The Bed-Book of Happiness: Being a colligation or assemblage of cheerful writings brought together from many quarters into this one compass for the diversion, distraction, and delight of those who lie abed,—a friend to the invalid, a companion to the sleepless, an excuse to the tiredBegbie, Harold
General
The Bed-Book of Happiness: Being a colligation or assemblage of cheerful writings brought together from many quarters into this one compass for the diversion, distraction, and delight of those who lie abed,—a friend to the invalid, a companion to the sleepless, an excuse to the tired
Begbie, Harold
Literature -- Collections
Many might go to heaven with half the labour they go to hell, if they
would venture their industry the right way; but "The devil take all!"
quoth he that was choked i' the mill-dam, with his four last words in
his mouth.
[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]
A good man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is
grievous, which makes him choose his way in his life as he would in his
journey. The ill man rides through all confidently; he is coated and
booted for it. The oftener he offends, the more openly, and the fouler,
the fitter in fashion. His modesty, like a riding-coat, the more it is
worn is the less cared for. It is good enough for the dirt still, and
the ways he travels in.
[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]
Money never made any man rich, but his mind. He that can order himself
to the law of Nature is not only without the sense but the fear of
poverty. O, but to strike blind the people with our wealth and pomp is
the thing! What a wretchedness is this, to thrust all our riches
outward, and be beggars within; to contemplate nothing but the little,
vile, and sordid things of the world; not the great, noble, and
precious! We serve our avarice, and, not content with the good of the
earth that is offered us, we search and dig for the evil that is
hidden. God offered us those things, and placed them at hand, and near
us, that He knew were profitable for us, but the hurtful He laid deep
and hid. Yet do we seek only the things whereby we may perish, and bring
them forth, when God and Nature hath buried them. We covet superfluous
things, when it were more honour for us if we could contemn necessary.
What need hath Nature of silver dishes, multitudes of waiters, delicate
pages, perfumed napkins? She requires meat only, and hunger is not
ambitious. Can we think no wealth enough but such a state for which a
man may be brought into a præmunire, begged, proscribed, or poisoned? O!
if a man could restrain the fury of his gullet and groin, and think how
many fires, how many kitchens, cooks, pastures, and ploughed lands; what
orchards, stews, ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could spare;
what velvets, tissues, embroideries, laces, he could lack; and then how
short and uncertain his life is; he were in a better way to happiness
than to live the emperor of these delights, and be the dictator of
fashions. But we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and we serve
fame and ambition, which is an equal slavery.
[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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