(3) Cozen german to idleness, and a concomitant cause which goes hand in hand with it, is _nimia solitudo_, too much solitariness--by the testimony of all physicians, cause and symptom both; but as it is here put for a cause, it is either coact, enforced, or else voluntary. Enforced solitariness is commonly seen in students, monks, friars, anchorites, that, by their order and course of life, must abandon all company, society of other men, and betake themselves to a private cell; _otio superstitioso seclusi_ (as Bale and Hospinian well term it), such as are the Carthusians of our time, that eat no flesh (by their order), keep perpetual silence, never go abroad; such as live in prison, or some desert place, and cannot have company, as many of our country gentlemen do in solitary houses; they must either be alone without companions, or live beyond their means, and entertain all comers as so many hosts, or else converse with their servants and hinds, such as are unequal, inferior to them, and of a contrary disposition; or else, as some do, to avoid solitariness, spend their time with lewd fellows in taverns, and in ale-houses, and thence addict themselves to some unlawful disports, or dissolute courses. BURTON, _The Anatomy of Melancholy_ (4) Mr Peter, as one somewhat severe of nature, said plainly, that the rod only was the sword that must keep the school in obedience, and the scholar in good order. Mr Wotton, a man of mild nature, with soft voice, and few words, inclined to Mr Secretary’s judgment, and said, “In mine opinion the school-house should be in deed, as it is called by name, the house of play and pleasure, and not of fear and bondage; and as I do remember, so saith Socrates in one place of Plato. And therefore, if a rod carry the fear of a sword it is no marvel if those that be fearful of nature choose rather to forsake the play, than to stand always within the fear of a sword in a fond man’s handling.” ASCHAM, _The Scholemaster_ (5) Come little babe, come silly soul, Thy father’s shame, thy mother’s grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm. Thou little think’st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother’s moan; Thou want’st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone; Why dost thou weep, why dost thou wail, And know’st not yet what thou dost ail? Come little wretch, ah silly heart, Mine only joy; what can I more? If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore; ’Twas I, I say, against my will; I wail the time, but be thou still. _A Sweet Lullaby_ (from _The Arbor of Amorous Devices_)