not willing eternally to be deprived of? But dost thou not think it is now better also? And what canst thou pretend, why what is now the best and most desirable good, should not be now chosen and desired out of hand? Or is it that thou thinkest it unbecomes thee to cross the supreme will of him that made thee, who hath determined, that all men once shall die? And then, how knowest thou but he hath also determined concerning thee, that thou shall die the next day or hour? and it is only a present willingness to die, in subordination to the divine will, or upon supposition of it, thou art persuaded to. Why, art thou not afraid, lest thy present unwillingness should cross his present will? Dost thou not think that sovereign power is as sufficient to determine of the circumstance, as the thing itself? And art thou not ashamed to pretend an agreement with God about the thing itself, and yet differ with him about a circumstance? Shall that be a ground of quarrel between him and thee?

But while thou only professest that more modest desire of more time in the world, what security canst thou give, that when that desire hath been liberally gratified, it shall be at length laid down, and tumultuate no more? What bounds wilt thou fix to it, which thou darest undertake it shall not pass? Art thou sure, when thou shalt have lain at the world's breast ten or twenty years longer, thou wilt then imagine thyself to have drawn it dry; or that then thou shalt begin to nauseate the world and wish for heaven? Or hast thou not reason from thy former experience to suspect, that the longer thou dwellest on earth, the more terrene thou wilt grow; and that if thou be indisposed to leave it this day or year, thou wilt be more so the next; and so thy desire become boundless and infinite, which is to desire to be here always, the thing which thou seemedst so unwilling to own? And if that prove at last the true state of thy case, art thou then a christian, or art thou a man, that thou harborest in thy breast so irreligious and irrational, yea, so sordid a wish? What! wish eternally to be affixed to a clod of earth? Is that at length become thy God? Or wilt thou say, he is thy God whom thou never desirest to enjoy? Or that thou hast already enough of him, but not of the world, and yet that he is thy God? Or wouldst thou overturn the laws of nature, and subvert the most sacred divine constitutions, abortive the designs of eternal wisdom and love, evacuate and nullify the great achievements of thy merciful and mighty Redeemer, only to gratify a sensual, brutish humor? But evident it is, thou dost only in vain disquiet thyself, thou canst not disturb the settled order of things. Eternal laws are not repealable by a fond wish. Thou settest that dreadful thing, death, at nothing the further distance, by thine abhorrency of it. It will overtake thee whether thou wilt or no; and methinks thine own reason should instruct thee to attemper and form thyself to what thou canst not avoid, and possess thee with

such thoughts and desires as those of that discreet pagan, (Epictet.) "Lead me, O God, (saith he) whither thou wilt, and I will follow thee willingly; but if I be rebellious and refuse, I shall follow thee notwithstanding." What we cannot decline, it is better to bear willingly, than with a regret, that shall be both vain and afflictive.

And what hast thou hitherto met with in the world, that should so highly endear it to thee? Examine and search more narrowly into thy earthly comforts; what is there in them to make them self-desirable, or to be so for their own sakes? What is it to have thy flesh indulged and pleased? to have thy sense gratified? thy fancy tickled? What so great good, worthy of an immortal, reasonable spirit, canst thou find in meats and drinks, in full barns and coffers, in vulgar fame and applause, that should render these things desirable for themselves? And if there were any real felicity in these things for the present, whilst thou art permitted to enjoy them, yet dost thou not know that what thou enjoyest to day thou mayst lose to-morrow, and that such other unthought of evils may befall thee, as may infuse a bitterness into all thou enjoyest, which causes immediately the enjoyment to cease, while the things themselves remain, and will be equal to a total loss of all? And thus (as the moralist ingeniously speaks Sen. de brev. vit.) "thou wilt continually need another happiness to defend the former, and new wishes must still be made on the behalf of those which have already succeeded. But canst thou indeed think it worth the while, that the Maker of the universe should create a soul, and send it down into the world on purpose to superintend these trivial affairs, to keep alive a silly piece of well-figured earth while it eats and drinks, to move it to and fro in chase of shadows, to hold it up while others bow the knee and do it homage, if it had not some higher work to mind in reference to another state? Art thou contented to live long in the world to such purposes? What low worthless spirit is this, that had rather be so employed than in the visions of his Maker's face; that chooses thus to entertain itself on earth, rather than partake the effusions of divine glory above; that had rather creep with worms than soar with angels: associate with brutes than with the spirits of just men made perfect? Who can solve the phænomenon, or give a rational account why there should be such a creature as man upon the earth, abstracting from the hopes of another world? Who can think it the effect of an infinite wisdom; or account it a more worthy design, than the representing of such a scene of actions and affairs by puppets on a stage? For my part, upon the strictest inquiry, I see nothing in the life of man upon earth, that should render it, for itself, more the matter of a rational election (supposing the free option given him in the first moment of his being) than presently again to cease to be the next moment.

Yea, and is there not enough obvious in every man's experience, to incline him rather to the contrary choice; and supposing a future blessedness in another world, to make him passionately desirous (with submission to the divine pleasure) of a speedy dismission into it? Do not the burdens that press us in this earthly tabernacle teach our very sense, and urge oppressed natures into involuntary groans, while as yet our consideration doth not intervene? And if we do consider, Is not every thought a sting, making a much deeper impression than what only toucheth our flesh and bones? Who can reflect upon his present state and not presently be in pangs? The troubles that follow humanity are many and great, those that follow Christianity more numerous and grievous. The sickness, pains, losses, disappointments, and whatsoever afflictions that are in the apostle's language, human, or common to men, (1 Cor. 10. 13.) (as are all the external sufferings of christians, in nature and kind, though they are liable to them upon an account peculiar to themselves, which there the apostle intimates,) are none of our greatest evils; yet even upon the account of them, have we any reason to be so much in love with so unkind a world? Is it not strange, our very bridewell should be such a heaven to us? But these things are little considerable in comparison of the more spiritual grievances of christians, as such; that is, those that afflict our souls while we are (under the conduct of Christ) designing for a blessed eternity; if we indeed make that our business, and do seriously intend our spirits in order thereto. The darkness of our beclouded minds; the glimmering, ineffectual apprehension we have of the most important things; the inconsistency of our shattered thoughts, when we would apply them to spiritual objects; the great difficulty of working off an ill frame of heart, and the no less difficulty of retaining a good : our being so frequently tossed as between heaven and hell; when we sometimes think ourselves to have even attained and hope to descend no more, and are all on a sudden plunged in the ditch, so as that our own clothes might abhor us; fall so low into an earthly temper, that we can like nothing heavenly or divine, and because we cannot, are enforced justly most of all to dislike ourselves! are these things little with us? How can we forbear to cry out of the depths, to the Father of our spirits, that he would pity and relieve his own offspring? Yea, are we not weary of our crying; and yet more weary of holding in? How do repelled temptations return again, and vanquished corruptions recover strength! We know not when our work is done. are miserable that we need to be always watching, and more miserable that we cannot watch, but are so often surprised and overcome of evil. We say sometimes with ourselves, we will seek relief in retirement; but we cannot retire from ourselves; or in converse with godly friends, but they sometimes prove snares to

We

us and we to them, or we hear but our own miseries repeated in their complaints. Would we pray? How faint is the breath we utter? How long is it before we can get our souls possessed with any becoming apprehensions of God, or lively sense of our own concernments? Would we meditate? We sometimes go about to compose our thoughts, but we may as well assay to hold the winds in our fist. If we venture forth into the world, how do our senses betray us? how are we mocked with their impostures? Their nearer objects become with us the only realities, and eternal things are all vanished into airy shadows. Reason and faith are laid asleep, and our sense dictates to us what we are to believe and do, as if it were our only guide and lord. And what are we not yet weary? Is it reasonable to continue in this state of our own choice? Is misery become so natural to us, so much our element that we cannot affect to live out of it? Is the darkness and dirt of a dungeon more grateful to us than a free open air and sun? Is this flesh of ours so lovely a thing, that we had rather suffer so many deaths in it, than one in putting it off and mortality with it? While we carry it about us, our souls impart a kind of life to it, and it gives them death in exchange. Why do we not cry out more feelingly, "O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from this body of death?" Is it not grievous to us to have so cumbersome a yoke-fellow, to be tied (as Mezentius is said to have done) the living and the dead together? Do we not find the distempers of our spirits are mostly from these bodies we are so in love with, either as the proper springs or as the occasion of them? From what cause is our drowsy sloth, our eager passions, our aversion to spiritual objects, but, from this impure flesh; or what else is the subject about which our vexatious cares, or torturing fears, our bitter griefs are taken up day by day?

And why do not we consider, that it is only our love to it that gives strength and vigor to the most of our temptations, as wherein it is most immediately concerned, and which makes them so often victorious, and thence to become our after-afflictions? He that hath learned to mortify the inordinate love of the body, will he make it the business of his life to purvey for it? Will he offer violence to his own soul, to secure it from violence? Will he comply with men's lusts and humors for its advantage and accommodation: or yield himself to the tyranny of his own avarice for its future, or of his more sensual lusts for its present content? Will it not rather be pleasing to him, that his outward man be exposed to perish, while his inward man is renewed day by day? He to whom the thoughts are grateful of laying it down, will not (though he neglect not duty towards it) spend his days in its continual service, and make his soul a hell by a continual provision for the flesh and the lusts of it. That is cruel love that shall enslave a man, and subject him to

so vile and ignoble a servitude. And it discovers a sordid temper to be so imposed upon. How low are our spirits sunk, that we disdain not so base a vassalage! God and nature have obliged us to live in bodies for a time, but they have not obliged us to measure ourselves by them, to confine our desires and designs to their compass, to look no further than their concernments, to entertain no previous joys in the hope of being one day delivered from them. No such hard law is laid upon us. But how apt are we to become herein a most oppressive law to ourselves; and not only to lodge in filthy, earthern cottages, but to love them and confine ourselves to them, loth so much as to peep out. It is the apt expression of a philosopher, upbraiding that base, low temper, Ἡ δὲ δειλὴ ψυχὴ κατορωρυγμένη ἐν σώματι, ὡς ἕρπετον ναθὲς εἰς φωλεόν, φιλεῖ τὸν φωλεόν, &c. the degenerous soul buried in the body, is as a slothful, creeping thing, that loves its hole and is loth to come forth. Max. Tyr. Diss. 41.

And methinks, if we have no love for our better and more noble self, we should not be altogether unapprehensive of an obligation upon us, to express a dutiful love to the Author of our beings; doth it consist with the love we owe to him, to desire always to lurk in the dark, and never to come into his blessed presence? Is that our love, that we never care to come nigh him? Do we not know, that while we are present in the body, we are absent from the Lord? 2 Cor. 5. 6. 8. Should we not therefore be willing rather to be present with the Lord, and absent from the body? Should we not put on a confidence, a holy" fortitude, (as it is there expressed, we are confident, or of good courage, and thence, willing, &c.) that might carry us through the grave to him. As is the brave speech of that last mentioned philosopher, As digera, God will call thee ere long, expect his call. Old age will come upon thee, and shew thee the way thither; and death, which he that is possessed with a base fear, laments and dreads as it draws on, but he that is a lover of God expects it with joy, and with courage meets it when it comes. &c. Item. diss. 1. Is our love to God so faint and weak, that it dares not encounter death, nor venture upon the imaginary terrors of the grave to go to him? How unsuitable is this to the character which is given of a saint's love? Cant. 8. And how expressly are we told, that he who loves his life better than Christ, or that even hates it not for his sake, (as certainly he cannot be said to do, that is not willing to part with it to enjoy him) cannot be his disciple? If our love to God be not supreme it is none, or not such as can denominate us lovers of him; and will we pretend to be so, when we love a putrid flesh and this base earth better than him? And have we not professedly, as a fruit of our avowed love to him, surrendered ourselves? Are we not his devoted ones? Will we be his, and yet our own? or pretend ourselves dedicated to his holy pleasure, and will yet be