Chapter 16

But lest you might reject both these examples, thinking they were
but feigned tales, I shall put you in remembrance of one which I
reckon you yourself have read in the Conferences of Cassian. And
if you have not, there you may soon find it. For I myself have
half forgotten the thing, it is so long since I read it.

But thus much I remember: He telleth there of one who was many
days a very special holy man in his living, and, among the other
virtuous monks and anchorites that lived there in the wilderness,
was marvellously much esteemed. Yet some were not all out of fear
lest his revelations (of which he told many himself) would prove
illusions of the devil. And so it proved afterwards indeed, for
the man was by the devil's subtle suggestions brought into such a
high spiritual pride that in conclusion the devil brought him to
that horrible point that he made him go kill himself.

And, as far as my mind giveth me now, without new sight of the
book, he brought him to it by this persuasion: He made him believe
that it was God's will that he should do so, and that thereby he
should go straight to heaven. And if it were by that persuasion,
with which he took very great comfort in his own mind himself,
then was it, as I said, out of our case, and he needed not comfort
but counsel against giving credence to the devil's persuasion. But
marry, if he made him first perceive how he had been deluded and
then tempted him to his own death by shame and despair, then it
was within our matter. For then was his temptation fallen down
from pride to pusillanimity, and was waxed that kind of the
night's fear that I spoke of. And in such fear a good part of the
counsel to be given him should have need to stand in good
comforting, for then was he brought into right sore tribulation.

But, as I was about to tell you, strength of heart and courage are
there none in that deed, not only because true strength (as it
hath the name of virtue in a reasonable creature) can never be
without prudence, but also because, as I said, even in them that
seem men of most courage, it shall well appear to them that well
weigh the matter that the mind whereby they be led to destroy
themselves groweth of pusillanimity and very foolish fear.

Take for example Cato of Utica, who in Africa killed himself after
the great victory that Julius Caesar had. St. Austine well
declareth in his work _De civitate Dei_ that there was no strength
nor magnanimity in his destruction of himself, but plain
pusillanimity and impotency of stomach. For he was forced to do it
because his heart was too feeble to bear the beholding of another
man's glory or the suffering of other worldly calamities that he
feared should fall on himself. So that, as St. Austine well
proveth, that horrible deed is no act of strength, but an act of a
mind either drawn from the consideration of itself with some
fiendish fancy, in which the man hath need to be called home with
good counsel; or else oppressed by faint heart and fear, in which
a good part of the counsel must stand in lifting up his courage
with good consolation and comfort.

And therefore if we found any such religious person as was that
father whom Cassian writeth of, who were of such austerity and
apparent ghostly living as he was, and reputed by those who well
knew him for a man of singular virtue; and if it were perceived
that he had many strange visions appearing unto him; and if after
that it should now be perceived that the man went about secretly
to destroy himself--whosoever should hap to come to the knowledge
of it and intended to do his best to hinder it, he must first find
the means to search and find out the manner and countenance of the
man. He must see whether he be lightsome, glad, and joyful or
dumpish, heavy, and sad, and whether he go about it as one that
were full of the glad hope of heaven, or as one who had his breast
stuffed full of tediousness and weariness of the world. If he were
found to be of the first fashion, it would be a token that the
devil had, by his fantastical apparitions, puffed him up in such a
childish pride that he hath finally persuaded him, by some
illusion showed him for the proof, that God's pleasure is that he
shall for his sake with his own hands kill himself.

VINCENT: Now, if a man so found it, uncle, what counsel should he
give him then?

ANTHONY: That would be somewhat out of our purpose, cousin, since
(as I told you before) the man would not be in sorrow and
tribulation, of which our matter speaketh, but in a perilous merry
mortal temptation. So that if we should, beside our matter that we
have in hand, enter into that too, we might make a longer work
between both than we could well finish this day. Howbeit, to be
short, it is soon seen that in such a case the sum and effect of
the counsel must (in a manner) rest in giving him warning of the
devil's sleights. And that must be done under such a sweet
pleasant manner that the man should not abhor to hear it. For
while it could not lightly be otherwise that the man were rocked
and sung asleep by the devil's craft, and his mind occupied as it
were in a delectable dream, he should never have good audience of
him who would rudely and boisterously shog him and wake him, and
so shake him out of it. Therefore must you fair and easily touch
him, and with some pleasant speech awake him, so that he wax not
wayward, as children do who are waked ere they wish to rise.

But when a man hath first begun with his praise (for if he be
proud you shall much better please him with a commendation than
with a dirge) then, after favour won therewith, a man may little
by little insinuate the doubt of such revelations--not at first as
though it were for any doubt of his, but of some other man's, that
men in some other places talk of. And peradventure it shall not
miscontent him to say that great perils may fall therein, in
another man's case than his own, and he shall begin to preach upon
it. Or, if you were a man that had not so very great scrupulous
conscience of a harmless lie devised to do good with (the kind
which St. Austine, though he take it always for sin, yet he taketh
but for venial; and St. Jerome, as by divers places in his books
appeareth, taketh not fully for that much), then may you feign
some secret friend of yours to be in such a state. And you may say
that you yourself somewhat fear his peril, and have made of
charity this voyage for his sake, to ask this good father's counsel.

And in the communication, upon these words of St. John, "Give not
credence to every spirit, but prove the spirits whether they be
of God," and these words of St. Paul, "The angel of Satan
transfigureth himself into the angel of light," you shall take
occasion (the better if they hap to come in on his side), but yet
not lack occasion neither if those texts, for lack of his offer,
come in upon your own--occasion, I say, you shall not lack to
enquire by what sure and undeceivable tokens a man may discern the
true revelations from the false illusions. A man shall find many
such tokens both here and there in divers other authors and all
together in divers goodly treatises of that good godly doctor,
Master John Gerson, entitled _De probatione spirituum._ As,
whether the party be natural in manner or seem anything
fantastical. Or, whether the party be poor-spirited or proud. The
pride will somewhat appear by his delight in his own praise; or
if, of wiliness, or of another pride for to be praised of
humility, he refused to hear of that, yet any little fault found
in himself, or diffidence declared and mistrust of his own
revelations and doubtful tokens told, wherefore he himself should
fear lest they be the devil's illusion--such things, as Master
Gerson saith, will make him spit out somewhat of his spirit, if
the devil lie in his breast. Or if the devil be yet so subtle that
he keep himself close in his warm den and blow out never a hot
word, yet it is to be considered what end his revelations tend
to--whether to any spiritual profit to himself or other folk, or
only to vain marvels and wonders. Also, whether they withdraw him
from such other good virtuous business as, by the common rule of
Christendom or any of the rules of his profession, he was wont to
use or bound to be occupied in. Or whether he fall into any
singularity of opinions against the scripture of God, or against
the common faith of Christ's Catholic Church. Many other tokens
are spoken of in the work of Master Gerson, by which to consider
whether the person, neither having revelations of God nor
illusions from the devil, do feign his revelations himself, either
for winning of money or worldly favour, and delude the people
withal.

But now for our purpose: If, among any of the marks by which the
true revelations may be known from false illusions, that man
himself bring forth, for one mark, the doing or teaching of
anything against the scripture of God or the common faith of the
church, you may enter into the special matter, in which he can
never well flee from you. Or else may you yet, if you wish, feign
that your secret friend, for whose sake you come to him for
counsel, is brought to that mind by a certain apparition showed
unto him, as he himself saith, by an angel--as you fear, by the
devil. And that he cannot as yet be otherwise persuaded by you but
that the pleasure of God is that he shall go kill himself. And
that he believeth if he do so he shall then be thereby so
specially participant of Christ's passion that he shall forthwith
be carried up with angels into heaven. And that he is so joyful
for this that he firmly purposeth upon it, no less glad to do it
than another man would be glad to avoid it. And therefore may you
desire his good counsel to instruct you with some substantial good
advice, with which you may turn him from this error, that he be
not, under hope of God's true revelation, destroyed in body and
soul by the devil's false illusion.

If he will in this thing study and labour to instruct you, the
things that he himself shall find, of his own invention, though
they be less effectual, shall peradventure more work with him
toward his own amendment (since he shall, of likelihood, better
like them) than shall things double so substantial that were told
him by another man. If he be loth to think upon that side, and
therefore shrink from the matter, then is there no other way but
to venture to fall into the matter after the plain fashion, and
tell what you hear, and give him counsel and exhortation to the
contrary. Unless you wish to say that thus and thus hath the
matter been reasoned already between your friend and you. And
therein may you rehearse such things as should prove that the
vision which moveth him is no true revelation, but a very false
illusion.

VINCENT: Verily, uncle, I well allow that a man should, in this
thing as well as in every other in which he longeth to do another
man good, seek such a pleasant way that the party should be likely
to like his communication, or at least to take it well in worth.
And he should not enter in unto it in such a way that he whom he
would help should abhor him and be loth to hear him, and therefore
take no profit by him.

But now, uncle, if it come, by the one way or the other, to the
point where he will or shall hear me; what be the effectual means
with which I should by my counsel convert him?

ANTHONY: All those by which you may make him perceive that he is
deceived, and that his visions are no godly revelations but very
devilish illusion. And those reasons must you gather of the man,
of the matter, and of the law of God, or of some one of these.

Of the man may you gather them, if you can peradventure show him
that in such-and-such a point he is waxed worse since such
revelations have haunted him than he was before--as, in those who
are deluded, whosoever be well acquainted with them shall well
mark and perceive. For they wax more proud, more wayward, more
envious, suspicious, misjudging and depraving other men, with the
delight of their own praise, and such other spiritual vices of the
soul.

Of the matter may you gather, if it has happened that his
revelations before have proved false, or if they be strange things
rather than profitable ones. For that is a good mark between God's
miracles and the devil's wonders. For Christ and his saints have
their miracles always tending to fruit and profit. The devil and
his witches and necromancers, all their wonderful works tend to no
fruitful end, but to a fruitless ostentation and show, as it were
a juggler who would for a show before the people play feats of
skill at a feast.

Of the law of God you must draw your reasons in showing by the
scripture that the thing which he thinketh God biddeth by his
angel, God hath by his own mouth forbidden. And that is, you know
well, in the case that we speak of, so easy to find that I need
not to rehearse it to you. For among the Ten Commandments there is
plainly forbidden the unlawful killing of any man, and therefore
of himself, as (St. Austine saith) all the church teacheth, unless
he himself be no man.

VINCENT: This is very true, good uncle, nor will I dispute upon
any glossing of that prohibition. But since we find not the
contrary but that God may dispense with that commandment himself,
and both license and command also, if he himself wish, any man to
go kill either another man or himself, this man who is now by such
a marvellous vision induced to believe that God so biddeth him,
and therefore thinketh himself in that case discharged of that
prohibition and charged with the contrary commandment--with what
reason can we make him perceive that his vision is but an illusion
and not a true revelation?

ANTHONY: Nay, Cousin Vincent, you shall in this case not need to
ask those reasons of me. But taking the scripture of God for a
ground for this matter, you know very well yourself that you shall
go somewhat a shorter way to work if you ask this question of him:
Since God hath forbidden once the thing himself, though he may
dispense with it if he will, yet since the devil may feign himself
God and with a marvellous vision delude one, and make as though
God did it; and since the devil is also more likely to speak
against God's commandment than God against his own; you shall have
good cause, I say, to demand of the man himself whereby he knoweth
that his vision is God's true revelation and not the devil's false
delusion.

VINCENT: Indeed, uncle, I think that would be a hard question to
him. Can a man, uncle, have in such a thing even a very sure
knowledge of his own mind?

ANTHONY: Yea, cousin, God may cast into the mind of a man, I
suppose, such an inward light of understanding that he cannot fail
but be sure thereof. And yet he who is deluded by the devil may
think himself as sure and yet be deceived indeed. And such a
difference is there in a manner between them, as between the sight
of a thing while we are awake and look thereon, and the sight with
which we see a thing in our sleep while we dream thereof.

VINCENT: This is a pretty similitude, uncle, in this thing! And
then is it easy for the monk that we speak of to declare that he
knoweth his vision for a true revelation and not a false delusion,
if there be so great a difference between them.

ANTHONY: Not so easy yet, cousin, as you think it would be. For
how can you prove to me that you are awake?

VINCENT: Marry, lo, do I not now wag my hand, shake my head, and
stamp with my foot here on the floor?

ANTHONY: Have you never dreamed ere this that you have done the
same?

VINCENT: Yes, that have I, and more too than that. For I have ere
this in my sleep dreamed that I doubted whether I were asleep or
awake, and have in good faith thought that I did thereupon even
the same things that I do now indeed, and thereby determined that
I was not asleep. And yet have I dreamed in good faith further,
that I have been afterward at dinner and there, making merry with
good company, have told the same dream at the table and laughed
well at it, to think that while I was asleep I had by such means
of moving the parts of my body and considering thereof, so verily
thought myself awake!

ANTHONY: And will you not now soon, think you, when you wake and
rise, laugh as well at yourself when you see that you lie now in
your warm bed asleep again, and dream all this time, while you
believe so verily that you are awake and talking of these matters
with me?

VINCENT: God's Lord, uncle, you go now merrily to work with me
indeed, when you look and speak so seriously and would make me
think I were asleep!

ANTHONY: It may be that you are, for anything that you can say or
do whereby you can, with any reason that you make, drive me to
confess that you yourself be sure of the contrary. For you cannot
do or say anything now whereby you are sure to be awake but what
you have ere this, or hereafter may, think yourself as surely to
do the selfsame thing indeed while you be all the while asleep and
do nothing but lie dreaming.

VINCENT: Well, well, uncle, though I have ere this thought myself
awake while I was indeed asleep, yet for all this I know well
enough that I am awake now. And so do you too, though I cannot
find the words by which I may with reason force you to confess it,
without your always driving me off by the example of my dream.

ANTHONY: Meseemeth, cousin, this is very true. And likewise
meseemeth the manner and difference between some kind of true
revelations and some kind of false illusions is like that which
standeth between the things that are done awake and the things
that in our dreams seem to be done when we are sleeping. That is,
he who hath that kind of revelation from God is as sure of the
truth as we are of our own deeds while we are awake. And he who is
deluded by the devil is in such wise deceived as they are by their
dream, and worse, too. And yet he reckoneth himself for the time
as sure as the other, saving that one believeth falsely, the other
truly knoweth. But I say not, cousin, that this kind of sure
knowledge cometh in every kind of revelation. For there are many
kinds, of which it would be too long to talk now. But I say that
God doth certainly send some such to a man in some thing, or may.

VINCENT: Yet then this religious man of whom we speak, when I show
him the scripture against his revelation and therefore call it an
illusion, may bid me with reason go mind my own affairs. For he
knoweth well and surely himself that his revelation is very good
and true and not any false illusion, since for all the general
commandment of God in the scripture, God may dispense where he will
and when he will, and may command him to do the contrary. For he
commanded Abraham to kill his own son, and Sampson had, by
inspiration of God, commandment to kill himself by pulling down the
house upon his own head at the feast of the Philistines.

Now, if I would then do as you bade me right now, tell him that
such apparitions may be illusions, and since God's word is in the
scripture against him plain for the prohibition, he must perceive
the truth of his revelation whereby I may know it is not a false
illusion; then shall he in turn bid me tell him whereby I can
prove myself to be awake and talk with him and not be asleep and
dream so, since in my dream I may as surely think so as I know
that I do so. And thus shall he drive me to the same bay to which
I would bring him.

ANTHONY: This is well said, cousin, but yet could he not escape
you so. For the dispensation of God's common precept, which
dispensation he must say that he hath by his private revelation,
is a thing of such sort as showeth itself naught and false. For it
never hath any example like, since the world began until now, that
ever man hath read or heard of, among faithful people commended.

First, as for Abraham, concerning the death of his son: God
intended it not, but only tempted the towardness of the father's
obedience. As for Sampson, all men make not the matter very sure
whether he be saved or not, but yet therein some matter and cause
appeareth. For the Philistines being enemies of God and using
Sampson for their mocking-stock in scorn of God, it is well likely
that God gave him the mind to bestow his own life upon the
revenging of the displeasure that those blasphemous Philistines
did unto God. And that appeareth clear enough by this: that though
his strength failed him when he lacked his hair, yet had he not,
it seemeth, that strength evermore at hand while he had his hair,
but only at such times as it pleased God to give it to him. This
thing appeareth by these words, that the scripture in some place
of that matter saith, "The power or might of God rushed into
Sampson." And so therefore, since this thing that he did in the
pulling down of the house was done by the special gift of strength
then at that point given him by God, it well declareth that the
strength of God, and with it the spirit of God, entered into him
for it.

St. Austine also rehearseth that certain holy virtuous virgins, in
time of persecution, being pursued by God's enemies the infidels
to be deflowered by force, ran into a water and drowned themselves
rather than be bereaved of their virginity. And, albeit that he
thinketh it is not lawful for any other maid to follow their
example, but that she should suffer another to do her any manner
of violence by force and commit sin of his own upon her against
her will, rather than willingly and thereby sinfully herself to
become a homicide of herself; yet he thinketh that in them it
happened by the special instinct of the spirit of God, who, for
causes seen to himself, would rather that they should avoid it
with their own temporal death than abide the defiling and
violation of their chastity.

But now this good man neither hath any of God's enemies to be
revenged on by his own death, nor any woman who violently pursues
him to bereave him by force of his virginity! And we never find
that God proved any man's obedient mind by the commandment of his
own slaughter of himself. Therefore is both his case plainly
against God's open precept, and the dispensation strange and
without example, no cause appearing nor well imaginable. Unless he
would think that God could neither any longer live without him,
nor could take him to him in such wise as he doth other men, but
must command him to come by a forbidden way, by which, without
other cause, we never heard that ever he bade any man else before.

Now, you think that, if you should after this bid him tell you by
what way he knoweth that his intent riseth upon a true revelation
and not upon a false illusion, he in turn would bid you tell him
by what means you know that you are talking with him well awake
and not dreaming it asleep. You may answer him that for men thus
to talk together as you do and to prove and perceive that they do
so, by the moving of themselves, with putting the question unto
themselves for their pleasure, and marking and considering it, is
in waking a daily common thing that every man doth or can do when
he will, and when they do it, they do it but for pleasure. But in
sleep it happeneth very seldom that men dream that they do so, and
in the dream they never put the question except for doubt. And you
may tell him that, since this revelation is such also as happeneth
so seldom and oftener happeneth that men dream of such than have
such indeed, therefore it is more reasonable that he show you how
he knoweth, in such a rare thing and a thing more like a dream,
that he himself is not asleep, than that you, in such a common
thing among folk that are awake and so seldom happening in a
dream, should need to show him whereby you know that you be not
asleep.

Besides this, he to whom you should show it seeth himself and
perceiveth the thing that he would bid you prove. But the thing
that he would make you believe--the truth of his revelation which
you bid him prove--you see not that he knoweth it well himself.
And therefore, ere you believe it against the scripture, it would
be well consonant unto reason that he should show you how he
knoweth it for a true waking revelation and not a false dreaming
delusion.

VINCENT: Then shall he peradventure answer me that whether I
believe him or not maketh to him no matter; the thing toucheth
himself and not me, and he himself is in himself as sure that it
is a true revelation as that he can tell that he dreameth not but
talketh with me awake.

ANTHONY: Without doubt, cousin, if he abide at that point and can
by no reason be brought to do so much as doubt, nor can by no
means be shogged out of his dead sleep, but will needs take his
dream for a very truth, and--as some men rise by night and walk
about their chamber in their sleep--will so rise and hang himself;
I can then see no other way but either bind him fast in his bed,
or else essay whether that might hap to help him with which, the
common tale goeth, a carver's wife helped her husband in such a
frantic fancy. When, upon a Good Friday, he would needs have
killed himself for Christ as Christ did for him, she said to him
that it would then be fitting for him to die even after the same
fashion. And that might not be by his own hands, but by the hand
of another; for Christ, perdy, killed not himself. And because her
husband would take no counsel (for that would he not, in no wise),
she offered him that for God's sake she would secretly crucify him
herself upon a great cross that he had made to nail a new-carved
crucifix upon. And he was very glad thereof. Yet then she
bethought her that Christ was bound to a pillar and beaten first,
and afterward crowned with thorns. Thereupon, when she had by his
own assent bound him fast to a post, she left not off beating,
with holy exhortation to suffer, so much and so long that ere ever
she left work and unbound him (praying nevertheless, that she
might put on his head, and drive well down, a crown of thorns that
she had wrought for him and brought him), he said he thought this
was enough for that year. He would pray God to forbear him of the
rest till Good Friday came again! But when it came again the next
years, then was his desire past; he longed to follow Christ no
further.

VINCENT: Indeed, uncle, if this help him not, then will nothing
help him, I suppose.

ANTHONY: And yet, cousin, the devil may peradventure make him,
toward such a purpose, first gladly suffer other pain; yea, and
diminish his feeling in it, too, that he may thereby the less fear
his death. And yet are peradventure sometimes such things and many
more to be essayed. For as the devil may hap to make him suffer,
so may he hap to miss, namely if his friends fall to prayer for
him against his temptation. For that can he himself never do, while
he taketh it for none.

But, for conclusion: If the man be surely proved so inflexibly set
upon the purpose to destroy himself, as being commanded by God to
do so, that no good counsel that men can give him nor any other
thing that men may do to him can refrain him, but that he would
surely shortly kill himself; then except only good prayer made by
his friends for him, I can find no further shift but either to
have him ever in sight or to bind him fast in his bed.

And so must he needs of reason be content to be ordered. For
though he himself may take his fancy for a true revelation, yet
since he cannot make us perceive it for such, likewise as he
thinketh himself by his secret commandment bound to follow it, so
must he needs agree that, since it is against the plain open
prohibition of God, we are bound by the plain open precept to keep
him from it.

VINCENT: In this point, uncle, I can go no further. But now, if
he were, on the other hand, perceived to intend his destruction
and go about it with heaviness of heart and thought and
dullness--what way would there be to be used to him then?

ANTHONY: Then would his temptation, as I told you before, be
properly pertaining to our matter, for then would he be in a sore
tribulation and a very perilous. For then would it be a token that
the devil had either, by bringing him into some great sin, brought
him into despair, or peradventure, by his revelations being found
false and reproved or by some secret sin of his being deprehended
and divulged, had cast him both into despair of heaven through
fear and into a weariness of this life for shame. For then he
seeth his estimation lost among other folk of whose praise he was
wont to be proud.

And therefore, cousin, in such a case as this, the man is to be
fairly handled and sweetly, and with tender loving words to be put
in good courage, and comforted in all that men goodly can. Here
must they put him in mind that, if he despair not, but pull up his
courage and trust in God's great mercy, he shall have in
conclusion great cause to be glad of this fall. For before he
stood in greater peril than he was aware of, while he took himself
for better than he was. And God, for favour that he beareth him,
hath suffered him to fall deep into the devil's danger, to make
him thereby know what he was while he took himself for so sure.
And therefore, as he suffered him then to fall for a remedy
against over-bold pride, so will God now--if the man meek himself,
not with fruitless despair but with fruitful penance--so set him up
again upon his feet and so strengthen him with his grace, that for
this one fall that the devil hath given him he shall give the
devil a hundred.

And here must he be put in remembrance of Mary Magdalene, of the
prophet David, and especially of St. Peter, whose high bold
courage took a foul fall. And yet because he despaired not of
God's mercy, but wept and called upon it, how highly God took him
into his favour again is well testified in his holy scripture and
well known through Christendom.

And now shall it be charitably done if some good virtuous folk,
such as he himself somewhat esteemeth and hath afore longed to
stand in estimation with, do resort sometimes to him, not only to
give him counsel but also to ask advice and counsel of him in some
cases of their own conscience. For so may they let him perceive
that they esteem him now no less, but rather more than they did
before, since they think him now by this fall better expert of the
devil's craft and so not only better instructed himself but also
better able to give good advice and counsel to others. This thing
will, to my mind, well amend and lift up his courage from the
peril of that desperate shame.

VINCENT: Methinketh, uncle, that this would be a perilous thing.
For it may peradventure make him set the less by his fall, and
thereby it may cast him into his first pride or into his other sin
again, the falling in to which drove him into this despair.

ANTHONY: I do not mean, cousin, that every fool should at
adventure fall in hand with him, for so might it happen to do harm
indeed.

But, cousin, if a learned physician have a man in hand, he can
well discern when and how long some certain medicine is necessary
which, if administered at another time or at that time over-long
continued, might put the patient in peril. If he have his patient
in an ague, for the cure of which he needeth his medicines in
their working cold, yet he may hap, ere that fever be full cured,
to fall into some other disease such that, unless it were helped
with hot medicine, would be likely to kill the body before the
fever could be cured. The physician then would for the while have
his most care to the cure of that thing in which would be the most
present peril. And when that were once out of jeopardy, he would
do then the more exact diligence afterward about the further cure
of the fever.

And likewise, if a ship be in peril to fall into Scilla, the fear
of falling into Charibdis on the other side shall never hinder any
wise master thereof from drawing himself from Scilla toward
Charibdis first, in all that ever he can. But when he hath himself
once so far away from Scilla that he seeth himself safe out of
that danger, then will he begin to take good heed to keep himself
well from the other.

And likewise, while this man is falling down to despair and to the
final destruction of himself, a good wise spiritual leech will
first look unto that, and by good comfort lift up his courage. And
when he seeth that peril well past, he will care for the cure of
his other faults afterward. Howbeit, even in the giving of his
comfort, he may find ways enough in such wise to temper his words
that the men may take occasion of good courage and yet far from
occasion of new relapse into his former sin. For the great part of
his counsel shall be to encourage him to amendment, and that is,
perdy, far from falling into sin again.

VINCENT: I think, uncle, that folk fall into this ungracious
mind, through the devil's temptation, by many more means than one.

ANTHONY: That is, cousin, very true. For the devil taketh his
occasions as he seeth them fall convenient for him. Some he
stirreth to it for weariness of themselves after some great loss,
some for fear of horrible bodily harm, and some (as I said) for
fear of worldly shame.

One I knew myself who had been long reputed for a right honest
man, who was fallen into such a fancy that he was well near worn
away with it. But what he was tempted to do, that would he tell no
man. But he told me that he was sore cumbered and that it always
ran in his mind that folk's fancies were fallen from him, and that
they esteemed not his wit as they were wont to do, but ever his
mind gave him that the people began to take him for a fool. And
folk of truth did not so at all, but reputed him both for wise and
honest.

Two others I knew who were marvellous afraid that they would kill
themselves, and could tell me no cause wherefore they so feared it
except that their own mind so gave them. Neither had they any loss
nor no such thing toward them, nor none occasion of any worldly
shame (the one was in body very well liking and lusty), but
wondrous weary were they both twain of that mind. And always they
thought that they would not do it for anything, and nevertheless
they feared they would. And wherefore they so feared neither of
them both could tell. And the one, lest he should do it, desired
his friends to bind him.

VINCENT: This is, uncle, a marvellous strange manner.

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, I suppose many of them are in this
case.

The devil, as I said before, seeketh his occasions. For as St.
Peter saith, "Your adversary the devil as a roaring lion goeth
about seeking whom he may devour." He marketh well, therefore, the
state and condition that every man standeth in, not only
concerning these outward things (lands, possessions, goods,
authority, fame, favour, or hatred of the world), but also men's
complexions within them--health or sickness, good humours or bad,
by which they be light-hearted or lumpish, strong-hearted or faint
and feeble of spirit, bold and hardy or timorous and fearful of
courage. And according as these things minister him matter of
temptation, so useth he himself in the manner of his temptation.

Now likewise as in such folk as are full of young warm lusty blood
and other humours exciting the flesh to filthy voluptuous living,
the devil useth to make those things his instruments in tempting
them and provoking them to it; and as, where he findeth some folk
full of hot blood and choler, he maketh those humours his
instruments to set their hearts on fire in wrath and fierce
furious anger; so where he findeth some folk who, through some
dull melancholy humours, are naturally disposed to fear, he
casteth sometimes such a fearful imagination into their mind that
without help of God they can never cast it out of their heart.

Some, at the sudden falling of some horrible thought into their
mind, have not only had a great abomination at it (which
abomination they well and virtuously had), but the devil, using
their melancholy humour and thereby their natural inclination to
fear for his instruments, hath caused them to conceive therewith
such a deep dread besides that they think themselves with that
abominable thought to be fallen into such an outrageous sin that
they are ready to fall into despair of grace, believing that God
hath given them over for ever. Whereas that thought, were it never
so horrible and never so abominable, is yet unto those who never
like it, but ever still abhor it and strive still against it,
matter of conflict and merit and not any sin at all.

Some have, with holding a knife in their hand, suddenly thought
upon the killing of themselves, and forthwith, in devising what a
horrible thing it would be if they should mishap to do so, have
fallen into a fear that they would do so indeed. And they have,
with long and often thinking thereon, imprinted that fear so sore
in their imagination, that some of them have not afterwards cast
it off without great difficulty. And some could never in their
life be rid of it, but have afterward in conclusion miserably done
it indeed. But like as, where the devil useth the blood of a man's
own body toward his purpose in provoking him to lechery, the man
must and doth with grace and wisdom resist it; so must the man do
whose melancholy humours and devil abuseth, toward the casting of
such a desperate dread into his heart.

VINCENT: I pray you, uncle, what advice would be to be given him
in such a case?

ANTHONY: Surely, methinketh his help standeth in two things:
counsel and prayer.

First, as concerning counsel: Like as it may be that he hath two
things that hold him in his temptation; that is, some evil humours
of his own body, and the cursed devil that abuseth them to his
pernicious purpose, so must he needs against them twain the
counsel of two manner of folk; that is, physicians for the body
and physicians for the soul. The bodily physician shall consider
what abundance of these evil humours the man hath, that the devil
maketh his instruments, in moving the man toward that fearful
affection. And he shall proceed by fitting diet and suitable
medicines to resist them, as well as by purgations to disburden
the body of them.

Let no man think it strange that I would advise a man to take
counsel for the body, in such spiritual suffering. For since the
body and the soul are so knit and joined together that they both
make between them one person, the distemperance of either one
engendereth sometimes the distemperance of both twain. And
therefore I would advise every man in every sickness of the body
to be shriven and to seek of a good spiritual physician the sure
health of his soul. For this shall not only serve against peril
that may peradventure grow further by that sickness than in the
beginning men think were likely, but the comfort of it (and God's
favour increasing with it) shall also do the body good. For this
cause the blessed apostle St. James exhorteth men in their bodily
sickness to call in the priests, and saith that it shall do them
good both in body and soul. So likewise would I sometimes advise
some men, in some sickness of the soul, besides their spiritual
leech, to take also some counsel of the physician for the body.
Some who are wretchedly disposed, and yet long to be more vicious
than they are, go to physicians and apothecaries and enquire what
things may serve them to make them more lusty to their foul
fleshly delight. And would it then be any folly, on the other
hand, if he who feeleth himself against his will much moved unto
such uncleanness, should enquire of the physician what things,
without diminishing his health, would be suitable for the
diminishing of such foul fleshly motion?

Of spiritual counsel, the first is to be shriven, that the devil
have not the more power upon him by reason of his other sins.

VINCENT: I have heard some say, uncle, that when such folk have
been at shrift, their temptation hath been the more hot upon them
than it was before.

ANTHONY: That think I very well, but that is a special token that
shrift is wholesome for them, since the devil is most wroth with
it. You find, in some places in the gospel, that the devil did
most trouble the person whom he possessed when he saw that Christ
would cast him out. Otherwise, we must let the devil do what he
will, if we fear his anger, for with every good deed will he wax
angry.

Then is it in his shrift to be told him that he not only feareth
more than he needeth, but also feareth where he needeth not. And
besides that, he is sorry for a thing for which, unless he will
willingly turn his good into his harm, he hath more cause to be
glad.

First, if he have cause to fear, yet feareth he more than he
needeth. For there is no devil so diligent to destroy him as God
is to preserve him; nor no devil so near him to do him harm as God
is to do him good. Nor are all the devils in hell so strong to
invade and assault him as God is to defend him if he distrust him
not but faithfully put his trust in him.

He feareth also where he needeth not. For he dreadeth that he were
out of God's favour, because such horrible thoughts fall into his
mind, but he must understand that while they fall into his mind
against his will they are not imputed unto him.

He is, finally, sad of that of which he may be glad. For since he
taketh such thoughts displeasantly, and striveth and fighteth
against them, he hath thereby a good token that he is in God's
favour, and that God assisteth him and helpeth him. And he may
make himself sure that so will God never cease to do, unless he
himself fail and fall from him first. And beside that, this
conflict that he hath against the temptation shall, if he will not
fall where he need not, be an occasion of his merit and of a right
great reward in heaven. And the pain that he taketh therein shall
for so much, as Master Gerson well showeth, stand him in stead of
his purgatory.

The manner of the fight against temptation must stand in three
things: that is, in resisting, and in contemning, and in the
invocation of help.

Resist must a man for his own part with reason, considering what a
folly it would be to fall where he need not, since he is not
driven to it in avoiding of any other pain or in hope of winning
any manner of pleasure, but contrariwise he would by that fall
lose everlasting bliss and fall into everlasting pain. And if it
were in avoiding of other great pain, yet could he avoid none so
great thereby as the one he should thereby fall into.

He must also consider that a great part of this temptation is in
effect but the fear of his own fancy, the dread that he hath lest
he shall once be driven to it. For he may be sure that (unless he
himself will, of his own folly) all the devils in hell can never
drive him to it, but his own foolish imagination may. For it
fareth in his temptation like a man going over a high bridge who
waxeth so afraid, through his own fancy, that he falleth down
indeed, when he would otherwise be able enough to pass over
without any danger. For a man upon such a bridge, if folk call
upon him, "You fall, you fall!" may fall with the fancy that he
taketh thereof; although, if folk looked merrily upon him and
said, "There is no danger therein," he would pass over the bridge
well enough--and he would not hesitate to run upon it, if it were
but a foot from the ground. So, in this temptation, the devil
findeth the man of his own foolish fancy afraid and then crieth in
the ear of his heart, "Thou fallest, thou fallest!" and maketh the
foolish man afraid that he should, at every foot, fall indeed. And
the devil so wearieth him with that continual fear, if he give the
ear of his heart to him, that at last he withdraweth his mind from
due remembrance of God, and then driveth him to that deadly
mischief indeed. Therefore, like as, against the vice of the
flesh, the victory standeth not all in the fight, but sometimes
also in the flight (saving that it is indeed a part of a wise
warrior's fight to flee from his enemies' traps), so must a man in
this temptation too, not only resist it always with reasoning
against it, but sometimes set it clear at right naught and cast it
off when it cometh and not once regard it so much as to vouchsafe
to think thereon.

Some folk have been clearly rid of such pestilent fancies with
very full contempt of them, making a cross upon their hearts and
bidding the devil avaunt. And sometimes they laugh him to scorn
too, and then turn their mind unto some other matter. And when the
devil hath seen that they have set so little by him, after certain
essays, made in such times as he thought most fitting, he hath
given that temptation quite over. And this he doth not only
because the proud spirit cannot endure to be mocked, but also
lest, with much tempting the man to the sin to which he could not
in conclusion bring him, he should much increase his merit.

The final fight is by invocation of help unto God, both praying
for himself and desiring others also to pray for him--both poor
folk for his alms and other good folk of their charity, especially
good priests in that holy sacred service of the Mass. And not only
them but also his own good angel and other holy saints such as his
devotion specially doth stand unto. Or, if he be learned, let him
use then the litany, with the holy suffrages that follow, which is
a prayer in the church of marvellous old antiquity. For it was not
made first, as some believe, by that holy man St. Gregory (which
opinion arose from the fact that, in the time of a great
pestilence in Rome, he caused the whole city to go in solemn
procession with it), but it was in use in the church many years
before St. Gregory's days, as well appeareth by the books of other
holy doctors and saints, who were dead hundreds of years before
St. Gregory was born.

And holy St. Bernard giveth counsel that every man should make
suit unto angels and saints to pray for him to God in the things
that he would have furthered by his holy hand. If any man will
stick at that, and say it needs not, because God can hear us
himself; and will also say that it is perilous to do so because
(they say) we are not so counseled by scripture, I will not
dispute the matter here. He who will not do it, I hinder him not
to leave it undone. But yet for mine own part, I will as well
trust to the counsel of St. Bernard, and reckon him for as good
and as well learned in scripture, as any man whom I hear say the
contrary. And better dare I jeopard my soul with the soul of St.
Bernard than with that of him who findeth that fault in his
doctrine.

Unto God himself every good man counseleth to have recourse above
all. And, in this temptation, to have special remembrance of
Christ's passion, and pray him for the honour of his death, the
ground of man's salvation, to keep this person thus tempted form
that damnable death.

Special verses may be drawn out of the psalter, against the
devil's wicked temptations--as, for example, _"Exsurgat Deus et
dissipentur inimici eius, et fugiant qui oderunt eum a facie
eius,"_ and many others--which in such horrible temptation are
pleasing to God and to the devil very terrible. But none is more
terrible nor more odious to the devil than the words with which
our Saviour drove him away himself: _"Vade Sathana."_ And no
prayer is more acceptable unto God, nor more effectual in its
matter, than those words which our Saviour hath taught us himself,
_"Ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo."_ And I
doubt not, by God's grace, but that he who in such a temptation
will use good counsel and prayer and keep himself in good virtuous
business and good virtuous company and abide in the faithful hope
of God's help, he shall have the truth of God (as the prophet
saith in the verse afore rehearsed) so compass him about with a
shield that he shall not need to dread this night's fear of this
wicked temptation.

And thus will I finish this piece of the night's fear. And glad am
I that we are past it, and come once unto the day, to those other
words of the prophet, _"A sagitta volante in die."_ For methinketh
I have made it a long night!

VINCENT: Forsooth, uncle, so have you, but we have not slept in
it, but been very well occupied. But now I fear that unless you
make here a pause till you have dined, you shall keep yourself
from your dinner over-long.

ANTHONY: Nay, nay, cousin, for I broke my fast even as you came
in. And also you shall find this night and this day like a winter
day and a winter night. For as the winter hath short days and long
nights, so shall you find that I made you not this fearful night
so long but what I shall make you this light courageous day as
short.

And so shall the matter require well of itself indeed. For in
these words of the prophet, "The truth of God shall compass thee
round about with a shield from the arrow flying in the day," I
understand the arrow of pride, with which the devil tempteth a
man, not in the night (that is, in tribulation and adversity), for
that time is too discomfortable and too fearful for pride, but in
the day (that is, in prosperity), for that time is full of
lightsome pleasure and courage. But surely this worldly prosperity
in which a man so rejoiceth and of which the devil maketh him so
proud, is but a very short winter day. For we begin, many full
poor and cold, and up we fly like an arrow shot into the air. And
yet when we be suddenly shot up into the highest, ere we be well
warm there, down we come unto the cold ground again. And then even
there stick we still. And yet for the short while that we be
upward and aloft--Lord, how lusty and how proud we be, buzzing
above busily, as a bumblebee flieth about in summer, never aware
that she shall die in winter! And so fare many of us, God help us.
For in the short winter day of worldly wealth and prosperity, this
flying arrow of the devil, this high spirit of pride, shot out of
the devil's bow and piercing through our heart, beareth us up in
our affection aloft into the clouds, where we think we sit on the
rainbow and overlook the world under us, accounting in the regard
of our own glory such other poor souls as were peradventure wont
to be our fellows for silly poor pismires and ants.

But though this arrow of pride fly never so high in the clouds,
and though the man whom it carrieth up so high be never so joyful
thereof, yet let him remember that, be this arrow never so light,
it hath yet a heavy iron head. And therefore, fly it never so
high, down must it needs come, and on the ground must it light.
And sometimes it falleth not in a very cleanly place, but the
pride turneth into rebuke and shame and there is then all the
glory gone.

Of this arrow speaketh the wise man in the fifth chapter of the
book of Wisdom, where he saith in the person of them that in pride
and vanity passed the time of this present life, and after that so
spent, passed hence into hell: "What hath pride profited us? Or
what good hath the glory of our riches done unto us? Passed are
all those things like a shadow . . . or like an arrow shot out
into the place appointed; the air that was divided is forthwith
returned unto the place, and in such wise closed together again
that the way is not perceived in which the arrow went. And in like
wise we, as soon as we were born, are forthwith vanished away, and
have left no token of any good virtue behind us, but are consumed
and wasted and come to naught in our malignity. They, lo, that
have lived here in sin, such words have they spoken when they lay
in hell."

Here shall you, good cousin, consider, that whereas the scripture
here speaketh of the arrow shot into its place appointed or
intended, in the shooting of this arrow of pride there be divers
purposings and appointings. For the proud man himself hath no
certain purpose or appointment at any mark, butt, or prick upon
earth, at which he determineth to shoot and there to stick and
tarry. But ever he shooteth as children do, who love to shoot up
cop-high, to see how high their arrow can fly up. But now doth the
devil intend and appoint a certain mark, surely set in a place into
which he purposeth--fly this arrow never so high and the proud
heart on it--to have them both alight at last, and that place is in
the very pit of hell. There is set the devil's well-acquainted
prick and his very just mark. And with his pricking shaft of pride
he hath by himself a plain proof and experience that down upon this
prick (unless it be stopped by some grace of God on the way) the
soul that flieth up with it can never fail to fall. For when he
himself was in heaven and began to fly cop-high, with the lusty
light flight of pride, saying, "I will fly up above the stars and
set my throne on the sides of the north, and will be like unto the
Highest," long ere he could fly up half so high as he said in his
heart that he would, he was turned from a bright glorious angel
into a dark deformed devil, and from flying any further upward,
down was he thrown into the deep dungeon of hell.

Now may it, peradventure, cousin, seem that, since this kind of
temptation of pride is no tribulation or pain, all this that we
speak of this sorrow of pride flying forth in the day of
prosperity, would be beside our matter.

VINCENT: Verily, mine uncle, and so seemed it unto me. And
somewhat was I minded so to say to you, too, saving that, whether
it were properly pertaining to the present matter or somewhat
digressing from it, methought it was good matter and such as I had
no wish to leave.

ANTHONY: But now must you consider, cousin, that though
prosperity be contrary to tribulation, yet unto many a good man
the devil's temptation to pride in prosperity is a greater
tribulation, and more hath need of good comfort and good counsel
both, than he who never felt it would believe. And that is the
thing, cousin, that maketh me speak of it as of a thing proper to
this matter. For, cousin, as it is a right hard thing to touch
pitch and never defile the fingers, to put flax unto fire and yet
keep them from burning, to keep a serpent in thy bosom and yet be
safe from stinging, to put young men with young women without
danger of foul fleshly desire--so it is hard for any person,
either man or woman, in great worldly wealth and much prosperity,
so to withstand the suggestions of the devil and occasions given
by the world that they keep themselves from the deadly danger of
ambitious glory. And if a man fall into it, there followeth upon
it a whole flood of all unhappy mischief: arrogant manner, high
solemn bearing, overlooking the poor in word and countenance,
displeasant and disdainful behaviour, ravine, extortion,
oppression, hatred and cruelty.

Now, many a good man, cousin, come into great authority, casteth
in his mind the peril of such occasions of pride as the devil
taketh of prosperity to make his instruments of, with which to
move men to such high point of presumption as engendereth so many
great evils. And, feeling the devil therewith offering him
suggestions to it, he is sore troubled therewith. And some fall so
afraid of it that even in the day of prosperity they fall into the
night's fear of pusillanimity, and they leave the things undone in
which they might use themselves well. And mistrusting the aid and
help of God in holding them upright in their temptations, whereby
for faint heart they leave off good business in which they would
be well occupied. And, under pretext (as it seemeth to themselves)
of humble heart and meekness, and of serving God in contemplation
and silence, they seek their own ease and earthly rest unawares.
And with this, if it be so, God is not well content.

Howbeit, if it be so that a man, by the experience that he hath of
himself, perceiveth that in wealth and authority he doth his own
soul harm, and cannot do the good that to his part appertaineth;
but seeth the things that he should set his hands to sustain,
decay through his default and fall to ruin under him, and seeth
that to the amendment thereof he leaveth his own duty undone; then
would I in any wise advise him to leave off that thing--be it
spiritual benefice that he have, parsonage or bishopric, or
temporal office and authority--and rather give it over quite and
draw himself aside and serve God, than to take the worldly worship
and commodity for himself, with incommodity of those whom his duty
would be to profit.

But, on the other hand, he may not see the contrary but what he
may do his duty conveniently well, and may fear nothing but that
the temptations of ambition and pride may peradventure turn his
good purpose and make him decline unto sin. I deny not that it is
well done to stand always in moderate fear, for the scripture
saith, "Blessed is the man that is always fearful," and St. Paul
saith, "He that standeth, let him look that he fall not." Yet is
over-much fear perilous and draweth toward the mistrust of God's
gracious help. This immoderate fear and faint heart holy scripture
forbiddeth, saying, "Be not feeble-hearted or timorous." Let such
a man therefore temper his fear with good hope, and think that
since God hath set him in that place (if he think that God have
set him in it), God will assist him with his grace to use it well.
Howbeit, if he came to it by simony or some such other evils
means, then that would be one good reason wherefore he should
rather leave it off. But otherwise let him continue in his good
business. And, against the devil's provocation unto evil, let him
bless himself and call unto God and pray, and look that the devil
tempt him not to lean the more toward the contrary.

Let him pity and comfort those who are in distress and affliction.
I mean not that he should let every malefactor pass forth
unpunished, and freely run out and rob at random. But in his heart
let him be sorry to see that of necessity, for fear of decaying
the common weal, men are driven to put malefactors to pain. And
yet where he findeth good tokens and likelihood of amendment,
there let him help all that he can that mercy may be had. There
shall never lack desperately disposed wretched enough besides,
upon whom, as an example, justice can proceed. Let him think, in
his own heart, that every poor beggar is his fellow.

VINCENT: That will be very hard, uncle, for an honourable man to
do, when he beholdeth himself richly apparelled and the beggar
rigged in his rags.

ANTHONY: If there were here, cousin, two men who were both
beggars, and afterward a great rich man would take one unto him,
and tell him that for a little time he would have him in his
house, and thereupon arrayed him in silk and gave him a great bag
by his side, filled even with gold, but giving him this catch
therewith: that, within a little while, out he should go in his
old rags again, and bear never a penny with him--if this beggar
met his fellow now, while his gay gown was on, might he not, for
all his gay gear, take him for his fellow still? And would he not
be a very fool if, for a wealth of a few weeks, he would think
himself far his better?

VINCENT: Yes, uncle, if the difference in their state were no
other.

ANTHONY: Surely, cousin, methinketh that in this world, between
the richest and the most poor, the difference is scant so much. For
let the highest look on the most base, and consider how they both
came into this world. And then let him consider further that,
howsoever rich he be now, he shall yet, within a while--
peradventure less than one week--walk out again as poor as that
beggar shall. And then, by my troth, methinketh this rich man much
more than mad if, for the wealth of a little while--haply less than
one week--he reckon himself in earnest any better than the beggar's
fellow.

And less than thus can no man think, who hath any natural wit and
well useth it. But now a Christian man, cousin, who hath the light
of faith, he cannot fail to think much further in this thing. For
he will think not only upon his bare coming hither and his bare
going hence again, but also the dreadful judgment of God, and upon
the fearful pains of hell and the inestimable joys of heaven. And
in the considering of these things, he will call to remembrance
that peradventure when this beggar and he are both departed hence,
the beggar may be suddenly set up in such royalty that well were
he himself that ever was he born if he might be made his fellow.
And he who well bethinketh him, cousin, upon these things, I
verily think that the arrow of pride flying forth in the day of
worldly wealth shall never so wound his heart that ever it shall
bear him up one foot.

But now, to the intent that he may think on such things the
better, let him use often to resort to confession. And there let
him open his heart and, by the mouth of some virtuous ghostly
father, have such things often renewed in his remembrance. Let him
also choose himself some secret solitary place in his own house,
as far from noise and company as he conveniently can, and thither
let him sometimes secretly resort alone, imagining himself as one
going out of the world even straight unto the giving up his
reckoning unto God of his sinful living. There, before an altar or
some pitiful image of Christ's bitter passion, the beholding of
which may put him in remembrance of the thing and move him to
devout compassion, let him then kneel down or fall prostrate as at
the feet of almighty God, verily believing him to be there
invisibly present, as without any doubt he is. There let him open
his heart to God and confess his faults, such as he can call to
mind, and pray God for forgiveness. Let him call to remembrance
the benefits that God hath given him, either in general among
other men or privately to himself, and give him humble hearty
thanks for them. There let him declare unto God the temptations of
the devil, the suggestions of the flesh, the occasions of the
world--and of his worldly friends, much worse many times in
drawing a man from God than are his most mortal enemies, as our
Saviour witnesseth himself where he saith, "The enemies of a man
are they that are his own familiars." There let him lament and
bewail unto God his own frailty, negligence, and sloth in
resisting and withstanding of temptation; his readiness and
proneness to fall into it. There let him lamentably beseech God,
of his gracious aid and help, to strengthen his infirmity--both to
keep him from falling and, when he by his own fault misfortuneth
to fall, then with the helping hand of his merciful grace to lift
him up and set him on his feet in the state of his grace again.
And let this man not doubt but that God heareth him and granteth
him gladly his boon.

And so, dwelling in the faithful trust of God's help, he shall
well use his prosperity, and persevere in his good profitable
business, and shall have the truth of God so compass him about
with a shield of his heavenly defence that he shall not need to
dread of the devil's arrow flying in the day of worldly wealth.

VINCENT: Forsooth, uncle, I like this good counsel well. And I
should think that those who are in prosperity and take such order
therein, may do much good both to themselves and to other folk.

ANTHONY: I beseech our Lord, cousin, to put this and better in
the mind of every man who needeth it.

And now will I touch one word or twain of the third temptation, of
which the prophet speaketh in these words: "From the business
walking in the darknesses." And then will we call for our dinner,
leaving the last temptation--that is, "from the incursion and the
devil of the midday"--till afternoon. And then shall we with that,
God willing, make an end of all this matter.

VINCENT: Our Lord reward you, good uncle, for your good labour
with me. But, for our Lord's sake, take good heed, uncle, that you
forbear not your dinner over-long.

ANTHONY: Fear not that, cousin, I warrant you, for this piece
will I make you but short.

Chapter 16

Attention Bookworms: