What meanes this _Countrey-peasant_, skipping here Through prickling _Thistles_ w^{th} such gamesom cheere? And, plucking off their tops, as though for _Posies_, He gather’d Violets, or toothlesse Roses? What meaneth it, but onely to expresse How great a joy, well-grounded _Patientnesse_ Retaines in Suff’rings? and, what sport she makes, When she her Iourney through _Affliction_ takes? I, oft have sayd (and, have as oft, beene thought To speake a _Paradox_, that favours nought Of likely truth) that, some _Afflictions_ bring A _Honey bag_, which cureth ev’ry Sting (That wounds the _Flesh_) by giving to the _Mind_, A pleasing taste of _Sweetnesses_ refin’d. Nor can it other be, except in those, Whose Better part, quite stupifyed growes, By being Cauterized in the Fires Of childish _Feares_, or temporall _Desires_. For, as the _Valiant_ (when the _Coward_ swounds) With gladnesse lets the _Surgion_ search his Wounds; And, though they smart, yet cheerefully indures The Plaisters, and, the Probe, in hope of Cures: So, Men, assured that _Afflictions_ paine Comes not for vengeance to them, nor in vaine; But, to prepare, and fit them for the place, To which, they willingly direct their pace; In Troubles, are so farre from being sad, That, of their _Suffring_, they are truely glad. What ever others thinke, I thus beleeve; And, therefore, _joy_, when they suppose I _grieve_. _All is not =Gold=, which makes a show; But, what the =Touchstone= findeth so._ [Illustration:SIC SPECTANDA FIDES. ILLVSTR. XXV. _Book. 4_]