A10663:472
A treatise of the passions and faculties of the soul of man With the…A treatise of the passions and faculties of the soule of man With the…
A treatise of the passions and faculties of the soul of man With the several dignities and corruptions thereunto belonging. By Edward Reynolds, late preacher to the honourable society of Lincoln's Inn: and now rector of the Church of Braunston in Northamptonshire.A treatise of the passions and faculties of the soule of man With the severall dignities and corruptions thereunto belonging. By Edvvard Reynoldes, late preacher to the honorable society of Lincoln's Inne: and now rector of the Church of Braunston in Northamptonshire.
London: printed by R. Hearne and John Norton for Robert Bostock, 1640
Modern spelling is a reading aid: the words are the author’s, only the spelling is modernized. Original shows the page as printed, with the transcription marks.
3 Imagination and fancy, either in our selves or other Men, is many times, the foundation of Delight. Diogenes his sullen and Melancholy fancy took as much pleasure in his Tub and Staff, and water, as other men in their Palaces, and amplest provisions, And he in the Poet.
3 Imagination and fancy, either in our selves or other Men, is many times, the foundation of Delight. Diogines his sullen and Melancholly fancy tooke as much pleasure in his Tubbe and Staffe, and water, as other men in their Palaces, and ampliest provisions, And he in the Poet.
Qui se credebat miros a•dire Tragados In vacuo latus sessor Plausorquè Theatr•.—1 Cum redit adsese pol. me occidist is Amici Non servastis ait, cui sic extorta voluptas, Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error. Who thought he heard rare Tragedies of wit, And in an empty Theatre did sit And give Applauses: but being healed complains Friends I'm not saved by this your love, but slain, ⟨p. 214⟩Robbed of that sweet Delight I then did find, In the so grateful error of my Mind.
Qui se credebat miros a•dire Tragados In vacuo latus sessor Plausorquè Theatr•.—1 Cum redit adsese pol. me occidist is Amici Non servastis ait, cui sic extorta voluptas, Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error. Who thought he heard rare Tragedies of wit, And in an empty Theater did sit And give Applauses: but being heal'd complains Friends I'm not sav'd by this your love, but slain, ⟨p. 214⟩