MEMB. 5. Against sorrow for death of friends or otherwise, vain fear, &c.

Death and departure of friends are things generally grievous, Omnium quæ in humana vita contingunt, luctus atque mors sunt acerbissima, the most austere and bitter accidents that can happen to a man in this life, in æternum valedicere, to part for ever, to forsake the world and all our friends, ’tis ultimum terribilium, the last and the greatest terrour, most irkesome and troublesome unto us. Homo toties moritur, quoties amittit suos.

And though we hope for a better life, eternall happiness, after these painfull and miserable daies, yet we cannot compose our selves willingly to dye; the remembrance of it is most grievous unto us, especially to such who are fortunate and rich: they start at the name of death, as an horse at a rotten post. Say what you can of that other world, with Metezuma that Indian Prince, Bonum est esse hic, they had rather be here.

Nay many generous spirits, and grave staid men otherwise, are so tender in this, that at the loss of a dear friend they will cry out, roare, and tear their hair, lamenting some months after, houling O Hone, as those Irish women, and Greeks at their graves, commit many undecent actions, and almost go besides themselves. My dear father, my sweet husband, mine only brother’s dead, to whom shall I make my moan? O me miserum!

Quis dabit in lachrymas fontem, &c.

What shall I do?

Sed totum hoc studium luctu fraterna mihi mors Abstulit, hei misero frater adempte mihi!

My brothers death my study hath undone, Woe’s me, alas my brother he is gone!

Mezentius would not live after his son:

Nunc vivo, nec adhuc homines lucemque relinquo, Sed linquam ——

And Pompey’s wife cryed out at the news of her husbands death,

Turpe mori post te solo non posse dolore,

Violenta luctu & nescia tolerandi, as Tacitus of Agrippina, not able to moderate her passions. So when she heard her son was slain, she abruptly broke off her work, changed countenance and colour, tore her hair, and fell a roaring down right,

—— subitus miseræ color ossa reliquit, Excussi manibus radii, revolutaque pensa: Evolat infelix & fœmineo ululatu Scissa comam ——

Another would needs run upon the swords point after Euryalus departure,

Figite me, si qua est pietas, in me omnia tela Conjicite ô Rutili; ——

O let me dye, some good man or other make an end of me. How did Achilles take on for Patroclus departure? A black cloud of sorrows overshadowed him, saith Homer. Jacob rent his clothes, put sack-cloth about his loines, sorrowed for his son a long season, and could not be comforted, but would needs go down into the grave unto his son, Gen. 37. 37.

Many years after, the remembrance of such friends, of such accidents, is most grievous unto us, to see or hear of it, though it concern not our selves but others. Scaliger saith of himself, that he never read Socrates death, in Plato’s Phædon, but he wept: Austin shed tears when he red the destruction of Troy. But howsoever this passion of sorrow be violent, bitter, and seizeth familiarly on wise, valiant, discreet men, yet it may surely be withstood, it may be diverted. For what is there in this life, that it should be so dear unto us? or that we should so much deplore the departure of a friend? The greatest pleasures are common society, to enjoy one anothers presence, feasting, hawking, hunting, brooks, woods, hils, musick, dancing, &c. all this is but vanity and losse of time, as I have sufficiently declared.

—— dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.

Whilst we drink, prank our selves, with wenches dally, Old age upon’s at unawares doth sally.

As Alchymists spend that small modicum they have to get gold, and never finde it, we lose and neglect eternity, for a little momentany pleasure which we cannot enjoy, nor shall ever attain to in this life. We abhor death, pain, and grief, all, and yet we will do nothing of that which should vindicate us from, but rather voluntarily thrust our selves upon it. The lascivious prefers his whore before his life, or good estate; an angry man his revenge; a parasite his gut; ambitious, honours; covetous, wealth; a thief his booty; a souldier his spoyle; we abhor diseases, and yet we pull them upon us.

We are never better or freer from cares then when we sleep, and yet, which we so much avoid and lament, death is but a perpetuall sleep, and why should it as Epicurus argues, so much affright us? When we are, death is not: but when death is, then we are not: our life is tedious and troublesome unto him that lives best; ’tis a misery to be born, a pain to live, a trouble to dye; death makes an end of our miseries, and yet we cannot consider of it;

a little before Socrates drank his potion of Cicuta, he bid the Citizens of Athens cheerfully farewell, and concluded his speech with this short sentence, My time is now come to be gone, I to my death, you to live on; but which of these is best, God alone knows.

For there is no pleasure here but sorrow is annexed to it, repentance follows it. If I feed liberally, I am likely sick or surfeit; If I live sparingly, my hunger and thirst is not allayed: I am well neither full nor fasting; If I live honest, I burn in lust; If I take my pleasure, I tire and starve my self, and do injury to my body and soul. Of so small a quantity of mirth, how much sorrow? after so little pleasure, how great misery? ’Tis both waies troublesome to me, to rise and go to bed, to eat and provide my meat; cares and contentions attend me all day long, fears and suspicions all my life. I am discontented, and why should I desire so much to live? But an happy death will make an end of all our woes and miseries,

Omnibus una meis certa medela malis;