The life of faith in three parts, the first is a sermon on Heb.…

There is but the difference of an Est and an Erit, between their mirth and endless sorrows: Their honour, and their endless shame; nor between our sorrow and our endless joy. Their final honour is to be embalmed, and their dust to be covered with a sumptuous monument, and their names extolled by the mouths of men, that little know how poor a comfort all this is to the miserable soul. In the height of their honour you may foresee the Chirurgeon opening their bowels, and showing the receptacles of the treasure of the Epicure, and what remains of the price that he received for his betrayed soul. He cuts out the heart with a [Hae sedes livoris erant: jam pascua vermis] you next tread on his interred corps, that's honoured but with a [Hic jacet] [Here lieth the body of such a one] And if he have the honour to be magnified by fame or history, it's a fool-trap to ensnare the living, but easeth not the soul in Hell. And shall we envy men such a happiness as this? what if they be able to command mens lives, and to hurt those that they hate for a little while? Is this a matter of honour or of delight? A Pestilence is more honourable, if destroying be an honour. The Devil is more powerful (if God permit him) to do men hurt, than the greatest Tyrant in the world: And yet I hope you envy not his happiness, nor are ambitious to partake of it. If Witches were not kin to Devils, they would never sell their souls for a power to do hurt: And how little do tyrannical worldlings consider, that under a mask of Government and Honour, they do the same?

There is but the difference of an Est and an Erit, between their mirth and endless sorrows: Their honour, and their endless shame; nor between our sorrow and our endless joy. Their final honour is to be embalmed, and their dust to be covered with a sumptuous monument, and their names extolled by the mouths of men, that little know how poor a comfort all this is to the miserable soul. In the height of their honour you may foresee the Chyrurgion opening their bowels, and shewing the receptacles of the treasure of the Epicure, and what remains of the price that he received for his betrayed soul. He cuts out the heart with a [Hae sedes livoris erant: jam pascua vermis] you next tread on his interred corps, that's honoured but with a [Hic jacet] [Here lyeth the body of such a one] And if he have the honour to be magnified by fame or history, it's a fool-trap to ensnare the living, but easeth not the soul in Hell. And shall we envy men such a happiness as this? what if they be able to command mens lives, and to hurt those that they hate for a little while? Is this a matter of honour or of delight? A Pestilence is more honourable, if destroying be an honour. The Devil is more powerful (if God permit him) to do men hurt, than the greatest Tyrant in the world: And yet I hope you envy not his happiness, nor are ambitious to partake of it. If Witches were not kin to Devils, they would never sell their souls for a power to do hurt: And how little do tyrannical worldlings consider, that under a mask of Government and Honour, they do the same?