own devising, upon me? But you'l say, perhaps, I may be hurried on to such a Vil∣lany, because I hope to get something by your death. Bur alas? Do I not know, that thô I am sent home upon the account of such another Wicked∣ness, yet I am as much hated by you, as ever? I beseech you, with what confidence can I under∣take such a mischievous Exploit, seeing I have been so often accused of it before, and pointed at as it were, by the Complaint of my Father? What

Plea and Apology can I hope to make for my Par∣ricide? I could make no defence at all, if you had drank the Poyson. Suppose I had a mind to Mur∣ther my Father, suppose I had Cause so to do; yet how should I have an opportunity; or how, the Confidence to attempt it? I cannot so much as dye, but that I must be found our. Can I prepare Poyson, that have no Assistant, nor no Complice, to help to Administer it? The Journey-men despise me, the Apprentices set me at nought, avoid my company, they shun my discourse, they pretend they hate me, out of the Love they bear to you. Pray tell me, de' think it possible, that I can Ad∣minister it, myself? For I, forsooth, may have easie access to you at all times, may I not?* 1.39 Let me tell you, let these hands of mine give you what they will, you'l say, 'tis nothing but Poyson. And what! Do I prepare such a Poyson as kills immediatly, that seizes and flies out all of a sud∣den? How then can I make the least shadow of defence? Or, was it a slow Poyson, that wasts a Man by Inches, so that you can't presently cry out; nor can't immediatly believe, that you have drank any Poyson, at all? I beseech you, tell me, for whom I prepared that Poyson, which I could give to none, but myself?

But, says he, even this shews thou hadst a Parricidal Intent, because thou hadst Poyson, by thee. I answer, my Lords, all those things that we have about us, whereby wicked attempts may be furthered, and which Mortals ordinarily turn to the worst use, yet nature hath not there∣fore put them in our power, only that we may use them, as the corrupt and guilty minds of some

Men would have us; no, the use of them is good or ill according to the Intent of their Owner; All the good or hurt they do is, as it were, spe∣cificated and comes from the Conscience of him, that possesses them. For, I beseech you, can you prove a Man a Robber, only because he has a Sword about him? You know, Men that are asleep have Swords too, hanging by their Beds-side. If you search any Traveller, you'l find that Fear makes him carry some Weapon or other about him. The Laws don't forbid us to have, or to make provision of such things; they do not pro∣hibit the Weapons themselves, but they direct and regulate their use. Suppose, I should say, as if I were in the Ruff of all my prosperity,* 1.40 I provided Poyson, that if any sudden hazard, if any weak∣ness, pain, or unfore-seen distress should seize me, I might have it ready at hand, as my last refuge. You need not wonder, if I did so, who have stood a long time as Fortunes Butt, and who have almost wearied out all human Chances; and a∣gainst whom, my Father is brewing another Acti∣on thô he hath been so often cast already. That Son has need to have death in his Power, whose own Father could ha' kill'd him, before.

Again, 'tis no eredible, says he, that thou shouldst be willing to Poyson thyself, when thou wert Acquitted; seeing thou wouldst not do it, when thou wert Accused only: I could tell you in answer, dear Father, I was willing to live, as long as I cou'd conceive any probable hope, that you would at last have some pity upon me, that my woful plight might affect you, that my tears might mitigate you, and that my very paleness

might overcome you; but, pardon my Innocence, I had then need of a pertinacious and stubborn de∣fence. I was willing to live, I say, that People might not report, after I was gon, that I was ta∣ken napping in the highest of Villanies, and that I hurried my self out of the World, that I might not bear the blowing of it. And that you your self might not proclaim over my dead Corps, You see I had cause to fear, 'twas not for nothing that I told you of Poyson, he had not the Confidence to live, to abide the Tryal. That you might not rail at me, when I am gon; and make Objections, when I am not in a Condition, to answer. Yet I shall confess this Truth to you concerning my Impatience, I was not willing to dye when you would disinherit me, upon the same ground, that I would not drink the Poyson when you bad me. But, make your best, Sir, I say, again, make your best of my woful Confession, and because you could not glut your Eye with the sight, you may satisfie your Ears; I confess, I was willing to dye: And, if you will, you may add this further jeer to my mise∣ries, as to ask me, Why, pray, wou'd you re∣nounce and cast me off? What says Natural Pie∣ty to this? Hath not my Grief a juster ground, than any bodily loss, or than the ruin of ones E∣state? My own Father hurries me to destruction: Doth not that one Speech contain all misery, in the Bowels of it? Are not all woes summ'd up in that one Complaint. Perhaps, we may expect some end of other mishaps, but the hatred of Re∣lations never cease. Alliances joyn'd together by bonds of nature, as by Kindred or Brother-hood, they can't be slackned or loos'ned, but they must

be overthrown; those that from their very rise can scarce be master'd and turn'd to the better, and are hardned too in a long course of Wickedness, when they are allow'd, do not presently re∣turn back to their former course, but bending downwards draw all their weight and strength; by that very vigor they increased, when left to themselves, they grow up to the very heigth of vice. All the difficulty lies here, how a Father may begin not to love his Son, for if he once loap over that Block, then all the rest comes on amain; and that which hindred him to hate at first, the same is a bar to the return of his Love: If Children and Parents are once chang'd in their Affections, at the same time the Relation is cancell'd between them. They are happy, who are sensible they have something to correct and amend within 'm. No an∣ger of a Father with his own Children can cease, but that which is grounded on their Faults. What then shall I do, I have no luxury to repent off; nor no petulancy to bewail? And whose Abdi∣cation is grounded not on my own Manners, but my Fathers? In vain do you comfort me, in vain do you sooth me up, with Honey-words. A Man, whose Father never gives over hating him, his only Issue is, to hate himself. But alas! when I come to complain before a Judg in Court, 'tis but a small part of my Grief, I can utter: When I say, my Father hates me, I do as good as proclaim to all the World, that he counts every day a Ho∣ly-day, without me; that there's no Mirth, when I am by; that he never comforts me when I am sad; nor ministers to me, when I am sick and weak. If any Man can tell him of some disaster,

that hath befallen me; if any one do rail and re∣proach me behind my back, Who but He with my Father. If I am able to endure all this, you may well say, I have deserv'd it. There are some Crosses, whose very continuance makes us patient under them, which do firm and barden our minds by their duration. That a Mans Father hates him, 'tis a new Tryal every day. Perhaps when Men arc cross one to another, their natural grudges less affect them, and 'tis some kind of relief to a Man, if he be chid to chid again; No Son can bear a Fathers hatred, but he, who returns hate for hate.

I, poor unhappy Man, my Lords, do ask you, yea I interrogate all Mankind in the Case, what would you have me to do? Without doubt the Issue of my Suit hath discharged me from my In∣dictment, seeing I am acquitted; and yet my dis∣charge hath not taken me off from my desire to dye, it hath only condemn'd me to live still, if I please. For certain, my Lords, I had the worst of it when I was acquitted, and (which is the undeniable weakness of a troubled Soul) I fainted under a piteous kind of Happiness. When I re∣turnd home, pray tell me, how I shall order my Looks, and how, my Spirit? Joy is not fit for me, for my Mirth does exasperate: If I am sad, then my Melancholy offends: If I seek for an opportu∣nity to discourse, than I am hated, as an arrogant Insulter. If I come near, he tells me, I am an Eye-sore to him; if I go farther off, then, for∣sooth, I despise and sleight him. How long shall I have the better of 't? 'Tis plain, they can't be cur'd by Suits of disinherison, who do not present∣ly

give up the bucklers, but stand upon the strict terms of their Innocence; my Father was not cast, now was I acquitted, when I came home, for no body loves me, no body shews any respect to me, there: I can now go to none, but the blind and dark corners of the House. I put not off, nor lay aside my nasty weeds, I think upon my Old Fa∣ther every day, as if he had as accusing a Face, as ever. I am jealous what to do, what to speak, or how to look, and (which is the cursed'st kind of care, than can be) I am fain to set a Guard on my self. Now, Sir, you have sated me, I say, you have sated me with Life. And where∣as even happy Persons are glutted with the conti∣nuance of too much prosperity, what an irksomness do you brew for me, to tire me out in my Mi∣sery? My Age is spent in Tears and Prayers, I pass the day in slavery, and the Night in anxieties. What doth my Innocency hold forth to, ballance such undeserved and burthensom things? That Son ought to be disinherited, that his Father hates, if he be guilty; and he ought to dye if he hate him, being innocent.

But, says my Father, grant that we believe, you were willing to dye, why must you chuse Poyson, a∣bove all, to do the Feat? Truly, Father, you may make the like-quarrel with dying Man, let him chuse what Death he pleases; and because Na∣ture has been so good, as to allow us several ways of Exit out of this Miserable World, you may as well find fault with whatever of them, a Man please to chuse. Thus if I had fallen on a naked sword to kill my self, then you wou'd ha' cryed out, Why had you not made use of Poy∣son,

rather? But nothing is more nice, than such an Exit, that is not occasioned by legal Punish∣ment or by Fear, but proceeds from weakness of Spirit, grounded on the Miseries of Life. For my part, I have a greater and a more particular kind∣ness for a death by Poyson, than any other way: It sheds no Blood; it does not leave the Corps dis∣mal and gastly to look upon; 'tis a quiet, and an easie kind of death. O thou most ungrateful of all Aged Fathers, I took care in dying so, that no body else might have been thought to ha' kill'd me. And now, I think, Father, I have got you at a lock, I make bold to interrogate you. What! Can I be a Parricide, who brought Poyson into your House unprepar'd, as 'twere in the Oar, and such as had need of Compounding, still; and that must have a great deal more don to it, before it can be administred? Can I be a Parricide, that seek to hide my self in your own House, that answered you so plainly and so readily about a Potion, that you knew nothing of before, and which no body had complain'd to you about? I got me to a room into the middle of the House; I set no body, to watch at the door, to keep folks out; I car'd not who passed by, I shut out no Comers at all. I beseech you, are these signs that I would have Murthered you, and not rather, that I would ha' kill'd myself. If I had prepared the Poyson for you, you wou'd ha' found it hid close in some hole or corner, you would have found me astonished about it, and as pale as a Clout, my words would have been bro∣ken, my sighs trembling, and to be sure I should ha' denyed it. If a real Parricide had been catch'd,

he would ha' spilt the Poyson, that he might not have confess'd it.

But why then, says he, if you had provided it for yourself, would you not drink it off? I'le an∣swer you, Father, in brief, and according to the condition of human Nature: There is nothing else in the power of the Miserable, but to be willing to dye. Yet when I say, I am willing to dye, I do not say, I must of necessity dye immediatly. I an∣swer according to my own resolution, I do not pro∣mise what Fate will do. Do you wonder, that thô I have Poyson ready at hand, yet many things may fall out between the Cup and the Lip? We see sometime a Man is run quite thorough the bo∣dy with a Sword, and his very Life despair'd of, and yet he miraculously recovers. Some Men have had the Rope about their Necks, and yet either the nooze ha's slipt, or the very Fall of their bodies has broken it; when others have been to be thrown down a Precipice, the very spring of their bodies has freed them. 'Tis as fit, he should not dye that is willing, as that we dye against our wills: But I had rather deal with you by plain reason, as I have begun. There is nothing, Father, that consists so much in an Impetus or Effort, as to be willing to dye. And Nature knows nothing more impatient, than the Passion of a dying Man. If you wou'd retain this, 'tis sufficient that you are willing to dye; he that takes away the ardour of death from a Man, takes a∣way the reason of it too. He that chops in upon a Man, in that case, interrupts and breaks off his ea∣gerness; he that doth but speak two words to him doth divert and hinder him. Every minutes stop

doth as it were supplicate for Life. And there∣fore 'twas, to deal plainly with you, that I chose such a private place to do my business in. The least thing in the World will trouble a Man, when he dyes through weakness; and the smallest causes of all do make that death displeasing, which a poor Mans Innocency persuades him too. What if one should step in, that would rejoyce at it? What if he thinks to revenge it? If he be an Eye-wit∣ness, that should be grudg'd such a sight? Then presently, forsooth, his arrogant Life will be blamed, and his contumacious grief will disagree with his death, when 'tis found out. You don't know how much hesitation you occasion, while you interrogate me, and force me to answer you. And he that thou makest to give thee an Answer, thou givest him opportunity to abide another Suit, and to make another Plea. As for me, at that time all manner of Passions seized upon me at once, as Indignation, filial duty, paternal reve∣rence, and grief. I can dye for my Father, but I cannot dye before him. Add hereto, your perem∣ptory words, Drink it. In earnest, if when I had been wounded and panting for Life, you had com∣manded me to thrust the Sword further in, I would have shut up my Wounds, and laboured to keep in my departing Soul; if you had bid me hang my self in a Halter, ready prepar'd, I wou'd have endeavoured to have broke the rope and leap down; if when I was running in post hast to throw my self down a Precipice, and you did lay no hands on me to pull me back, I would have directed my course to the Champain of my own accord. 'Twas with great reason, O my

Soul, that thou didst long for secrecy and solitude. But in comes a Father, and now I am undon, my eagerness to perfect my death is at an end, and he discharges me of a double Passion; for I ought not to dye, if he forbid it; and I cannot dye, if he command it. Off with it, says he. But stay, the poysonous Drug is not yet put into the draught; but you apprehend me for the nonce, because I was yet but a pounding it. Alas, Father, there are many things to be done, before I drink it, I must call first all the Slaves; together, and then all the Li∣berti or Journey-men, I must make my moan to 'm, I must complain, I must leave them something in charge, I must make my defence. Drink it off! At the tail of that word I thought you had ad∣ded, now thou art catch'd, now thou art non-plust, let's away to the Court. Drink it off, say you! Perhaps, Sir, you bid me do it, as if I denyed it to be Poyson. My Lords, let me ask you as if you had been present in that secret appartiment, what frame of Spirit, what courage, de' think I could have, after such a word as that? 'Tis my Accuser that says it, 'tis, he says it, that was cast before, he says it in secret, he says it so that he might have denyed it, if I had taken it off at his bidding. Take it off! Sir, I'le do it with all my heart, and I pro∣vided it for no other purpose but that, but you, with your grey-hairs, are so over-eager upon me, that you have quite chang'd my mind. Drink it off, say you! What else have you now to do, but to pull my Chops asunder, if I refuse so to do, as you bid me? Or, that you pour it down my throat, even thô I lift up both my hands to oppose you? In this struggle, I had e'ne quite forgot,

what I had resolved to do, I had forgot what I was preparing. I saw, you look'd so fierce upon me the first word you spake; and your very counte∣nance was so bent and set upon accusing me of Par∣ricide, that I e'ne thought you had bid me drink Poyson, even of your own brewing. You did not know the way, Father, I say again, you did not know the way, how to keep up my pertinacious resolutions. When your Son was resolv'd to dye for your sake in a Corner, you, forsooth, must find him out. What, will he kill himself? Do you forbid him; pluck the Cup out of his hand, that he may not take down or drink the Fatal dose. Cry out, O thou rash Fellow, what art thou a doing? Hold thy hand, now I am angry with thee no longer, now we are perfect Friends again. Yet I'le make hast to do the Do, that my Ears may carry this sound along with them, and that my Eyes may be somewhat pleased with your Impa∣tience. You may impute it to yourself, that you have retorted upon me, and that you have made me forget all my solemn vows to destroy myself. An Innocent Man can dye with more ease, if he be de∣sired to live. Oh Heavens! Into what stubborn∣ness of Spirit, into what fiery quarrelsom humour did you cast me, when you said to me, Drink it off. I could hardly tell, whether 'twere best live or dye. Poor heart, I was almost beside my self, I was astonished at such an unexpected Command, I stood stock still as one quite stupid, without any power so much as to deny it, so amazed and transported was I, so that I had almost kill'd my self another way. For certain there is nothing more surprising than sudden and unthought of grief,

for when our minds are already weakned with striving against our miseries, when new onsets come, they quite undo us. After this I could not find words to make my complaint, nor had I a vent for Tears. It suffices for no undertaking, to dye at another Mans pleasure, and with his own Poy∣son. Thô therefore you ply me with a bundle of new Indictments, yet it repents me not, I say it re∣pents me not, to have slackned that ardour and eagerness to dye: I did dye as a Parricide. My Fa∣ther, who complains I did not drink it, would now say, he was taken in the Fact, he cannot deny it. I should now be addicated three times, and he would urge, that I dar'd not for my ears re∣turn into the Court again. 'Twas well that I spilt the Poyson, as if I had a mind to live again. That Poyson that is found out in secret, no Man ever will be thought to drink it, because he had provided it for himself. You'l say now perhaps, That I would not have suffered you, if you had shew'd yourself willing to drink it; and you prove it, since that, by a very good Argument, forsooth: You seek my Life, even now. You wou'd not have suffered is! Pray, did you ever lay hands upon me to hinder me? You might as easily have done that, as to bid me drink it. You would not ha' suf∣fered it, wou'd ye! And further, you were not afraid, lest even the sense I had of your Command should raise up in me a desire to destroy my self. 'Tis a Crime in me, if I dye, that it may be que∣stioned afterwards,* 1.41 whether you wou'd ha' kill'd me or no? Thô you, forsooth, endeavour to take off the Odium of that word, by pretending ano∣ther Frame of Spirit, yet the very Experiment

shews a Murtherous Intent. Nor is there any great difference in point of Cruelty, whether you suffer a thing to be don, or essay to do it your self. That Father will never be moved with the actual death of his Son, that is not moved with his readiness to dye.

My Lords, what shall I now do to his pertina∣cious rigor? To what kind of Mould of Patience, shall I cast myself? You see a Man, that no po∣sture at all of my Spirit can change; he takes offence at my constancy, and he is as much offen∣ded with my soft-heartedness and infirmity. If I am willing to live, he takes me by head and shoulders and throws me out of doors: If I endeavour to dye, then he stops and vexes me. Yea perhaps, he hath prepared and invented something against me, even this very day, if your Lordships Clemen∣cy should be willing to releive me. What end, what issue is there of my unspeakable miseries? Of a Son that was Acquitted, he has made me wil∣ling to dye; of a Son, that was a dying, he has made me willing to live. But, with what Mo∣tives and with what Prayers shall I make my Ad∣dress to your most upright Lordships? Your poor unhappy Client, your thrice acquitted Defendant, is forbid so much as to shed a Tear. He has not so much Favour, as to fall down at your Feet so of∣ten; he hath wearied out your Compassion already, and yet he brings before a new pressing Grievance. O death! who standest always aloof of from the Miserable, who stoppest thy Ears to those that de∣sire thy Company, When wilt thou relieve me? Wo is me, poor Youth, I have lost the fruit of my Poyson. And yet, Father, seeing I have put you

at least in some kind of hope, pray don't whol∣ly despair. But before I am dead and buried, take some comfort in this Speech of mine, You have overthrown me at Law. 'Tis true, I know not yet what other kind of death I shall chuse, or whe∣ther it were best for me to get any more of that unlucky Poyson. But this I proclaim, and be∣seech, that which way soever I resolve to go out of the World, take so much pity of me, as not to command me; take so much pity, as not to enforce me. Your Groans and your Tears wou'd kill me a great deal sooner. And that you may not think I have forgot that word, you uttered to me in secret, I tell you, thô I cou'd not drink the Poy∣son at your bidding, yet your very bidding of me so to do, will one time or other most certainly be my Death.

Infamis in Matrem, OR, A Son accus'd of Incest with his own Mother.

DECLAMATION XVIII.

The Argument.

The Law allows an Action against an Hus∣band for Ill-treating and Abusing of his Wife. The Case, There was a Gentle∣man that had a Son, buxsom and beau∣tiful, who he suspected was naught with his

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I lov'd my Son with a maternal-affection, whose Childish years, and mind that never knew what Marriage meant, were never bespotted with the Infamy of Lust; to whom the most brasen-fac'd Report that ever was, and the suspiciousest Husband in the whole World, could never object any thing but that only Title of Son; That which was the first faithful Testimony of my Nuptial Chastity, I brought forth a Son that my very Husband own'd to be his, nor was I afraid, lest the countenance of the Infant at first, nor any likeness growing up afterwards, should discover any stol'n or unlawful Copulation. Assoon as ever he was born, (if you will but believe a poor Mother) she hugg'd him more affectionately, than Mothers ordinarily use to do, she did not abandon him to the Care of Houses or Servants; no, she suckled him at her own Breasts, and cherish'd him with her own Em∣braces. O thou wicked Parricide, canst thou find in thy heart to throw dirt upon one of such ten∣der years, and to blemish the very Childhood of of the poor Youth, with such Odious Aspersions? Farewel all faithfulness between the Sacred Re∣lations of Husband and Wife, if a Mother can't be Innoce••••, but as long as her Child is under-age: Be∣sides, the good Mothers Indulgence was enhaun∣ced towards her only Son, because he had a Fa∣ther so harsh to him, and one that was so unkind an Husband to her too; and yet she herself thought that she was very deficient in her affection, seeing she was to bring enough for both. For the Father would seldom ever kiss his Son, and as seldom take him in his Arms; so that, he looking upon his Son, thô he were all that he had, with the same

Murtherous Intent, that sometime or other he de∣sign'd to destroy him, it made the Mothers love more remarkable. Hence it was, that the poor Woman was always a Chatting with her Son, and she never went abroad, but he was with her. And she was very glad, when she heard the People that she met, say, There's a brave Child, when he was taken notice of as the best in every Company, for thereby he did as 'twere tell every body him∣self, that his Mother lov'd him best. Pity me, my Lords, and don't think, that my Husband drew his wicked suspicions from other Mens Opinions and Judgments; no, he was guided therein only by his own churlishness and the unnatural hardness of his Heart. If you, the Father, don't Love your Son, then, forsooth, the Mother must presently be thought to love him over-much? D'e think, my Lords, I will now make my Complaint against the licentious Tongues of the Vulgar? No, he that has such a kind of Father as he, need not run to blame Reports. He sufficiently shews, what was the Subject of the Impudent story, and who was the Author thereof, who first believ'd it. The Com∣monalty might easily talk of such a thing as In∣cest, after they once admir'd that a Father could suspect such a thing.

These are the things, my Lords, which the Mo∣ther did securely, plainly and openly, before her Hus∣band and the whole Town. Now, pray, let the Father tell all his Secrets. He catch'd and hurry'd the Youth, (who fear'd nothing, which was the first argument of his Innocence and Plain-hearted∣ness,) into such a corner of the House, where if he had cry'd out never so loud, and groaned never

so deeply, yet he could not have been heard. There did he torment to him to death with Lash, Fire, and all the Arts of Cruelty: Did ever any Man, my Lords, deserve worse of the Innocency of the days wherein we live, and of all Sacred Na∣tural Affections too, than this Defendant here in Court. He tortur'd his Son that he might prove the Incest; and he Murther'd him, that it might not be believ'd. Set now before you, my Lords, the Confessions of both the Parents: The Mother cries out, I love my Son, the Father says, I kill'd him: 'Tis impossible, you should think both of us to be Innocent. And now, most guilty Old Man, 'tis a great Evidence of your Savage Cruelty, that af∣ter you had destroyed your Son, you could endure to stay, till you were question'd about it. What! Did you not run out, of that blind Corner of yours, into the street after a frightful manner? When your Cloathes were sprinkled with your Sons blood, don't you make Proclamation of his Death? Don't you call God and Man to Witness? What! don't you kill even the Mother, too? But, forsooth, you must be very modest in your Wickedness, and therefore you leave yourself a ground, to be qui∣et under your suffering. You, poor Man, do spare your Wife in the Case, you bear some reverence to the Conjugal Gods, and to the Rights of the Marriage-bed. Alas, you ha'nt now so much as a ground for a Lye?

I accuse him of Ill-treatment or Ill-abearance. Will it please you, my Lords, that the death and burial of ones Children should be bewailed under the same Law-term, with which we complain of lesser Matrimonial injuries, and with the lamentations

wherewith we mourn for some bodily loss or re∣proach, as when we are denyed some neater kind of dress, or, to go abroad out of doors into the Town? And what would you have my woful grief to do, if our Sex hath no other Law to re∣lieve it, but that only? And if all Nuptial complaints must be bound to come under that one narrow Law, or none. A Mother, that for the Murther of a Son accuses her Husband only of Ill treatment, does not avenge him, but only shews she is con∣tent, that he ought not to have been Slain. Let me omit, my Lords, a little my Grief for my sad Orbity; and in a Case of Parricide, let us give o∣ther Reasons for Ill treatment. Might not a Wife justly complain and say, you were too easie in sus∣pecting me Guilty of Adultery, and you believ'd it too soon? The Chastity of a Matron is not suffi∣ciently defended only by her own Innocency; the weakness of this Sex can't owe the whole Report and Opinion of their being naught to their own Manners only; all the respect that Women have, is according to the Report their Husbands make of them; all the Stories about them come from the breasts of their own Husbands. To be frown'd upon, to be complain'd of, to be disdain'd, is the Fate of a Married Woman. A Husband gives Sentence against the Chastity of his Wife, he tells it abroad, he makes Sham-stories of it; after him, the Servants of the House report it, and Strangers believe it to be so. There is no Man gives a worse Example to speak ill of his Wife, than he, that every body is likely to believe. Grant, that the nimiety of your Love doth make you prone to suspect, and that your Impatient Affections do

oftimes make you full easily to believe, what you fear. A Womans own Husband may accuse her, thô falsely, of secret Adultery and unlawful Copulation, such a thing is possible, & sometimes usual, yet I tell you, 'tis very rare, when a Woman has had a Child by her Husband, and if she firm'd her plighted Chastity by the Fruitfulness of a Wife. What if she too should be severe, while her Son is yet but Young? What if she should think before-hand of a Daughter-in-Law, and of Grand-children? Take some pity on the Times, Let every one draw the Interpretation of another Mans Innocency, from the Text of his own Manners. Here's a Father, that would prove an Incestuous Crime might be commited, only by this one Argument, that 'twas in his power to kill his Son.

But, says he, There was a strong Report, there was such a thing. I beseech you, Sir, whose Report should a Man believe, that is against Nature it∣self, and against the Interest of all Parents and Children. 'Tis a good one, indeed! There was a Report. What! shall we interprete your Meaning, as if you had said, some Servant, that was privy to the Fact, complain'd of it to you, or that the Chamber-maid told you of it: And perhaps, you'l say, I was by in a corner, unknown to them, I came in upon them, unawares. I beseech you, my Lords, which of the Two is most credible, that a Mother should be guilty of Incest, or that Fame should be guilty of a Lye? It had been the Im∣pudentest thing in the World, for the Common Peo∣ple to have talked of such a thing, unless the Fa∣ther had believ'd it before. It is one of the great∣est Mischiefs, my Lords, that is incident to human

minds, that we coin wicked things with more ea∣gerness than good▪ and ill-reporters never think they do a better piece of service, than when they re∣late things perfectly incredible, as if they had been acted. You must needs shew a greater eagerness in telling of that, which you can't prove; that so, what hath no ground in the Truth of the thing, may borrow some shadowy one from the Posi∣tiveness of him that affirms it. And yet this is a most unjust thing, as to the Talkativeness of the Mobile, because the very bandying, even of such as do not believe it, doth many times increase the Report itself. What, can you wonder at the matter of such a Report, which no Man believes, his own self? Which the very he, that reports it, quotes a∣nother Auther for? Report is a thing without a witness, without a discoverer, of uncertain things 'tis one of the wickedest, 'tis malign, 'tis fallaci∣ous, and, in a word, 'tis of kin to your present silence. Nay wou'd you have me prove in short, what you yourself thought of report? You would not believe, report spake truth, till you had made enquiry by torture. Grant, that report may have some kind of Authority, in such things that the People may possibly come to the knowledg of. I see now, how Adulteries committed in secret come to be divulg'd; some Servant or some Accomplice does tell 'm abroad, such Joys are not manag'd with discretion; Men count it a great part of their pleasure to boast of it. But it is an Offence, which, if human minds are capable of so great a Wickedness, is inveloped with a midnight and thick darkness, so that the very looks of the Offendors do make no discovery thereof; they won't trust

neither Man nor Maid. What need is there of Messages between, what need of Love-Letters? The Privity of Two is enough, the Mother and Son are enough to do the deed. An Incest is so much the more incredible, as it is made a Town-talk of. O the miserable condition of the Female Sex, whose very vertues sometimes give occasion for false Stories, to be made upon them! Why does not the poor Wife take delight sometimes to gad abroad? Why is her deportment so stern to every body, and her disposition so rigid? What, has she no desires, nor no want of any thing at all? Yes, but her Son takes up all her vacant Time, he fills up all her affections, a Mother has nothing else to boast off, but her Son. I beseech you, did she love him too much? Such simplicity can't commit so great a Wickedness. Suppose, that there shou'd be such a Guilt between Mother and Son, sure they will not openly discover it by any Eye∣glances, they will abstain from Embraces before the Father, they'l forbear all their Familiarity in publick, they'l avoid to discourse or so much as to meet one another before the slaves, or before the half-Free-men; thô they be never so hot upon so high a Wickedness, yet they will seem to affect a certain kind of Gravity. O thou cruel Parri∣cide, chuse which side thou wilt, a diligent and wary Incest is never suspected, and 'tis a negligent one, that can be found out.

But why do I keep such ado, as if 'twere the Common People, that bruited abroad this unusual and incredible Villany? Alas, in all this tittle-tattle, I find only the footsteps of one bad Husband. 'Tis no great matter, whether he be the first raiser of

the Report, that his Wife was an Incestuous Per∣son, or whether he believes it, when it is raised. What! did not he stand in fear of the Report of so horrid a villany, and was not the Fame itself of such a thing almost ashamed to come to the Ears of a Father? Deny, while you will, that the scurvy Report had not its Rise from you, yet let me tell you, no Man durst have been so bold, as to have talk'd of or published any such matter, un∣less first they had had it from you. Give me but a good Father, and a good Husband, and I need not say, does he not believe it? No, rather he'l never hear of any such Report at all. My Lords, if you will give me leave to say it, go your ways now, and make a doubt, if you can, who was the Author of the Report, when you see the Fa∣ther pleads for it.

He was a beautiful Youth, says he. I hope, this is no more an offence in the Mother, than 'tis a Crime in the Son. He was beautiful, say you. If you wou'd have this Plea bear any weight against me, you should have added, that he was an Adulterer too, and a Ravisher of Women, so that, when he had to do with this or that Married Wife, her grieved Husband had almost kill'd him; or if he had vitiated this or that Virgin, he was cry'd out upon, as abominable Fellow, all the Town over: And yet we know, that some Young Men use to be as extravagant, as that comes to. What de' say, Sir? Did his first lustful prank begin at In∣cest? Did ever any Young-man venture first on such a Crime? Is this your only proof for it, be∣cause, forsooth, he was a beautiful Youth? Why don't you rather say, I took him napping, as he

was mixing Poyson for me, he had such a Guilty Conscience, that that set him on to take away my life. Let me tell you, a Son had need have don an Infinite deal of mischief before, that his own Fa∣ther may believe, he is guilty of Incest. He was an handsom Youth, say you. Pray t••ll me, was there ever any Son, that his own Mother did not count him handsom? Alas, Mothers love their Children thô they are Lame, they prize 'm the more, when they look pale or wan by any Disease or any Cor∣rection, yea, in such a Case, their very Pity amounts even to the strength of Love. If a Child be de∣formed, yet a poor Mothers Natural Affection is not hindred thereby, nor, if he be Beautiful, is it in∣creased. They Love 'm only, because they are their Children. Children, Husband, I say, Chil∣dren are not loved by a Mother with wanton glan∣ces, she does not fetch 'm in with kind speeches and looks, but a Mother sees something in her Son, whatever it be, that is more beautiful than the Man: Perhaps a new Beauty might attract the Eye and conquer the Heart, but there's no such thing in ones Children, for a Mother has her Son under her Eye in his very Infancy, his Childhood arises up under the same, and so he creeps up to write Youth. A Mother sees that which you call a Beautiful Son, every day of the week, she day∣ly admires and embraces him. She that hath lov'd a Child so long, pray when will she give over loving him? O thou Guilty Old Man, there is no need of Love to urge to such a Villany,* 1.42 but of Madness and Fury rather. That a Mother may unlawfully lust after somthing in her Young Son, she must needs first hate, that he is her Son,

so that her pious affection is so far from assisting her to commit such a Wickedness, that she can never be wrought over to it, but she must for∣get the Relation, she bears. Besides, this makes the Incest more incredible, that it requires even Two Persons to be equally horn-mad. To an Ince∣stuous Crime 'tis not enough, that a Son be doted upon, but he must dote as much, o'th t'other side. And besides, who, pray should begin the En∣treaty and the Courtship, first; dare any Son pro∣pound a Question of that Nature to his own Mo∣ther? Or on the other side, can any Mother hope to obtain such a request (if she should make it,) of her Son? I ask you, Old Man, even in your greatest humour of silence, (if you be not a most crafty and malicious Dissembler) whether you can believe me guilty of so great a Crime? Can a Mother commit an Offence that a Father can't so much as name? What! de' say, he was a beauti∣ful Shipling? Pray in this place, let me interrogate the natural Affection of all Mankind in general? Must this be, that if a Son has a sweeter Face than ordinary, and a better meen'd Countenance, that presently his Mother must be afraid, forsooth, to kiss or embrace him? If a Man has a Daughter cast in more beautiful Mould, than other Females are, what must her Father fly from her salutes, or dread her embraces. Let Heaven overthrow, with a wit∣ness, such impudent over-carefulness, and such ne∣farious Feats. 'Tis but one degree below Incest, to fear, that it may not be committed. I had ra∣ther have such simple plain-heartedness, that does not fear Infamy, I had rather have naked and undisguised Passions, and an unprojecting Piety;

such as will not believe, that any such idle story can be made of it, or told abroad. Let it hug a child unmeasurably, and never ha' don; Report is not so much worth, that a Mother should love her Son, in solicitude for her Chastity. For my part, Husband, if any body should ask me, I think that all Mothers whatever, do so love their Chil∣dren as if they doted on them. You shall see my Eye always intent on his sweet pretty Face and Lo••ks, you shall see me kemb his head, and set his Cloaths at rights, I will fetch a sigh when he goes from me, I'le skip for joy, when he comes a∣gain to me, I'le shake hands with him, and we'le hang about one anothers necks: I will not be sa∣tisfied neither with kiss nor discourse, nor with the pleasure of his Company. This is the cruellest thing of all in this damnable suspicion, an Incest can't be fully coined of any, but the very best of Mo∣thers

My Lords, I would have abominated the Crime, if the Father had objected it to his Son more pub∣lickly, or if he had rated him with outragious words. No Man has less reason to believe an Incest, than he that is ready to destroy his Son, therefore. Be∣sides, O you wicked Man, you do not only be∣lieve it, but you make Questions about it? So lit∣tle are you afraid to rake in this secret and mon∣strous filthy puddle. Whereas, indeed, if the Vulgar had talk'd of an Incest, you shou'd have told them, there was no such thing: If the Town does disgrace us, you shou'd ha' kiss'd your only Son, and hugg'd your own poor Wife, the more; you shou'd ha' wrung them both together more closely in your Arms. But Oh, a piece of cruelty

never heard off, before! As if it were not enough for a Father not to believe the Incest, which he cannot prove? And yet, O thou that art grown old in wickedness, I should have endured thy wick∣ed suspicions the better, if thou hadst gon about to make a discovery of so great a wickedness, and yet dissembled thy suspicion Observe our Talk, watch us in s••cret, every moment both of day and night, li••e a prying Eves-dropper be thou at our heels. But what hast thou to do with such abrupt violent Courses? What, with such extremities? You must needs believe the Incest before, that you might have some colour, to torture your Son. But you, Oh horrid! do search out a business by Fire, Lash, and all other Artifices of Cruelty, upon the body of your own Son, for which you ought not to have tortured one of your Servants, nay it had been a petulant Cruelty in you to have put the worst Bond slave you had, to so much Cruel suf∣fering. You heat the Irons red-hot, you hoist the* 1.43 Strapado, thus, all in good time, you suspect an Incest by a Parricide. You know not what head∣long and scurvy in and out work you make, by the madness of your wicked diligence. A Father that tortures his Son about an Incest, is not like to believe him, thô he deny it.

My Lords, all Suspicions, that are grounded upon uncertainties, begin at the wrong end, when they are first vented upon the body; for 'tis never well to interrogate that part of a Man concerning his Conversation, that indites it's Answers, not from Verity but from Interest: I don't yet tell you, who the Person was, you tortured; who 'twas, that you put between the Rack and the Tormenting-fire,

of whom you had made your subtle discoveries before. It ought 'to be the last thing of all, that which t••rtures, and is a just punishment too; Oh Heavens! I beseech you don't think, that his severe Gravity takes its Alpha, from that which should l••••' been the last Letter of the Row. That Crime can never be prov'd, where a Father can put no other body to the Rack, but his own Son. There is but one only way for you, that I know off, to make your defenc••, and that is, if you had used all other means possible to find out the In∣cest, before you appeal'd to the Rock. What de' say? Did you ask the Servants of the House? And was there not a Man that wou'd confess any thing? Did you inquire among the Maids, and was there no Pandress, amongst them? There were no lustful amat••rious L••tters between us. O you wicked Old Man, you could not, with all your flattery, c••iole out a word of Confession. You can make no discovery at all, neither as an Husband, nor as a Master, nor as a Father. Go thy ways now, and say, Report was full of the thing? Why, if upon Report thou must Tor∣ture, yet still thy Examinations must pass through thy Wives Maid-servants, or through thy Sons Val••t de Chambre; 'tis better for thee to vent thy Cruelty there: A Wife should first of all be repudiated, that this great secret of the Family, for∣sooth, might be managed by a divorce, It ex∣ceeds all savageness whatever, to torture a Son, on purpose to find out, whether he deserv'd to be t••rtur'd, yea or no? You, the Father, examin your only Son by Fire and Lash, I beseech you, what wou'd you do, if he deny'd it? I know, you

would commend him highly, and afterwards you would let him go, that you might embrace his half-burnt vitals, and with a Fatherly piety again hug and cherish his mangled and wounded breast. That Man, who puts his only Son to the Torture, can have but one modest pretence for it, viz. that he ought to have been so serv'd. Sir, this busi∣ness cannot but make you the worst of Fathers, you must needs hate your Son so, that you can never make him amends. I had rather, you wou'd ha' poyson'd him, or that you wou'd ha' run him thrô with a Sword, that you wou'd have kill'd him unawares, and before he thought on't. He that does not believe the Incest, ought not to Torture one; and if he does believe it, he should immediatly kill him outright.

But if you have a mind to have even your own Son tortured, if such a wicked Report must be sa∣tisfyed that way; yet I require of you, that you would not lose the benefit of your Torturing; let it be don in the middle of the Town, and in the very mouth of Fame; call in all those Malignant and Talkative Prattle-boxes; and a Matter that concerns the whole Age we live in, let it be inqui∣red into, in the Hearing of all the People. He ought to be Tormented before them all, if they all have had their Talks about him. Let every one of the Company put what, Questions to him they please, let 'm believe their own Ears, and their own Eyes. Why, I pray, must the poor Youth be hurried into a blind remote Corner of the House? Such secrecy in Torturing was no ways fit, whe∣ther your Son were Guilty of the Incest, or Inno∣cent thereof. And yet I can put you into a mid∣dle

way, if you desir'd it, between so secret and so open. You might have call'd our Kindred toge∣ther, you might have sent for some Friends, you might have placed some Grave Seniors about the Young Man, you might have let the Magistrates be present, and such might have stood by, as the City might ha' trusted. You should have given an Opportunity, either to yourself to have proved it, if your Son had confess'd; or to your Son, that, at least, he might have deny'd it: But you, like a wicked cruel Man, do abridg him of the benefit of his Counter-part of the Torture; you ha' brought it to that pass, that now no body will think him Innocent, seeing he hath been put upon the Rack. What can a Torturing in secret do, against Peoples Talk? I declare and protest, that hereby you do but administer more Fewel to malicious Re∣ports; and the uncertainty is rendred doubtfuller and greater, when a Man is Rack'd in hugger-mugger. That Father ought to Torture his Son pub∣lickly, and in the Face of the World, who wou'd either have him Acquitted, or else, who is ready to murther him.

Would you have me, my Lords, to aggravate this Odious and Unworthy Fact, by alleging, that 'twas an own Father that Tortur'd his Son? What! Could not such a necessary piece of service be com∣mitted to Journey-men, or Slaves, to execute? Might not the common Executioner have done it, rather? Here's an own Father, while he was T••rmenting him, does not so much as turn his head o' to' side, nay he himself rent off his Cloaths, 'twas he that tore his shirt, that gave him the Lashes with his own hands, and that was so eager

in jerking him up and down, that he would not suffer him to breath his last; when Death had al∣most clos'd his Jaws, who, but he, must pluck them asunder; he cherished his life,* 1.44 that his Patience might be exercised with longer Torments. Here's a Father, is there not, that deserv'd his Son, thô Innocent, shou'd ha' told him, I did the Fact. O thou wicked Fellow, I will not in this place cry out, that a Man, who is Tortured against his Mo∣ther, shou'd be also Tortur'd before her. Why is the poor Woman excluded from her own Concern, and from the Examination, wherein she has so great an Interest? She Loves him overmuch, and therefore, to chuse, let her be present at his exquisite Torments; mark her groans, take notice how she sighs, and how she looks, if there be a∣ny real Crime committed, if you Torture the Son, the Mother, perhaps, will confess. O thou Cruel Par∣ricide, imagin that at that very Instant of time, I brake in upon thy Close-lock'd room, and that whil'st thou art hastning him to the Rack, I laid hold upon thee, and say, Forbear striking, set aside the burning Coals a while. Whatever Confession thou hast extorted from him, tell it out and spare not; but remember thou hast don that to thy Son, for which no body in the World ought to believe thee. Why dost thou hurry and over-turn his Soul with Grief and Pain? Why dost thou make such frequent Intervals, for thy obstinate Cruelty to Torment the Man between every Hoist, if thou think'st it in vain for thee to tell or declare what thou hast heard? An Incest can∣not be believ'd, unless the Party accus'd be heard, too. My Lords, I my self too shou'd not but

wonder, if such an Impious way of interrogating by Torture cou'd possibly have any other Issue but death. This is the modesty, forsooth, of the Par∣ricide, no other end can those things have, which ought never to have been begun. Thou coverest the horridness of thy Torturing Villany with the pretence of a greater wickedness that thou hast found out, of which, forsooth, thou can'st not rid thy self, but by the death of thy Son. But I know very well, what 'tis that puts thee thus to't, thy Cruelty could make the poor Youth to confess no∣thing at all. He that dies under Torture, overcomes his Torturer. And now 'tis no wonder, after such pranks as these, that thou canst not find a Tongue to speak, nor hast not a word to say. Thou hast torn thy only Son in pieces without any body by, thou hast murthered him in secret, so that now, forsooth, none but you must know how to con∣ceal the Villany, and in a Parricide you seek for matter of sorrow, elsewhere. 'Tis a preposterous thing to kill ones Son, and then to be asham'd of it, afterwards. 'Tis not fit, but That should be known abroad, for which a very Parricide counts himself Innocent. Chuse which side thou wilt, thou must either condemn thy Torturing thy Son, or else thy silence, thereupon. That which must not be told, why should you make any Examination about? Perhaps, O thou cruel Old Fellow, thou would'st have it thought, that thou art silent up∣on thy Sons account, as if he were alive. Nay, but if that be true that thou suspectest, then thou art excused from all the religious duty of a Father, all pious regard of natural affection is Cancell'd. If he justly deserv'd this, his Torture,

nay his very dying under it, was far too little for him to suffer, in a way of avengement. Wouldst thou ha' his supposed Confession to be avenged? Then hale out his Corps, and upon every wound make a preachment of its Cause. 'Tis more than one Man can do, to Confess why he Tortur'd; and to tell no Cause at all, why he Murthered. What say'st thou, thou Tyger of a Parricide? What hast thou destroy'd thy Son by Lash and Red-hot Irons. Canst thou pluck out those Bowels, that had their Origine from thine own; canst thou shed that Blood, which came from thy own veins; and that too, not in a mad furious Fit, but (as you yourself would have it thought) by Advice and Grave deliberation? Canst thou hold thy Peace over the Wounds of thy Only Son, and dost thou stand, as if thou wouldst fright folks, over his disjointed Limbs; and when the Mother, or rather, when the whole Town asks thee the cause, thou say's•• only, I am the Man, that kill'd him? Must she be content with such an Answer at random?

D'e think now, Sir Husband, that 'tis only the Mother interrogates you about this? Nay, I'le tell you, the solicitude of all Mankind doth re∣quire an account of his death, at your hands. All Parents stand about their Children, as if they were afraid▪ of, or amazed at, them: Brothers, thô▪ they love never so much, yet dare not, for their lives, embrace one another; The Innocent way of saluting by a kiss, between Fathers and Sons in Law, is quite broke off. How long wilt thou sen us together by the Ears, by the different Construction we make of thy silence? If nothing

was don, that the modesty of our times need be ashamed off, than why, pray, do you use such dubious and suspectful words? But if you have found out a Monstrous Villany, as bad as ever was Chroni∣cled in Fable, then, Lord have mercy upon me, too, pray kill me, as well as your Son▪ Let me tell you, in an Incest you ought to conceive the greater ha∣tred against the Female, especially since, you see, that she comes against you in open Court, that she imitates the Confidence of those, that are whol∣ly Innocent, and that she is so angry with you, be∣cause she can't get a word from you. When you Tortured your Son, by reason of the Report that was rais'd of him, as you say, and then you kill'd him too under his Torture, 'tis more than a mat∣ter of meer Indifferency, that we should know nei∣ther. This is it, my Lords, that the Innocent Mother grieves at, this is it she can't bear, that this Parri∣cide of a Husband is as mute as a Fish. But soft and fair, perhaps he'le speak by and by. Oh Sir, we know what you aim at, like a wicked Man as you are, we know why you fetch such deep sighs from your silent breast, and why you would have us think, you are ready to faint, when you begin to speak out; you would hereby procure some Authority to your Lyes, wou'd ye? And to make us believe, that what you would have spoken should have been the very Truth, you must, for∣sooth, seem to confess against your Will. Yet speak out and spare not, the Mothers Innocency is such that she can bear all your base Lyes. Alas, Sir, how mightily are you Tormented, that, now she's here in Court, you can't abash her with some horrid Ex∣clamation. 'Tis not words, that you want against

the poor Woman, but arguments rather; you are not tongue-tyed, but proof-tyed, Sir. All that you can do, is, you turn us over to Infamous Reports still, so that we shall never have don with the malignity of Folks Tongues. He that neither Condemns nor yet Acquits me, when he is ask'd and desir'd so to do, is well content, that the Bruit should hold still.

Take a Proof, I beseech you, of the modesty, forsooth, of this Husband and of this Father: He is contented, that his Wife should be believed to be Incestuous, thô she can't be proved to be so. Did ever any Man find out such wicked Arts, was there ever any Man of such a bloody disposition, before? Because he can't prove what he once said, he seeks to be believ'd, because he won't say it a∣gain. Art thou mute, dost thou hold thy peace, thou savage, cruel Man? Ay now, thou hast found out a Torture, fit for such a Father, as thou art. But hear, what the poor Woman proclaims from her simple in∣nocent grief? Thou shalt never, says she, bring it about, O thou craftiest of Parricides, to make me desist from hugging even the dead Corps of my Son. I were an Incestuous Slut indeed, if I wou'd mode∣rate my groans and refrain my Tears: Come therefore to my Sons Funeral, you Children all, come, you Parents all, watch my Plaints, observe my Sighs. If I am guilty, if I have committed any of∣fence, I will freely confess it. Behold, I cast my self upon the Fatal Bier, and as I embrace his lacerated ••imbs, and his Torture-scorch'd body, I cry out, now I hold my only Son in my Arms, now, poor Woman, I hug and embrace my Fair one. This was that, which did even transport a woful Mother beyond the

rate of an Ordinary Affection. O thou cruel Husband I lov'd a Child, that was just a dying; disgrace my extraordinary and impatient Love, as much as thou wilt, yet I seem to myself to have been defective to have been a slow-back, and to have lost much of my mirth and joy: No Woman living ever lov'd her Child too much. I excuse my self to thee, says she, O most Innocent Youth, that my misery was such, that I have not yet accompanied thee to thy Grave.

'Tis true, I ought not to have liv'd an hour af∣ter thee, but I could not dye, as long as my Hus∣band was in this mute and silent posture. I will cut off the thread of my tedious and loathed life, but first give me leave to pay my Funeral rite•• to your Ghost in the presence of the whole City▪ when, the Parricide being condemn'd, notwithstand∣ing his crafty silence, it will evidently appear, that thou discoveredst nothing at all. Pardon me, that thô I had lost my Child, yet I was willing to hold out, till this Cause was decided in Court. For I was afraid, lest if I had hastned my End with too much Impatience, and a rash precipitate piety, the Parricide would ha' rais'd another Story about my Death, also.

Infamis in Matrem, OR, A Son accus'd (by his Fa∣ther) of Incest with his own Mother.

DECLAMATION XIX.

The Argument

The same with That of the former Decla∣mation.

For the Husband against his Wife.

IT was a debt justly due, my Lords, to the pityable modesty of my sad Orbity, that we should now, even all of us, bold our Peace; and after such strange and prodigious matters and discourses, this ought to have been the conclu∣ding Story of my woful House and Family, that I, being a Father, did destroy my own Son. But be∣cause my Wife, who was always a Woman upon Extremes, besides all that I have either don or suf∣fered a little before, thinks fit to Torment me fur∣ther with a grievous Accusation, I appear in Court, to desire of your Lordships, that you would not think I study silence, on purpose to make an ad∣vantage thereof, for my own ends, in this Suit. No, I do not hold my Peace because I dispatch'd my Son, but rather I dispatcht him that I might purchase leave to hold my Peace. I wish with all my heart, my Lords, that I could deny that I was the Man that dispatcht him; I wish it were fit for me to enter into the whole series of my wo∣ful necessity, and that I could stop this mouth of mine, from telling it. Does any body wonder at this Patience of mine, in such a Case? That vio∣lent chafe, which lately so furiously hurled me upon my own Son, is now spent by its own fierce∣ness. Whatever within me might have broken

forth into Talk, is ended in the Parricide, and is silenc'd in the Orbity. So that now I have no kind of Passion at all, but what is for suffering, for bearing, and for enduring all miseries whatever. 'Tis impossible I should do both in my Sons Case, that is, first kill him, and then confess, why he deserv'd ••t. And therefore, my Lords, I can never suffi∣ciently wonder, yea stand amazed, at this Woman, who, besides her Guiltless Conscience, forsooth, even because of her very Sex ought to have shew'd more modesty in my miseries, yet quarrels against my silence. She is at such a Combate with∣in her self, and with such an unusual kind of Im∣patience too, as ever was mentioned in any Story. For she complains, that the People of the Town are Talkative, and that the Father himself is silent. Nor is she contented with her Husbands plain Confession, who vows that he dissembles not at all, and that he knows nothing, thô press'd by such an Authoritative Suit before your Lordships to discover, it, yet she had rather make a secrecy, forsooth, of my silence: Whether this be the Madness or the Innocence of her Orbity, let her own wretched grief look to it, she herself may know well enough in her own mind, what my Son said, seeing she thinks, I have something to say, that I will not speak out.

And therefore, I beseech you, my Lords, let not the pity of the Mothers Orbity, only, discompose your thoughts; pray, don't think that the great sense of this highest of calamities resides only there, where you see more Tears, and hear more groans. If a comparison be made between me and my Wife, of the Two you ought rather to pity me, who

have both lost my Son and kill'd him too. Of us, Two Parents, I am the most unhappy, my Lords, let the Woman complain as much as she will, for I am both a Sufferer and Actor too in procuring that suffering. Oh the happy consciousness of the Mo∣thers Ignorance, which can hold out to ask Questi∣ons in the Case. But a greater kind of Impatience, and a greater Passion torments me, seeing I kill'd my Son, and yet can't either discover it, nor yet repent at all, that I kill'd him. O unhappy Old Man! O woful Patience! It I could speak, I might make a long Oration, even upon this Head too? My Lords, heretofore we were the happiest Pa∣rents in the World, whilest we fawn'd upon the, as yet untainted, Infancy of our only Child; and the intire prosperity of our House and Family did continue, as long as we equally delighted in him, one as much as t'other, as long as we equally lov'd him, and as long as the Town cou'd say no more of us, but this, That we bad a very amiable Son, betwixt us. But when he grew up to that Age, in which beautiful Youths use to be insolently proud, on the account of their bodily accomplishments, then he was very haughty and arrogant, he would take no Employment at all upon him, he spent the Flower of his Age to no advantage at all, as to Private or Publick Concerns, either. O Heavens! What strange and lamentable Talk was there a∣broad, about the Young Man? He was cry'd out upon, and reproach'd by every body, he was as a Mark for all Men in their discourses to condemn, untill at last he himself perceived that the whole Town, with one consent, were much troubled about When he once knew that, he went very

seldom abroad, as if he had a mind to avoid meet∣ing his Father, or to see any body in the streets. 'Tis an hard matter to express in words, how much the Youth was abominated, and how much he was blamed, all the Town over. Some said of him, that he might possibly in time kill his Father; others said, that he deserv'd, his Father should kill him. In this case, my Lords, what should an un∣happy Old Man do? For now the Report had reach'd his Father too, and my ears were even grated with hearing it. I durst not ask many Que∣stions about it, neither yet could I conceal it. He's much mistaken, that thinks I did, what I did, by deliberation or advice; no, 'twas the very Impetus, and the present Chafe of my Spirit, just at that very Instant, that push'd me on. A Father can't have the heart to prepare Torture for his Son, be∣fore-hand.

In our now ruful House, there is a remote room, sever'd from all the rest, where 'tis as dark as Pitch, and the passage to it is as sad, 'tis a fit place for the worst of Villanies to be acted in; and even an own Father might have the confidence of perpetrating a bloody Fact there, without suspicion of discovery. As I was ranging all about the House, by reason of my distracted thoughts, I lighted at last upon this room, as far as I can un∣derstand, unawares to my Son. And the truth is, he, assoon as ever he saw me, stood amaz'd like a surpriz'd Offendor, and he fled back in a trem∣bling posture; I think his reason was, that I should ask him no Questions. I rush'd in upon him with a great deal of hast and eagerness, I had not so much as a Free-man or a Slave with me just as

the Fatality of the present moment acted me, so I assaulted him with handy-blows; and also I catch'd up any thing that was near, that my Grief told me might serve for a Weapon, with which I laid about me, beyond the strength of my Old Age. I set upon him at once and altogether (not by de∣grees, nor by divided and intermittent pains,) with the Fire that was next at hand, and with the La∣shing-whips, that chance put into my hands: 'Twas a great part of the secrecy, that I should do it my self; O Heavens! What contumacy, what an hard∣ned Patience was there in him, when he was Tor∣tured by his Father, that he wou'd not call out for his Mothers help? No, the Youth made no re∣sistance at all, he did not at all lift up so much as an hand, against me, nor did he cry out for any one bodies help: His eyes were only a little sunk and dejected in his head, yea, as if he had felt no lashes at all, but had been Tortured only by my eyes, he receiv'd all the blows upon his Face; that comely Face, as if he himself had been angry with it, was all that he oppos'd to my Fire and Lash. I give this last Testimony, my Lords, to his Mode∣sty, he was Slain when he was e'ne willing to dye, himself. My Lords, I commend the Patience of the Mother, that whereas she was for the most part at home, and perhaps at that time not far from the place, yet she wou'd not come in, she dar'd not to interrupt me. And besides, I com∣mend the good Fortune of my own hands, that none of my Kirdred or of my Friends did rush in up∣on me; for if any body living had been so bold, as to ask me about my Son, in that nick of time, I should certainly have kill'd him. And yet I bu∣ried

his torn Tortured Limbs, I allow'd him a Fune∣ral, I gathered his Bones together. My Wife then laid no violent hand on the Bier, while the Funeral rites were a performing; her rais'd no envious reflection upon me by beating her breast, and tearing and rending her very dugs. How comes she now to break forth, and to be transpor∣ted, to this Monstrous Impatience? She never ask'd me a word about him, at home. O thou unhap∣py Mother! I my self can proclaim before all Chil∣dren and Parents, yea in the hearing both of God and Man too, that I lov'd my Son very well, but not by the way of effeminate Kisses or Tears, but I lov'd him with a Manly Love, even with grief and patience. He was my only Son, and if a Party of his Enemies had hemm'd him in amongst them in the Field, I would have ventured my Life to ha' freed him from their Clutches; if a sudden Fire had clos'd about him at home, I had carryed him out upon my shoulders, thô I had ventured the burn∣ing of some of my Limbs; I delivered him from all evil Reports, I sent him far enough from malig∣nant Town-talk. I have got the Advantage now of that, which is called Natural Affection. I did the difficultest thing of all, that I did not rather kill myself.

She accuses me of Ill-treatment, forsooth. What, Wife, do you think, that a Father hath not suf∣fered Punishment enough, after all this danger and toil, that he may not make any benefit to himself, for killing his Son? What, are you not ashamed that you are angry with the Parricide still? What have you to do with the Law, which was given you to plead in a case of inferiour affections? That

Law remedies slighter Complaints, not deep Wailings; it provides, indeed, for the Female, yet not as a Mother, but only as a Wife. What do you again call forth my woful modesty to the view of the People? Indeed! Do you raise up matter for a new scurvy Report? Nay then, I have quite lost the benefit of my secrecy. I had managed all things so, that nothing should have been asked, nor no∣thing at all said: But what is more impudent, what is more unworthy, than for a Woman to think she hath as much right over her Children as the Mam, so that in her opinion the Right of Father and Mo∣ther are but equal, as if we did not know, that the Power of life and death, in relation to Children, is committed to us, Men? 'Tis no Privilege, to kill a S••n when there is just cause to do it; and there is no Man will ever do it only on purpose, because he may. I held out, to rend the bowels of my only Son. Forgive me, if you can't believe me: No Man ever kill'd his own Son, for mere hatred of him. An hated Son is not so much worth. This is a thing in Fathers, which is dreadful even unto Parricide, that they love their Children, that they relieve them, that they think they can't o∣therwise take pity of them any other way, than that. There is no reason, my Lords, that the Plea of the weaker Sex should take you off from the due consideration of my Miseries. 'Tis a thing of greater Affection to kill ones Son, than to avenge him. And therefore cease, Woman, to weary me with your Questions. What! Does not he answer all in one word, about his Son, that says, I slew him: And thô he makes no Exclamations, and thô his mouth be as it were stop't, yet he denies

nothing, that confesses that. But the very Immani∣ty of some horrid Offences argues the Innocence of those, that commit them, I slew my Son, not as an hair-brain'd Father, nor as one out of my wits. Whoever now pity's a Man that is transported, and as it were past sense and feeling, slays him out-right. You see an Aged Man, weltring in his own blood, and, with his hands all-bloody, lying over the dead body of his only Son, whose bowels he counts sa∣cred and dear to him, all rent and burnt as they are. I dread so much as to look upon his Carkass, I stand a loof of from it, as from a body, that is struck dead with Lightning from the Firmament of Heaven. 'Tis true, in some Crimes, 'tis enough to shut ones Eyes, to turn away ones Face, to hold ones peace, to stand amazed, and to leave incredible calamities to their Causes, without fur∣ther inquiry. Take pity upon me, ask me no more Questions, make no more Demands. De' think, Ple say, spare the Age we live in, spare the Hus∣band, spare the Father? Nay rather, spare him, that was Slain.

My Lords, hear, I beseech you, a new Crime objected against an Husband. 'Tis his silence, he is questioned in Court about. Heretofore your In∣dignation, Dame, could not bear our ill-words, and your Matronly Passion seem'd to say, What! Husband, can't you forbear foul Language to∣wards me, the Wife of your bosom? What! has your Lavish Tongue no respect for me, that you do so easily break forth into railing Language, and twit me even with what you please, you cry out up∣on me, & whilst you allow too much liberty to your Tongue, you give occasion to the Vulgar, to raise

stories upon me. But you, Woman, object that as a Crime against me, which was never counted so in any Man living before; that only piece of Innocency in my manners, which is reprehended by speaking, is maintained by my silence. See now, why my hands, and why my words seem to be such great Offenders. 'Tis with the one we defame, and with t'other, that we torture and kill. Wou'd you know, Madam, how little reason yon have to complain of my silence? I tell you, you have been a very happy Woman, if we had all been Tongue-tyed, too. Suppose, I lay aside a while the deep Causes of my silence, and only say, 'Tis not fit for me, to discover a secret. My Lords, of all the serious and solid endowments, that the mind of Man may be furnished with, there is no one, in my opinion, harder either to get, or to keep, than virtuous silence; yea, Men are so prone to offend by Talkativeness themselves, that they can't abide to see a constant Taciturnity, no not in others. My Woman calls this a Great Crime in me, which was an High piece of Wisedom in the Antient Philoso∣phers, those Original Directors of Mens minds and manners; and for maintaining thereof all their Lives long, some Men have been more admired in woful old stories, then those have been, who were so privy to the profound secrets of Nature, as to settle Rules for the ebbing and flowing the Sea, and for the Courses of the Celestial Constellations. I beseech you, what a piece of bold Intrusion is this, to break open a breast, that is stifly resolved upon an holy silence? To unlock that spirit, that was shut and even settled upon secrecy, and which could not be loos'ned therefrom, neither by Joy,

nor by Grief; neither by Necessity nor by Fortune? He that complains of one that is silent, his mouth will ope wider against him, if once he begin to talk. Besides, there is not such an Intimate and All-blending Union between Husband and Wife, but that, notwithstanding the near Relation between them; yet the heart of each of them may law∣fully retain some proper secret, apart to himself. Add hereto, that a Man would not impart every thing, no not to his own Flesh and Blood; and 'tis a cer∣tain kind of reverential respect: you sometimes bear, even to your dearest Relations, that you wou'd not have'm know some things, that are to be concealed: some things you can't get out, no not by Lash or Rack: Yea, many have been so stout, as to dye under Torture rather than discover a Secret. Go too then, if you think fit, set us run over, by a diligent inquiry, both Sexes and every Condition and Age whatever; and we shall find, that, there is no breast without a secret corn∣er for private Guilt; and no life so innocent, but it has reason, as to some things, to say Mum. Even you, Madam Wife, if your Husband should rummage all the secrets of your Soul by his search∣ing Interrogatories, I believe, he might find some∣thing in you too, that you wou'd be loth to confess. If this be so in you, Dame, then I hope silence is much more proper for an Old Man; 'tis more mo∣dest in an Husband; 'tis more sacred in a Father. Let me tell you, Woman, both of us have reason to be e'ne ashamed of our wealwess. Our Young Son, e'ne now, was more constant than we, for he was resolv'd to dye, that we might hold our peace. You see, Woman, to what ill Interpretations you

expose your Grief? People say abroad, that you Question me on purpose, because you know that Ple endure all extremity whatever, rather than speak out. For who is there, pray, in the whole Town, but knows that I am inflexibly and unaltera∣bly silent, when I am once resolv'd upon it? What Man can be ignorant, with what a steely patience I use to endure every thing? As now of late, when I was even killing my own Son, I sent not to much as a sigh nor a Groan, as an Harbinger, before the Fact; I did nothing in the World, that either you with all your quick-sighted and forecasting fear, nor my poor Son neither, that was to be kill'd, could interpret in the least, that I had a Parricidal In∣tent, to bereave myself of my Child. De' think, I make a Boast of this secrecy of mine, that I ne∣ver allowed myself to make any Proclamation of the thing in the street, or in the Publick Assemblies of the People? Alas, I never made any Complaint of the Young Man, no not to yourself; neither did I ever study any advantage against him, by telling People, that his Mother too did hate him, asmuch as I. 'Tis in vain, Madam, for you to think to ex∣tort that from me by your Accusation, that neither my very Miseries themselves, nor my Grief, nor the consideration of my Orbity could never draw out. No, thô you put me to the Torturing-fire, yet I'le hold out, I'le endure to the last, I have already suffered that, which was the hardest to be born, viz. I have slain my Son.

He put my Son, says she, to the Torture. In brief, my Lords, pray, hear the reason. Guilty or Innocent is it not all one, if the matter be known to eve∣ry body? The Malignant talk of the Town had

made the Young Man to be hated of all QChildren, and also to be a burthen to all Parents. What shall I do, O my Soul, in this Case? How shall I come off? How shall I clear my self? To do no∣thing at all upon such high Infamous Reports, were all one as to believe 'm to be true; or wou'd you have me go to every particular Person to convince him, wou'd you have me cry out aloud against the Talk of the Vulgar, and so pick a quarrel with airy Fame? Perhaps 'twere enough for your weak Sex, barely to deny the Fact, but 'tis fit that I should vindicate my only Son at another gates rate. Ple free him from their scurvy Reports, not with a few quarrelsom words, but in such a way as Ple make the whole Town e'ne amaz'd, and ashamed too, of their scandals. De' think, 'twas upon my Sons ewn account, that I Tortured him? No, I did it to raise an Odium upon this naughty Town, of Ours. I seemed to my self, with those very blows I gave my Son, to make as many gashes in their defaming Tongues; and with those Fires I scorch'd him, to shrivel up their false Reports. When ones own Son is accus'd of Incest, the only way to prove him Innocent, is, by Torturing him. God forbid, that you should be made acquainted with the full dimensions of that grief, that makes a Father able to Rack his Son. There is nothing more unhappy than that Father, who, thô he has kill'd his only Son, yet he is not satisfyed therewith. I freely con∣fess, 'twas I, that did destroy my Young Son by Lash and Fire, for all Parental respect and reverence had lost its place in his heart; and we were fain to make Apologies and Excuses

for him every day, to buoy him up against the Talk of the Town: And the truth is, he was one, that carryed himself amongst us more like a wanton Amoroso, than a dutiful Son. Wou'd you know, Madam, wou'd you know, I say, what great reason I had to put him to the Rack? I'le tell you, even after he had been Racked, he deserv'd to be slain.

And yet, Dame Mother, if you have such a mind, forsooth, to hear the cause, pray, come near to me, and lend me your Ear. I, like a poor unhappy Father, did foresee that one time or other he wou'd break forth into some no∣torious Villany, because he lived an idle life and squandred away his Time at home, in the Chim∣ny-corner. He had not the least desire to Tra∣vel, that he might better his Reason thereby; nor was he willing to trail a Pike, nor to venture to Sea; he would not study the Law, nor undertake any Office in the Common-wealth: Nay, he wou'd not so much as think of Mar∣rying a Wife; Besides, I had corrected him so often, that he grew weary of his Father; and his guilty Conscience, because it was not a∣mended by my chastisements, flew so high, as to curse and bann me. It came to that pass, that he was even afraid to meet me, he durst not come into the room, if I had been there; he avoided all discourse and conversation with me; he wou'd not come so near, as even to be kiss'd by me. In a word, to give you a full prospect of the wickedness of his spirit, He was a Boy that extreamly hated, and was afraid griev∣cusly of, his own Father. Seing then, my Son was

condemned by the Vote of the whole Town, and that every body wondered I wou'd suffer him to live so long, de' call it Torture, that I put him to? No, 'twas a plain Execution, thô but a slow and lingring one: You call it a Racking, for∣sooth, but, I say, 'twas a legal capital punish∣ment, and 'twas the Conclusion of all my Miseries. There is cause to Torture a Man, if he has no o∣ther way, but to deny.

And yet, pray, observe what great Modera∣tion I us'd, even in my Racking of him? For I was not hurried on, by a rash head-strong Impulse, to fly upon him presently, and all of a sudden; nor was my impatient grief so mad and blind, as to give him his death-blow at once; No, that Son must needs be kill'd in cool blood, and by delibe∣ration, that is Tortured before. I was so favour∣able as to make some stop, to give him a little longer time and space. You see, I might have given a far greater occasion to malign Reports, if I had a mind to it? For if I had kill'd him in that close Room, only with the sword, or by hacking him to pieces, then his death had been, as if he had been catch'd in the Fact. And there∣fore, Madam, you have no reason to raise a dou∣ble Odium upon me in the Case, as that I Tortu∣red him and Murthered him, too. His death is the only Argument to prove his Torture was necessary. 'Tis that, and none but that, can be call'd Parri∣cide, when a Fathers torture a Son, that survives after his Racking. De' think, 'twas possible, the Youth cou'd ha' liv'd, that cou'd no ways be re∣lieved, but by his death? He that I had once be∣gan to justifie against malign Reports, I did not

give him back again to be black'd by the same Infamous mouthes, nor wou'd I send him out of his Fathers Closet-room, to be made a gazing-stock, or to be tumbled and toss'd on Peoples Tongues, any more: Yea, Mistress Mother, my forecast was for you too, I took him off, that you might not be put to the trouble of Questioning him, as well as I. As for the Youth, I knew that, after his Torture, he wou'd be asham'd to live, he wou'd never have born, to have had so many Questions put to him by every body that he met, nor wou'd he have endured to have made, thô but negative, Answers to them. But, Woman, you must renounce your private affection, I be∣lieve, it concern'd our whole House and Family, in point of Innocence, that the Boy shou'd not ra∣ther kill himself.

My Lords, my Wife is sensible now, that it makes nothing for the Equity of her Complaint, ei∣ther that I Tortur'd my Son, or that I Slew him. And therefore she Queries, what he discovered, thô she don't know, whether he discovered any thing at all. What sayst thou, O most impati∣ent of Mothers? What art thou concern'd in no∣thing else about the death of thy Son, but only of what he said? Well then, if I tell thee what he said, then it seems thou wilt forgive me the Parricide, and I sha'nt hear a word more of my Torturing him. Oh, how unadvised still is this Womans madness! She asks, what the Boy spoke in his Torments, as if she did not know; and yet, she thinks, I got nothing out of him, as if she did really know, what he had said. I beseech thee, upon the account of our Conjugal Union,

and upon the account of our Common Miseries, don't press me to rip open the Arcanum of the Parricide, don't make thy own Innocence an addi∣tional burthen to our calamity? Let the Young Man look to it, as to his own Merit, for my own part, I can now reverence his Funerals, and after my only childs death, I again put on the Bowels of a Father. We ought to bear a greater Reverence to our Children, after they are dead than before; and there is nothing more unbecoming Pa∣ternal affection, than to insult over a Man after he is dead and gon. My very loss of my child reconciles me to him, and the cruelty of his death hath quite appeased my wrath. Yea moreover, when I cast back my thoughts upon the whole process of that secret Fact; a silent kind of compassion informs me, what a great deal of Reverence I ow'd to my Son, in that I was able to Torture him alone, and alone also, to put him to death.

Yet, do you, forsooth, persevere in our old course of Interrogatories, do you force me, do you press up∣on me, still? I'le be quits with you, Woman, and I'le ask you as many Questions on my side; Pray, if you are so inquisitive to know, what I ask'd and what he answered, why did you not break in upon the Torturing-room, it was not guarded by the Father, either by Sentinel or Officer? Had it not been a great deal better for you, the Mother, to have come to him, yourself? Might not your Interrogatories have had the more force, if they had been urged, when we had been all together? Wou'd he not ha' spoken a great deal more to you, than to another, think you? And who, I pray, Woman, kept you back from shewing your Affection; who hindred

you from coming in, who shut you out of doors? Oh now, I see, 'tis your modesty, forsooth; without Question, you were afraid, that if we had been all together in that lonesom room, then People wou'd ha' said, that the Mother had Murthered her Son, too. And yet you press upon me still; and thô a poor Old Man do shut his mouth, yet you are almost ready to pluck his jaws asunder, to make him speak. Seeing you are so importunate, suppose, I should say only This, I came lately from the dilatory Com∣mission of so horrid an Offence, that I don't yet mind, what I heard; my thoughts are yet wholly taken up with my Parricide; and seeing 'twas all the Sons I had, all those Lashings and other Torments that rent and tore in pieces, his (now) dead body, are again yet fresh in my mind. 'Tis a very hard thing, for a Parricide to be capable of any hame, but I even fainted away in my Orbity, out of asto∣nishment, out of madness, and out of silence. All credit is taken away from what I shall say, my words have no Authority at all; he hath no reason to speak, that cannot be believ'd if he do speak. And therefore, Woman, leave Questioning your Husband; a Father that hath Slain his Son already, ought not now either to acquit or to accuse him.

Yet still, she urges, What did he speak, when you were a killing him? O the piteous Innocence of my Parricide, that 'tis not any Lawful Power or Ma∣gistrate; not any of our Kindred or Friends; no nor you, the Folks of the Town, thô you are al∣ways tattling and ill-will'd enough, that ask me the Question. You are all hush't, and as mute as a Fish. Unhappy I, what's the matter? What do you all know it, already! Suppose, Woman, all the Answer

I give you should be this, That things, too big to be believed, do even stop Mens Mouthes, so that they can't relate them. Some things are so great, that hu∣man speech cannot reach high enough to express them. But for your part, pray, do you believe, that I was in a perfect Phrensie, and that I was stark mad, so that what I saw was but a mere Phantôme, and that I imagined that I heard, what Mr. No-body spake. Yet let me tell you, if any thing shews me not to be mad, 'twas this, and this alone, that I hold my Peace. Suppose I should answer you, that he said no∣thing, that he spake not a word, would you believe me? But I am certain, you would much less believe, what he did really say. Take then in short, Good Wo∣man, a true account, why I kill'd the Youth, under his Torments. 'Twas this, I tortur'd him, and yet ask'd him no Questions. If any noise at all did reach your Ears from that very remote part of the House, 'twas my Gro••ning not his, 'twere the Pliants that proceeded from my own inward pain. Dost thou ask me, why he said nothing? 'Twas, because he had nothing that I was willing to know, or that I ought to hear. In my Torturing him, I aimed at nothing else but silence, which his life could never have af∣forded me. He that is Slain on the Rack is rack'd for the nonce, that he may be Slain. Do you think, his Torture was such, as we use to the bodys of our Gally-slaves and Bond-men? And therefore you say, like a Cunning Old Man, I managed the* 1.45 Equuleus up and down, I held the Cords on the account of Cruelty, that so his Limbs might be dislocated joynt by joynt, and the structure of his whole body be, as it were, unbing'd by Inches. No, his life was destroy∣ed by his own silence, the Lash and the Fire stopt his

Speech and his Breath together. He seem'd to me to suppress his Groans, and to stifle his Sighs; and he so carryed himself in his silence, as if he were Tortu∣red by one that knew all, aswell as himself. Do you wonder at this Contumacy in a Son, and this Pati∣ence in a Young Stripling? There can no other An∣swer be made to a Father, when he Tortures his Child, than to be willing to dye, rather than to con∣fess. And therefore, Woman, I answer enough to satis∣fie modest Enquirers, I was the Man, that Slew him.

He is much mistaken, that thinks, I'le lay ordinary Crimes to his Charge, nay on the contrary, I pro∣claim to all the World, that he was no luxurious Fellow, he did not discredit himself by Courting any Miss, he did not offend as other Youngsters use to do; No, it was a Monstrous and unexpressible Guilt, 'twas a prank, that I was loath to catch him at, and 'twas such as I could by no means bear. Does any body wonder, that I did not disinherit him, and that I was not contented with the usual revenge of abused Fa∣thers, only to kick him out of doors. 'Twas your cursed and unadvised Passion, Good Woman, that wou'd not suffer me so to do. You, that pardoned a Son, as it were in spight of my severity; you, that could not hate him aswell as I, wou'd doubtless have follow'd after him, if he had been abdicated. Suppose the Youth had spoken somthing or other, yet for my part I had not an ear to hear. For I did not sit there, like some Justice of Peace, nor, while others were a Torturing him, did I act the part of a Father and Judge. No, at that time, I suffered all things with him, and did them too. Alas, I was not at leisure to hearken to what he said, now cou'd I take notice of his Groans nor reckon his Sighs; my eager∣ness,

my Grief, my Orbity, and my Parricide, these were the things that took me up, wholly; I did all that I did, in precipitation and hast. 'Tis the same Affection in a Father, to Torture, that he may know; and to kill, that he may not know.

But, says she, your silence tends to my disgrace. What, poor Woman, is this the first time, that you are soli∣citous for your Credit, now you have lost your only Son, do you begin now to bethink what Men say of you?* 1.46 What! Was a Son cast away, de' say, to make you to be ashamed, and cry'd out upon? If that had been the thing aimed at, was it not enough to leave the whole matter to Report? But I, Good Woman, inter∣pos'd my self between you, and your Ill-report, and as I stood, as 'twere, in the midst between Mother and Son, I committed the Parricide: I Slew my only Son, that all People in their talk might reflect on no bo∣dy, but myself. Otherwise; if I aim'd at what, you think, I do, how long de' think will my silence hold? To what time shall I put off my speaking, which you think I so voluntarily suppress? I acknowledg myself Guilty in Court, and yet I deny that I know any thing at all. Here's an Excellent way indeed to spight folks,* 1.47 when I wou'd speak against my Wife, I acted so, that no body may believe me. I confess therefore, that I have brought nothing to a sure, certain, and unquestionable pinch, and that's the reason, why I contended with my Son, even unto death. Those Torments that kill, do not resolve the Question. What said he, says she still! Happy wert thou, poor Woman, if thou didst not know, what he said. What! Art thou not contented with the Testi∣mony of thy own Conscience? Is it not enough for thee, that he had nothing, either to deny or confess?

Dost thou require, to know the words he spoke up∣on the Rack, dost thou compel and enforce me to speak them? I protest, you act so that you cannot deny, what I shall say. What said he, say you? Did he say, that he had prepared Poyson, to make away his Parents? You deny any such thing. Did he talk any Treasonable words? You deny that, too. Did he carry on any Tyrannical Design? This also won't be granted by you. Let me say what I will, yet still you'l deny it. O the unwary simplicity of a Good Con∣science! What! Art thou not afraid, that if thou com∣pellest me to speak, I shall make many a story of my own head, and forge abundance of Lyes? If thou canst know, Woman, whether I Lye or no, then thou knowest aswel what he said. What said he, de' say, again? He said just nothing. What said he? He said every thing. He curs'd the Age we live in, he cast a great Odium upon the times, he us'd soul Execra∣tions against his Father, and bitter Reproaches against his Mother. What did he say? He said more, than ever I ask'd him. O Woman, thou hast overcome, at last, even my obstinate silence, hear then my brief and succinct answer to your Question, What said he? He said, that which you ask; He said, that which you think. O that any body could ha' set you down in that secret room at that time, then you had seen a new kind of Torture! I stood like an Old Man, be∣girt with furies of a monstrous fierceness, my hands were stretched out, one was arm'd with Fire, t'other with Lash; I stood upon the very Face and Eyes of him, as he lay along on the ground, and cry'd out, O thou Furious, O thou Mad Boy, hold thy Peace. And he on the other side was asmuch amaz'd, and even beside himself, as if all the passages had been quite

burnt up, or else cut off, by which Mens Grief passes out into words. How often, when I put the burning Coals and Red-bot-irons to any part of his body, would he offer to me his very breast? O how greedily, and how widely did he gape, to take in the very Flames, that so he might stop his, almost pronounced, words? And now when all his natural heat, being driven out by the Lash, did break forth by the power of his last pain, his spirit was a little collected to fetch a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, so that the last Rattle, that carries away life, was like to one that wou'd have said something, I know not what, and this perhaps you should have heard too. Put I confess, I prevented him, and summoning in all my strength, which was even spent before, I did my ut∣most with hand, weapon, and my whole body alto∣gether, and so I slew him, before he could tell out a lying word. Woful is the remembrance of that time. I beheld my Son fainting under my hands, I saw his wan face, his breath was Key-Cold, his sighs were interrupted, and his Soul was quitting his body with a great deal of silence, and yet I did not abate his Tor∣ments, I did not withdraw, no nor quench, the Flames. Have pity upon me, O Woman, ask me no more for a word of this affectionate nature, I slew my Son that was a dying. And yet I did not lose, I say, I did not lose the death of my only Son, I did not lose the for∣tunate Issue of it, for now no body can interrogate me, but the Mother only; Go too, then, Woman, set thy self in my place, and as if thou were accou∣tred with a like fury, as my Paternal one was, bring hither the Equuleus, bring hither the Whips, and the Red-hot-irons. I protest and declare that without them I am not able to speak, and without them no

body living can believe me. Thô, O thou misera∣ble Youth, (for now let me address myself to thy Ghost) no pain shall ever make me open my mouth, let her lance me as much as she will, yea, thô she kill me at last: Thou hast taught me, how to conquer Torments. And yet if it be lawful for me to ponder, in my mind∣ful thoughts, the words of that woful Torturing, why would you have me questioned in publick and be∣fore all the People? Good Wife, let us rather go in to that desolate part of the House, into that room, which may now be call'd the Fathers privy-Closet and the Sons both, there Question me just by the Rack, there, where I Tortured, where I slew, my Son and where perhaps his wandring Ghost yet walk about the Mournful Chamber. Let some body there present me, with the picture of my Son that I slew, let him lay those Garments in his Mothers lap, that she, poor Woman, was wont to dress and kemb the Youth in. Let's go both to his Tomb, let's mingle our Tears over his Monument. There we'le either be silent together, or confess together. Now, poor Man, now, I am able to dye. O natural Piety, now care and grief have discharged thee: I make no Will, I trust not my last words to my last Testament, for I myself will dye too, under my Torture aswell as my Son. Only I humbly prefer this, as the last, request to you, my dear City, for the sake of all my Fellow-denizons, and also for the sake of all Wives and Chil∣dren whatever; & I intreat the same of you too, Wife, for the Ghosts sake of my murthered Child who came out of your own Bowels; that you ask me no more Questions, that so you yourself may not thereby occasi∣on the divulging the sad disgrace of our House and Family.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Ironic.
• * 1.2

  Iron••c.
• * 1.3

  Ironic.
• * 1.4

  Tota pe∣natium Sa∣cra pera∣••enda. Quaere, Annon po∣tius legen∣dum pera∣granda.
• * 1.5

  Ironic.
• * 1.6

  Plammeo reverten∣te.
• * 1.7

  Iromic.
• * 1.8

  Apunish∣ment in use in those days for Parricide, where the Offender was sew'd up in a Leathern Sack, with Serpents, a Dog, a Cock, and an Ape, and so thrown in∣to the Sea.
• * 1.9

  ••on.
• * 1.10

  The name of the Of∣ficer was C. Lucius; of the Sol∣dier, Tri∣bonius. See Plu∣tarch in the Life of Marius.
• * 1.11

  Iron.
• * 1.12

  Iron.
• * 1.13

  Or Ecule∣us, a sort of Rack, us'd by the Romans to torture Malefactors, to make them Confess; It is thus describ'd by Sigonius de jud. l. 3. c. 18. Eculeus Catasta fuit lig∣nea cohleata, ad intendendum & remittendum apta, at{que} ad torquendos homines, ut facti veritas eliceretur, instituta. Tormenti verò genus erat bujusmodi, ubi Catastae huic brachia pedes{que} ejus, qui torquendus erat, nervis quibusdam, quae Fidiculae dicebantur, alligaverant, tum Catasta in∣tenta at{que} in altum erecta, ut ex ea quasi cruce quadam miser ille penderet, primùm compagem ipsam ossium illeus divellebant, deinde candentibus ejus∣dem corpor•• laminis admotis, at{que} bisulcis ungulis ferreis lateribus lania∣tis doloris acerbitatom augebant.

  The effect whereof in English, is,

  The Eculens was a Machin of wood, in the form of a long Stake, or rather two Stakes or pieces of Timber, joyned togeather by Screws or Vices, to one of which the Offenders Arms being tied with strings or Cords, and his Legs to the other, the Engine was lifted up or down, and the Tortur'd person hoysed up or let down as pleas'd the Tor∣turers, even to the dislocation of his Limbs, to make him Confess: And to encrease his pain they did often, with red-hot Iron plates and Pincers, burn and tear his Flesh from his sides. See also Turneb. Advers. l. 4. c. 3.
• * 1.14

  Iron.
• * 1.15

  Minuti∣us, being Magister Equitum, or Lord Deputy under Fa∣bius the Dictator, grew emu∣lous of his Power, & obtained Equal Au∣thority with him, so that, in a battel a∣gainst Hannibal, ••e scorn'd to be un∣der the Command of Fabius, but divided the Army, he himself being supreme Commander of one half, and Fabius of the other: Hannibal sets upon Mi••utius and routs him, Fabius comes in to his succour and recovers the day. See the story in the 22d. Book of Livy.
• † 1.16

  Scipio would not treat with the Carthaginian Embassadors about a Peace, before they had releas'd L. Te∣rentius, a Valiant Roman, whom they had taken Prisoner before; who there∣upon in Scipio's Triumph wore a Pi∣leus, in token of his deliverance, as Ordinary Apprentices, when they were made Free, did. See Plutarehs Apothegms.
• * 1.17

  A Cap, as a Badge of Manu∣mission or Liberty.
• † 1.18

  Alceste, the Wife of Adme∣tus King of Thessa∣ly, who, as the Poets feign, when he was despe∣rately sick, obtained Leave of Apollo, that another should die for him, which all his other Friends re∣fused, save his Wife Alceste.
• * 1.19

  Manum for Ma∣gum, in the Origi∣nal. Oxf. Edit. 1675.
• * 1.20

  S••yx.
• * 1.21

  Iron.
• * 1.22

  Iron.
• * 1.23

  Iron.
• * 1.24

  Iron.
• † 1.25

  A Solem∣nity held nine days after the decease of a Person, a∣mongst the Romans.
• * 1.26

  Iron.
• * 1.27

  Iron.
• * 1.28

  Of-Sisy∣phus.
• * 1.29

  Iron.
• * 1.30

  Iron.
• * 1.31

  Iron.
• * 1.32

  Iron.
• * 1.33

  Iron.
• * 1.34

  Iron.
• * 1.35

  Iron.
• * 1.36

  Iron.
• * 1.37

  Iron.
• * 1.38

  n="*" The cu∣leus was a leathern sack, where in a Parri∣cide, after cruel scourgings was to be sewed, a∣mongst the Romans, to∣gether with Serpents, and after∣wards an Ape, and some other living Creatures, and so thrown in∣to the Sea.
• * 1.39

  Iron.
• * 1.40

  n="†" He al∣ludes to an Antient Custom, in some Countries, where Poy∣son was al∣low'd to be publickly sold, for Men in di∣stress to make use of, to rid themselves out of the World.
• * 1.41

  Iron
• * 1.42

  Iron.
• * 1.43

  n="*" See the marg. note p. 179.180
• * 1.44

  Iron.
• * 1.45

  See the marg note in p. 179.180.
• * 1.46

  Iron.
• * 1.47

  Iron.