_Sect._ 15.--I conclude therefore, and say, there is no happiness under (or, as Copernicus[T] will have it, above) the sun; nor any crambe[102] in that repeated verity and burthen of all the wisdom of Solomon: “All is vanity and vexation of spirit;” there is no felicity in that the world adores. Aristotle, whilst he labours to refute the _ideas_ of Plato, falls upon one himself: for his _summum bonum_ is a chimæra; and there is no such thing as his felicity. That wherein God himself is happy, the holy angels are happy, in whose defect the devils are unhappy;--that dare I call happiness: whatsoever conduceth unto this, may, with an easy metaphor, deserve that name; whatsoever else the world terms happiness is, to me, a story out of Pliny, a tale of Bocace or Malizspini, an apparition or neat delusion, wherein there is no more of happiness than the name. Bless me in this life with but the peace of my conscience, command of my affections, the love of thyself and my dearest friends, and I shall be happy enough to pity Cæsar! These are, O Lord, the humble desires of my most reasonable ambition, and all I dare call happiness on earth; wherein I set no rule or limit to thy hand or providence; dispose of me according to the wisdom of thy pleasure. Thy will be done, though in my own undoing. [T] Who holds that the sun is the centre of the world. HYDRIOTAPHIA. URN BURIAL; OR, A DISCOURSE OF THE SEPULCHRAL URNS LATELY FOUND IN NORFOLK. TO MY WORTHY AND HONOURED FRIEND, THOMAS LE GROS, OF CROSTWICK, ESQUIRE. WHEN the general pyre was out, and the last valediction over, men took a lasting adieu of their interred friends, little expecting the curiosity of future ages should comment upon their ashes; and, having no old experience of the duration of their relicks, held no opinion of such after-considerations. But who knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? Who hath the oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be scattered? The relicks of many lie like the ruins of Pompey’s,[U] in all parts of the earth; and when they arrive at your hands these may seem to have wandered far, who, in a direct and meridian travel,[V] have but few miles of known earth between yourself and the pole. [U] “Pompeios juvenes Asia atque Europa, sed ipsum terrâ tegit Libyos.” [V] Little directly but sea, between your house and Greenland. That the bones of Theseus should be seen again in Athens[W] was not beyond conjecture and hopeful expectation: but that these should arise so opportunely to serve yourself was an hit of fate, and honour beyond prediction. [W] Brought back by Cimon Plutarch.