comming to pull them out, feele no more payne: as those tender and delicate bodyes, who in a pricking pleurisie complaine, crie out, and cannot stay for a Surgion, and when they see him whetting his Launcet to cut the throate of the disease, pull in their armes, and hide them in the bed, as, if he were come to kill them. We feare more the cure then the disease, the surgion then the paine, the stroke then the impostume. We haue more sence of the medicins bitternes soone gone, then of a bitter languishing long continued: more feeling of death the end of our miseries, then the endlesse misery of our life. And whence proceedeth this folly and simplicitie? we neyther knowe life, nor death. We feare that we ought to hope for, and wish for that we ought to feare. We call life a continuall death: and death the issue of a liuing death, and the entrance of a neuer dying life. Now what good, I pray you, is there in life, that we should so much pursue it? or what euill is there in death, that we should so much eschue it? Nay what euill is there not in life? and what good is there not in death? Consider all the periods of this life. We enter it in teares; we passe it in sweate, we ende it in sorow. Great and litle, ritch and poore, not one in the whole world, that can pleade immunitie from this condition. Man in this point worse then all other creatures, is borne vnable to support himselfe: neither receyuing in his first yeeres any pleasure, nor giuing to others but annoy and displeasure, and before the age of discretion passing infinite dangers. Only herein lesse vnhappy then in other ages, that he hath no sence nor apprehension of his vnhappines. Now is there any so weake minded, that if it were graunted him to liue alwayes a childe, would make accompt of such a life? So then it is euident that not simplie to liue is a good, but well and happilie to liue. But proceede. Growes he? with him growe his trauailes. Scarcely is he come out of his nurses hands, scarcely knowes he what it is to play, but he falleth into the subiection of some Schoolemaister: I speake but of those which are best and most precisely brought vp. Studies he? it is euer with repining. Playes he? neuer but with feare. This whole age while he is vnder the charge of an other, is vnto him but as a prison. He only thinks, and only aspires to that time when freed from the mastership of another, he may become maister of himselfe: pushing onward (as much as in him lies) his age with his shoulder, that soone he may enioy his hoped libertie. In short, he desires nothing more then the ende of this base age, and the beginning of his youth. And what else I pray you is the beginning of youth, but the death of infancy? the beginning of manhood, but the death of youth? the beginning of to morow, but the death of to day? In this sort then desires he his death, and iudgeth his life miserable: and so cannot be reputed in any happines or contentment. Behold him now, according to his wish,