The way to true happiness in a serious treatise /

Application. And is it true indeed? Is this thy misery? yea 'tis as true as God is. Better open thine eyes and see it now, while thou mayest remedy it, than blind and harden thy self, till to thine eternal sorrow, thou shalt feel what thou wouldst not believe: and if it be true, what dost thou mean to loiter, and linger in such a case as this?

Application. And is it true indeed? Is this thy misery? yea 'tis as true as God is. Better open thine eyes and see it now, while thou maist remedy it, than blind and harden thy self, till to thine eternal sorrow, thou shalt feel what thou wouldst not believe: and if it be true, what dost thou mean to loyter, and linger in such a case as this?

Alas for thee poor man, how effectually hath sin undone thee, and depraved thee, and despoiled thee even of the reason to look after thine own everlasting good! Oh miserable Caitiff, what stupidity and senselessness hath surprised thee! Oh let me knock up and awake this sleeper. Who dwells within the walls of this flash? ⟨p. 131⟩Is there ever a soul here, a rational understanding soul? Or art thou only a walking Ghost, a senseless lump? Art thou a reasonable foul, and yet so far brutified, as to forget thy self immortal, and to think thy self to be as the beasts that perish? Art thou turned into flesh, that thou favourest nothing but gratifying the sense, and making provision for the flesh? Or else having reason to understand the eternity of thy future state, dost thou yet make light of being everlastingly miserable? which is to be so much below a brute, as it is worse to act against reason, than to act without it. O unhappy soul, that wast the glory of man, the mate of Angels, and the image of God! that wast Gods representative in the world, and hadst the supremacy amongst the creatures, and the dominion over thy makers works! Art thou now become a slave to sense, a servant to so base an Idol, as thy belly? for no higher felicity, than to fill thee with the wind of mans applause, or heaping together a little refined earth, no more suitable to thy spiritual, immortal nature, than the dirt, and sticks? Oh why dost thou not bethink thee where thou shalt be for ever? Death is at hand, the Judge is even at the door.