The fading of the flesh and flourishing of faith, or, One cast for eternity…

Suppose for thy souls sake, in earnest (as Turannius did in jest,¹ who would needs be laid in his bed as one who had breathed out his last, and caused his whole family to bewail his death) that thou wert ascending up to thy Chamber (whence thou shouldst never come down, till carried on mens Shoulders) betaking thy self to thy dying bed. Thou lookest on thy body and beholdest deaths Harbinger, Sickness, preparing his way before him. O how thy colour comes and goes, at the sight of this Axe which the hand of death hath laid at the root of thy tree of life. Like the Locust, thou art ready before hand to dye at the sight of this Polypus. Now thou art laid down on that bed whence thou shalt never rise more. Thy next work is to seek for some shelter against this approaching storm, thou lookest upward and seest that God full of fury, whom thou didst many a time dare to his very face, and resolved since thou wouldst live without his counsels, thou shalt dye without his comforts; thou lookest downward and seest Satan who formerly was thy flatterer and seeming friend, now thy tormentor and desperate Foe, waiting like the Jailer to drag thee to his own Den; Thou lookest inward, and conscience presents thee with a black Catalogue of thy bloody crimes, and in the name of God (whose Officer it is) arresteth thee for them, and chargeth thee to answer them at his dreadful Tribunal, to which thou art even now going; Thou lookest without thee ⟨p. 52⟩among thy Friends and Relations, and earthly comforts, and seekest the living among the dead (as the Angel said to the Woman) living comforts amongst dead creatures; but alas tis not there, thy Wife, and Children, and Neighbours may weep with thee, but cannot ease thee of one tear; they may give thee occasion to call to mind thy sins, but not abate the least of thy sorrows. Miserable comforts are they all, Physicians of no value. I have read of one in Holland, that being condemned for killing her Bastard, when the Messenger was dragging her away to Execution, looks pitifully on her Father (a Person of quality then present) and casts a doleful eye on her Mother; Will ye not help me? Where are your bowels? Can ye find in your hearts to let your own Child be thus cruelly dealt with; But alas they might not, they could not help her.

Suppose for thy souls sake, in earnest (as Turannius did in jest,¹