A treatise of self-denial. By Richard Baxter, pastor of the church at KidderminsterA treatise of self-denial. By Richard Baxter, pastor of the church at Kederminster

Spirit. Nature hath made thee Rational; and Reason Must rule the sense, in ends, degrees and season. Reason's the Rider: sense is but the Horse: Which then is fittest to direct thy course? Give up the reins, and thou becomest a beast; Thy fall at death will sadly end thy feast.

Spirit. Nature hath made thee Rational; and Reason Must rule the sense, in ends, degrees and season. Reason's the Rider: sense is but the Horse: Which then is fittest to direct thy course? Give up the reins, and thou becom'st a beast; Thy fall at death will sadly end thy feast.

Flesh. Religion is a dull and heavy thing, Whereas a merry cup will make me sing. Love's entertainments warm both heart and brain: And wind my fancy to the highest strain.

Spirit. Cupid hath stuck a feather in thy cap; And lulled thee dead asleep on Venus's lap: Thy brains are tippled with some wantons eyes: Thy Reason is become Lust's sacrifice. Playing a game at Folly, thou hast lost Thy wit, and soul, and winnest to thy cost. Thy soul now in a filthy channel lies, While fancy seems to sore above the skies. ⟨image 261⟩Beauty will soon be stinking loathsome earth: Sickness and death mar all the wantons mirth. It is not all the pleasure thou canst find Will countervail the sting that's left behind. Blind, brutish souls! that cannot love their God! And yet can dote on a defiled clod!

Spirit. Cupid hath stuck a feather in thy cap; And lull'd thee dead asleep on Venus's lap: Thy brains are tipled with some wantons eyes: Thy Reason is become Lust's sacrifice. Playing a game at Folly, thou hast lost Thy wit, and soul, and winnest to thy cost. Thy soul now in a filthy channel lies, While fancy seems to sore above the skies.