# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Letters to Divers Eminent Personages

LETTERS To divers Eminent PERSONAGES: Written on several Occasions, By Sir JOHN SUCKLING.
Printed by his owne Copy.
LONDON, Printed by Ruth Raworth for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop at the signe of the Princes Arms in S. Pauls Church-yard. 1646
LETTERS
I
Your humble Servant, J.S.
II A Dissuasion from Love
Though your disease be in the number of those that are better cured with time than precept, yet, since it is lawful for every man to practise upon them that are forsaken and given over (which I take to be your state), I will adventure to ​prescribe to you; and of the innocence of the physic you shall not need to doubt, since I can assure you I take it daily myself.
To begin methodically, I should enjoin you travel; for absence doth in a kind remove the cause (removing the object), and answers the physician's first recipez, vomiting and purging; but this would be too harsh, and indeed not agreeing to my way. I therefore advise you to see her as often as you can; for (besides that the rarity of visits endears them) this may bring you to surprise her, and to discover little defects which, though they cure not absolutely, yet they qualify the fury of the fever. As near as you can, let it be unseasonably, when she is in sickness and disorder; for that will let you know she is mortal, and a woman, and the last would be enough to a wise man. If you could draw her to discourse of things she understands not, it would not be amiss.
Contrive yourself often into the company of the cried-up beauties; for if you read but one book, it will be no wonder if you speak or write that style: variety will breed distraction, and that will be a kind of diverting the humour.
I would not have you deny yourself the little things, for these agues are easier cured with surfeits than abstinence; rather (if you can) taste all, for that (as an old author saith) will let you see—
That the thing for which we woo Is not worth so much ado.
But since that here would be impossible, you must be content to take it where you can get it. And this for your comfort I must tell you (Jack) that mistress and woman differ no otherwise than Frontiniack and ordinary grapes; which though a man loves never so well, yet, if he surfeit of the last, he will care but little for the first.
I would have you leave that foolish humour (Jack) of saying you are not in love with her, and pretending you care not for her; for smothered fires are dangerous, and malicious humours are best and safest vented and breathed out. Continue your affection to your rival still: that will secure you from one way of loving, which is in spite; and preserve your friendship with her woman, for who knows but she may help you to the remedy?
A jolly glass and right company would much conduce to the cure; for though in the Scripture (by the way, it is but Apocrypha) woman is resolved stronger than wine, yet whether ​it will be so or not, when wit is joined to it, may prove a fresh question.
Marrying (as our friend the late ambassador hath wittily observed) would certainly cure it; but that is a kind of live pigeons laid to the soles of the feet, a last remedy, and (to say truth) worse than the disease.
Your humble Servant.
III
The loss of a mistress (which kills men only in romances, and is still digested with the first meat we eat after it) had yet in me raised up so much passion, and so just a quarrel (as I thought) to Fortune for it, that I could not but tempt her to do me right upon the first occasion; yet (Madam) has it not made me so desperate, but that I can sit down a loser both of that time and money too, when there shall be the least fear of losing you.
And now, since I know your ladyship is too wise to suppose to yourself impossibilities, and therefore cannot think of such a thing as of making me absolutely good, it will not be without some impatience that I shall attend to know what sin you will be pleased to assign me in the room of this: something that has less danger about it, I conceive it would be; and therefore, ​if you please (Madam), let it not be women, for, to say truth, it is a diet I cannot yet relish, otherwise than men do that on which they surfeited last.
Your humblest Servant, J.S.
IV
Epitaph. Here lies Don Alonzo, Slain by a wound received under His left Pap, The Orifice of which was so Small, no Chirurgeon could Discover it. Reader, If thou wouldst avoid so strange A Death, Look not upon Lucinda's eyes.
Now all this discourse of dying (Madam) is but to let you know how dangerous a thing it is to be long from London, especially in a place which is concluded out of the world. If ​you are not to be frighted hither, I hope you are to be persuaded; and if good sermons, or good plays, new braveries, or fresh wit, revels (Madam), masques that are to be, have any rhetoric about them, here they are, I assure you, in perfection, without asking leave of the provinces beyond seas, or the assent of ———. I write not this that you should think I value these pleasures above those of Milcot; for I must here protest, I prefer the single tabor and pipe in the great hall, far above them; and were there no more belonging to a journey than riding so many miles (would my affairs conspire with my desires) your ladyship should find there, not at the bottom of a letter,
Madam, Your humble Servant.
V
The sword that is placed betwixt a contracted princess and an ambassador was as much a husband; and the only difference was that that sword, laid in the bed, allowed one to supply its place. This husband denied all, like a false crow set up in a garden, which keeps others from the fruit it cannot taste itself. I would not have you so much as enquire whether it were with his garters or his cloak-bag strings, nor engage yourself to fresh sighs by hearing new relations.
​The Spanish princess Leonina (whom Balzac delivers the ornament of the last age) was wise; who, hearing a post was sent to tell her her husband was dead, and knowing the secretary was in the way for that purpose, sent to stay the post till the arrival of the secretary, that she might not be obliged to shed tears twice. Of ill things the less we know the better. Curiosity would here be as vain as if a cuckold should inquire whether it were upon the couch or a bed, and whether the cavalier pulled off his spurs first or not.
I must confess it is a just subject for our sorrow to hear of any that does quit his station without his leave that placed him there; and yet, as ill a mien as this act has, 'twas a-la-Romansci, as you may see by a line of Master Shakespeare's who, bringing in Titinius after a lost battle, speaking to his sword, and bidding it find out his heart, adds—
'By your leave, gods, this [is] a Roman's part.'
'Tis true, I think cloak-bag strings were not then so much in fashion; but to those that are not swordmen the way is not so despicable; and, for mine own part, I assure you Christianity highly governs me in the minute in which I do not wish with all my heart, that all the discontents in his majesty's three kingdoms would find out this very way of satisfying themselves and the world.
I. S.
VI
It would be too late now for me (I suppose) to advance or confirm you in those good resolutions I left you in, being confident your own reason hath been so just to you, as long before this to have represented a necessity of redeeming time and fame, and of taking a handsome revenge upon yourself for the injuries you would have done yourself.
Change, I confess (to them that think all at once) must needs be strange, and to you hateful, whom first your own nature, and then custom, another nature, have brought to delight in those narrow and uncouth ways we found you in. You must therefore consider that you have entered into one of those near ​conjunctions of which death is the only honourable divorce, and that you have now to please another as well as yourself; who, though she be a woman, and by the patent she hath from nature hath liberty to do simply, yet can she never be so strongly bribed against herself as to betray at once all her hopes and ends, and for your sake resolve to live miserably. Examples of such loving folly our times afford but few; and in those there are, you shall find the stock of love to have been greater, and their strengths richer to maintain it, than is to be feared yours can be.
Woman (besides the trouble) has ever been thought a rent-charge; and though through the vain curiosity of man it has often been inclosed, yet has it seldom been brought to improve or become profitable. It faring with married men for the most part, as with those that at great charges wall in grounds and plant, who cheaper might have eaten melons elsewhere, than in their own gardens cucumbers. The ruins that either time, sickness, or the melancholy you shall give her, shall bring, must all be made up at your cost; for that thing a husband is but tenant for life in what he holds, and is bound to leave the place tenantable to the next that shall take it. To conclude, a young woman is a hawk upon her wings; and if she be handsome, she is the more subject to go out at check. Falconers, that can but seldom spring right game, should still have something about them to take them down with. The lure to which all stoop in this world is either garnished with profit or pleasure; and when you cannot throw her the one, you must be content to shew out the other. This I speak not out of a desire to increase your fears, which are already but too many, but out of a hope that, when you know the worst, you will at once leap into the river, and swim through handsomely, and not (weather-beaten with the divers blasts of irresolution) stand shivering upon the brink.
Doubts and fears are, of all, the sharpest passions, and are still turning distempers to diseases. Through these false opticks 'tis, all that you see is, like evening shadows, disproportionable to the truth, and strangely longer than the true substance. These (when a handsome way of living, and expense suitable to your fortune, is represented to you) makes you in their stead see want and beggary, thrusting upon your judgment impossibilities for likelihoods, which they with ease may do, since (as Solomon saith) they betray the succours that reason offers.
​'Tis true that all here below is but diversified folly, and that the little things we laugh at children for, we do but act ourselves in great; yet is there difference of lunacy; and, of the two, I had much rather be mad with him that (when he had nothing) thought all the ships that came into the haven his, than with you who (when you have so much coming in) think you have nothing. This fear of losing all in you is the ill issue of a worse parent, desire of getting, in you; so that, if you would not be passion-rent, you must cease to be covetous. Money in your hand is like the conjurer's devil, which while you think you have, that has you.
The rich talent that God hath given, or rather lent you, you have hid up in a napkin; and man knows no difference betwixt that and treasures kept by ill spirits, but that yours is the harder to come by. To the guarding of these golden apples, of necessity must be kept those never sleeping dragons, Fear, Jealousy, Distrust, and the like; so that you are come to moralize Æsop, and his fables of beasts are become prophecies of you; for, while you have catched at the shadow, uncertain riches, you have lost the substance, true content.
VII
John Suckling.
VIII
Your humble Servant.
IX
My dearest Princess, But that I know I love you more than ever any did any, and that yet I hate myself because I can love you no more, I should now most unsatisfied dispatch away this messenger.
Your humble Servant.
X
At this time when no hot planet fires the blood, and when the lunaticks of Bedlam themselves are trusted abroad, that you should run mad, is (Sir) not so much a subject for your friends' pity as their wonder. 'Tis true, love is a natural distemper, a kind of small pocks. Every one either hath had it, or is to expect it, and the sooner the better.
Thus far you are excused. But having been well cured of a fever, to court a relapse, to make love the second time in the same place, is (not to flatter you) neither better nor worse than to fall into a quagmire by chance, and ride into it afterwards on purpose. 'Tis not love (Tom) that doth the mischief, but constancy; for love is of the nature of a burning-glass, which, kept still in one place, fireth: changed often, it doth nothing—a kind of glowing coal which, with shifting from hand to hand, a man easily endures. But then to marry (Tom)! Why, thou hadst better to live honest. Love, thou knowest, is blind; what will he do when he ​hath fetters on, thinkest thou?
Dost thou know what marriage is? 'Tis curing of love the dearest way, or waking a losing gamester out of a winning dream, and after a long expectation of a strange banquet, a presentation of a homely meal. Alas! (Tom) love seeds when it runs up to matrimony, and is good for nothing. Like some fruit-trees, it must be transplanted, if thou wouldst have it active, and bring forth anything.
Thou now perchance hast vowed all that can be vowed to any one face, and thinkest thou hast left nothing unsaid to it; do but make love to another, and if thou art not suddenly furnished with new language and fresh oaths, I will conclude Cupid hath used thee worse than ever he did any of his train.
After all this, to marry a widow, a kind of chew'd meat! What a fantastical stomach hast thou, that canst not eat of a dish till another man hath cut of it! Who would wash after another, when he might have fresh water, enough for asking?
Life is sometimes a long journey. To be tied to ride upon one beast still, and that half tired to thy hand too! Think upon that (Tom).
Well, if thou must needs marry (as who can tell to what height thou hast ​sinned?), let it be a maid, and no widow; for (as a modern author hath wittily resolved in this case) 'tis better (if a man must be in prison) to lie in a private room than in the hole.
An answer to the letter.
Cease to wonder (honest Jack) and give me leave to pity thee, who labourest to condemn that which thou confessest natural, and the sooner had the better.
Thus far there needs no excuse, unless it be on thy behalf, who stylest second thoughts (which are by all allowed the best) a relapse, and talkest of a quagmire where no man ever stuck fast, and accusest constancy of mischief in what is natural, and advisedly undertaken.
'Tis confessed that love changed often doth nothing—nay, 'tis nothing; for love and change are incompatible; but where it is kept fixed to its first object, though it burn not, yet it warms and cherisheth, so as it needs no transplantation or change of soil to make it fruitful; and certainly, if love be natural, to marry is the best recipe for living honest.
Yes, I know what marriage is, and know you know it not, by terming it the dearest way of curing love; for certainly there goes more charge to the keeping of a stable full of horses, than one only steed; and much of vanity is therein besides, when, be the errand what it will, this one steed shall serve your turn as well ​as twenty more. Oh, if you could serve your steed so!
Marriage turns pleasing dreams to ravishing realities, which out-do what fancy or expectation can frame unto themselves.
That love doth seed when it runs into matrimony, is undoubted truth; how else should it increase and multiply, which is its greatest blessing?
'Tis not the want of love, nor Cupid's fault, if every day afford not new language and new ways of expressing affection: it rather may be caused through an excess of joy, which oftentimes strikes dumb.
These things considered, I will marry; nay, and to prove the second paradox false, I'll marry a widow, who is rather the chewer than thing chewed. How strangely fantastical is he who will be an hour in plucking on a strait-boot, when he may be forthwith furnished with enough that will come on easily, and do him as much credit and better service? Wine, when first broached, drinks not half so well as after a while drawing. Would you not think him a madman who, whilst he might fair and easily ride on the beaten roadway, should trouble himself with breaking up of gaps? A well-wayed horse will safely convey thee to thy journey's ​end, when an unbacked filly may by chance give thee a fall. 'Tis prince-like to marry a widow, for 'tis to have a taster.
'Tis true, life may prove a long journey; and so, believe me, it must do—a very long one too, before the beast you talk of prove tir'd. Think you upon that (Jack).
XI
When I receive your lines (my dear princess) and find there expressions of a passion; though reason and my own immerit tell me it must not be for me, yet is the cosenage so pleasing to me, that I (bribed by my own desires) believe them still before the other. Then do I glory that my virgin love has stayed for such an object to fix upon, and think how good the stars were to me that kept me from quenching those flames (youth or wild love furnished me withal) in common and ordinary waters, and reserved me a sacrifice for your eyes. While thought thus smiles and solaces himself within me, cruel remembrance breaks in upon our retirements, and tells so sad a story that (trust me) I forget all that pleased fancy said before, and turns my thoughts to where I left you. Then I consider that storms neither know courtship nor pity, and that those rude blasts will often make you a prisoner this winter, if they do no worse.
Aglaura, Her humble Servant.
XII
When I consider (my dear princess) that I have no other pretence to your favours than that which all men have to the original of beauty, light; which we enjoy, not that it is the inheritance of our eyes, but because things most excellent cannot restrain themselves, but are ours, as they are diffusively good; then do I find the justness of your quarrel, and cannot but blush to think what I do owe, but much more to think what I do pay, since I have made the principal so great, by sending in so little interest.
Aglaura, Her humble Servant, J.S.
XIII
So much (dear ———) was I ever yours, since I had first the honour to know you, and consequently so little myself, since I had the unhappiness to part with you, that you yourself (dear) without what I would say, cannot but have been so just as to have imagined the welcome of your own letters; though indeed they have but removed me from one rack to set me on another—from fears and doubts I had about me of your welfare, to an unquietness within myself, till I have deserv'd this intelligence.
How pleasingly troublesome thought and remembrance have been to me, since I left you, I am no more able now to express, than another to have them so. You only could make every place you came in worth the thinking of; and I do think those places worthy my thought only, because you made them so. But I am to leave them, and I shall do't the willinger, because the gamester still is so much in me, as that I love not to be told too often of my losses. Yet every place will be alike, since every good object will do the same. Variety of beauty and of faces (quick underminers of constancy to others) to me will be ​but pillars to support it, since, when they please me most, I most shall think of you.
Yours wholly.
XIV
Your humble Servant, J.S.
XV
Yours.
XVI
My D. D. P., Your humble Servant.
XVII
Yours and wholly to be disposed of by you.
XVIII
XIX
For the two Excellent Sisters
Though I conceive you (ladies) so much at leisure that you may read anything, yet since the stories of the town are merely amorous, and sound nothing but love, I cannot, without betraying my own judgment, make them news for Wales. Nor can it be less improper to transport them to you, than for the king to send my Lord of C—— over ambassador this winter into Greenland.
It would want faith in so cold a country as Anglesey, to say that your cousin Duchess, for the quenching of some foolish flames about her, has endured quietly the loss of much of the king's favour, of many of her houses, and of most of her friends.
Whether the disfigurement that travel or sickness has bestowed upon B. W. be thought so great by the Lady of the Isle as 'tis by others, and whether the alteration of his face has bred a change in her mind, it never troubles you, ladies. What old loves are decay'd, or what new ones are sprung up in their room; whether this lady be too discreet, or that cavalier not secret enough, are things that concern the inhabitants of Anglesey not at all. A fair day is better welcome and more news than all that can be said in this kind; and for all that I know now, the devil's chimney is on fire, or his pot seething over, and all North Wales not able to stay the fury of it. Perchance while I write this, a great black cloud is sailing from Mistress Thomas's bleak mountains over to Baron-Hill, there to disgorge itself with what the sea or worse places fed it with before.
It may be, the honest banks about you turn bankrupt too, and break; and the sea, like an angry creditor, seizes upon all, and hath no pity, because he has been put off so long from time to time. For variety (and it is not impossible), some boisterous wind flings up the hangings; and thinking to do as much to your clothes, finds a resistance, and so departs, but first breaks all the windows about the house for it in revenge.
These things, now, we that live in London cannot help, and they are as great news to men that sit in boxes at Black-Friars, as the affairs of love to flannel-weavers.
Your humble Servant.
XX
The Wine-drinkers to the Water-drinkers, greeting:
Given under our hands at the Bear, This fourth of July.
XXI
Yours, I. S.
XXII
Your most humble Servant.
XXIII
Madam, To tell you that neither my misfortunes nor my sins did draw from me ever so many sighs as my departure from you has done, and that there are yet tears in mine eyes left undried for it; or that melancholy has so deeply seized me, that colds and diseases hereafter shall not need above half their force to destroy me, would be, I know, superfluous and vain, since so great a goodness as yours cannot but have out-believed already what I can write.
Your most devoted Servant.
XXIV
Madam, The distrust I have had of not being able to write to you anything which might pay the charge of reading, has persuaded me to forbear kissing your hands at this distance. So, like women that grow proud because they are chaste, I thought I might be negligent because I was not troublesome; and, were I not safe in your goodness, I should be (madam) in your judgment, which is too just to value little observances, or think them necessary to the right honouring my lady.
Your humble Servant.
XXV
Madam, during life, Your humblest Servant.
XXVI
Madam, But that I know your goodness is not mercenary, and that you receive thanks, either with as much trouble as men ill news, or with as much wonder as virgins unexpected love, this letter should be full of them. A strange, proud return you may think I make you (madam) when I tell you, it is not from everybody I would be thus obliged; and that, if I thought you did me not these favours because you love me, I should not love you because you do me these favours. This is not language for one in affliction, I confess, and upon whom, it may be, at this present a cloud is breaking; but finding not within myself I have deserved that storm, I will not make it greater by apprehending it.
Madam, Your most humble and faithful Servant.
XXVII
My Noble Friend, That you have overcome the danger of the land and of the sea is news most welcome to us, and with no less joy received amongst us than if the King of Sweden had the second time overcome Tilly, and again passed the Meine and the Rhine. Nor do we in this look more upon ourselves and private interests than on the public, since in your safety both were comprised; and though you had not had about you the affairs and secrets of state, yet to have left your own person upon the way had been half to undo our poor island, and the loss must have been lamented with the tears of a whole kingdom.
But you are now beyond all our fears, and have nothing to take heed on yourself but fair ladies. A pretty point of security, and such a one as all Germany cannot afford. We here converse with northern beauties, that had never heat enough to kindle a spark in any man's breast, where heaven had been first so merciful as to put in a reasonable soul.
Yours, more than his own.
XXVIII
My Lord, To persuade one that has newly shipwracked upon a coast to imbark suddenly for the same place again, or your lordship to seek that content you now enjoy in the innocence of a solitude among the disorders and troubles of a court, were, I think, a thing the king himself (and majesty is no ill orator) would find some difficulty to do; and yet, when I consider that great soul of yours, like a spider, working all inwards, and sending forth nothing but, like the cloistered schoolmen's divinity, threads fine and unprofitable—if I thought you would not suspect my being serious all this while; for what I should now say, I would tell you that I cannot but be as bold with you ​as your ague is, and for a little time, whether you will or not, entertain you scurvily.
When I consider you look (to me) like ———, I cannot but think it as odd a thing as if I should see Vandike with all his fine colours and pencils about him, his frame, and right light, and everything in order, and yet his hands tied behind him; and your lordship must excuse me, if upon it I be as bold.
The wisest men and greatest states have made no scruple to make use of brave men whom they had laid by with some disgrace; nor have those brave men, so laid by, made scruple, or thought it a disgrace, to serve again when they were called to it afterwards.
These general motives of the state and common good I will not so much as once offer up to your lordship's consideration, though, as 'tis fit, they have still the upper end. Yet, like great olios, they rather make a show than provoke appetite. There are two things which I shall not be ashamed to propound to you as ends, since the greater part of the wise men of the world have not been ashamed to make them theirs, and, if any has been found to contemn them, it hath been strongly to be suspected that either they could not easily attain to them, or else that the readiest way to attain to them was to contemn them. These two are honour and wealth; and though you stand possessed of both of them, yet is the first in your hands like a sword which, if not through negligence, by mischance hath taken rust, and needs a little clearing, and it would be much handsomer a present to posterity, if you yourself in your lifetime wipe it off.
For your estate (which, it may be, had been more, had it not been too much), though it is true that it is so far from being contemptible that it is nobly competent, yet must it be content to undergo the same fate greater states (common-wealths themselves) have been and are subject to; which is, when it comes to be divided in itself, not to be considerable. Both honour and estate are too fair and sweet flowers to be without prickles, or to be gathered without some scratches.
And now, my lord, I know you have nothing to urge but a kind of incapability in yourself to the service of this state, when indeed you have made the only bar you have by imagining you have one.
I confess (though) had vice so large an empire in the court as heretofore it has had, or were the times so dangerous that to the living well there wise conduct were more necessary than virtue itself, your lordship would have reason (with Æsop's country ​mouse) to undervalue all change of condition, since a quiet mediocrity is still to be preferred before a troubled superfluity. But these things are now no more; and if at any time they have threatened that horizon, like great clouds, either they are fallen of themselves to the ground, or else, upon the appearing of the sun (such a prince as ours is) they have vanished, and left behind them clear and fair days. To descend to parts, envy is so lessened, that it is almost lost into virtuous emulation, every man trusting the king's judgment so far, that he knows no better measure of his own merit than his reward. The little word behind the back, and undoing whisper, which, like pulling of a sheet-rope at sea, slackens the sail, and makes the gallantest ship stand still—that that heretofore made the faulty and the innocent alike guilty, is a thing, I believe, now so forgot, or at least so unpractised, that those that are the worst have leisure to grow good, before any will take notice they have been otherwise, or at least divulge it.
'Tis true, faction there is; but 'tis as true, that it is as winds are, to clear and keep places free from corruption, the oppositions being as harmless as that of the meeting tides under the bridge, whose encounter makes it but more easy for him that is to pass. To be a little pleasant in my instances: the very women have suffered reformation, and wear through the whole court their faces as little disguised now as an honest man's actions should be; and if there be any have suffered themselves to be gained by their servants, their ignorance of what they granted, may well excuse them from the shame of what they did. So that it is more than possible to be great and good; and we may safely conclude, if there be some that are not so exact, as much as they fall short of it just so much they have gone from the great original, God, and from the best copies of him on earth, the king and the queen.
Your humble Servant.
XXIX
To Mr. Henry German, in the beginning of Parliament, 1640.
That it is fit for the King to do something extraordinary at this present, is not only the opinion of the wise, but the expectation. Men observe him more now than at other times: for Majesty in an eclipse, like the Sun, draws eyes, that would not so much as have looked towards it, if it had shined out and appeared like itself. To lie still now would at the best shew but a calmness of mind, not a magnanimity: since in matter of government, to think well at any time (much less in a very active) is little better than to dream well. Nor must he stay to act till his people desire, because 'tis thought nothing relishes else: for therefore hath nothing relished with them, because the King hath for the most part stayed till they have desired; done nothing but what either they have, or were petitioning for. But that the King should do, will not be so much the question, as what he should do. And certainly for a King to have right counsel given him is at all times strange, and at this present impossible. His party for the most part (I would that were modestly said and it were not all) have so much to do for their own preservation, that they cannot (without breaking a law in nature) intend another's. Those that have courage have not perchance innocence, and so dare not shew themselves in the King's business; and if they have innocence, they want parts to make themselves considerable; so consequently the things they undertake. Then in Court, they give much counsel, as they believe the King inclined, determine his good by his desires, which is a kind of setting the Sun by the dial—interest, which cannot err, by passion, which may.
In going about to shew the King a cure, a man should first plainly shew him the disease. But to Kings, as to some kind of patients, it is not always proper to tell how ill they be; and it is too like a country clown, not to shew the way unless he know from whence, and discourse of things before.
Kings may be mistaken, and Counsellors corrupted, but true interest alone (saith Monsieur de Rohan) cannot err. It were not amiss then to find out the interest; for setting down right principles before conclusions is weighing the scales before we deal out the commodity.
Certainly the great interest of the King is a union with his people, and whosoever hath told him otherwise (as the ​Scripture saith of the devil) was a seducer from the first. If there ever had been any one Prince in the whole world, that made a felicity in this life, and left fair fame after death, without the love of his subjects, there were some colour to despise it.
There was not among all our princes a greater courtier of the people than Richard the third; not so much out of fear as out of wisdom. And shall the worst of our Kings have striven for that, and shall not the best? it being an angelical thing to gain love.
There are two things in which the people expect to be satisfied, Religion and Justice; nor can this be done by any little acts, but by royal and kingly resolutions.
If any shall think that by dividing the factions (a good rule at other times) he shall master the rest now, he will be strangely deceived; for in the beginning of things that would do much, but not when whole Kingdomes are resolved. Of those now that lead these parties, if you could take off the major number, the lesser would govern, and do the same things still. Nay, if you could take off all, they would set up one and follow him.
And of how great consequence it is for the King to resume this right and be the author himself, let any body judge; since (as Cumneus said) those that have the art to please the people, have commonly the power to raise them.
To do things so that there shall remain no jealousy is very necessary, and is no more than really reforming, that is, pleasing them. For to do things that shall grieve hereafter, and yet pretend love, amongst lovers themselves, where there is the easiest faith, will not be accepted. It will not be enough for the King to do what they desire, but he must do something more—I mean by doing more, doing something of his own, as throwing away things they call not for, or giving things they expected not. And when they see the King doing the same things with them, it will take away all thought and apprehension, that he thinks the things they have done already ill.
Now if the King ends the differences, and takes away suspect for the future, the case will fall out to be no worse, than when two duellists enter the field, where the worsted party (the other having no ill opinion of him) hath his sword given him again without further hurt, after he is in the other's power. But otherwise it is not safe to imagine what may follow, for the people are naturally not valiant, and not much Cavalier. Now it is the nature of cowards to hurt where they can receive none. They will not be content (while they fear and have the upper hand) to fetter only royalty, but perchance (as timorous ​spirits use) will not think themselves safe while that is at all. And possibly this is the present state of things.
In this great work (at least to make it appear perfect and lasting to the kingdom) it is necessary the Queen realty join: for if she stand aloof, there will be still suspicions, it being a received opinion in the world, that she hath a great interest in the King's favour and power. And, to invite her, she is to consider with her self, whether such great virtues and eminent excellencies (though they be highly admired and valued by those that know her), ought to rest satisfied with so narrow a payment as the estimation of a few, and whether it be not more proper for a great Queen to arrive at universal honour and love than private esteem and value?
Then, how becoming a work for the sweetness and softness of her sex is composing of differences and uniting hearts: and how proper for a Queen, reconciling King and people!
There is but one thing remains, which whispered abroad busies the King's mind much (if not disturbs it) in the midst of these great resolutions; and that is the preservation of some servants, whom he thinks somewhat hardly torn from him of late, which is of so tender a nature, I shall rather propound something about it than resolve it.
The first Quære will be whether, as things now stand (kingdoms in the balance) the King is not to follow nature, where the conservation of the more general commands and governs the less: as iron by particular sympathy sticks to the loadstone, but yet, if it be joined with a great body of iron, it quits those particular affections to the loadstone, and moves with the other to the greater, the common country.
The second will be whether, if he could preserve those ministers, they can be of any use to him hereafter? Since no man is served with a greater prejudice, than he that employs suspected instruments, or not beloved, though able and deserving in themselves.
The third is, whether to preserve them there be any other way than for the King to be first right with his people? Since the rule in philosophy must ever hold good: nihil dat, quod non habet. Before the King have power to save, he must have power.
Lastly, whether the way to preserve this power be not to give it away? For the people of England have ever been like wantons, which pull and tug as long as the princes pulled with them, as you may see in Henry the third, King John, Edward the second, and indeed all the troublesome and unfortunate ​reigns. But when they have let it go, they come and put it into their hands again, that they may play on, as you may see in Queen Elizabeth.
I will conclude with a prayer (not that I think it needs at this present: prayers are to keep us from what may be, as well as to preserve us from what is), that the King be neither too insensible of what is without him, nor too resolved from what is within him. To be sick of a dangerous sickness and find no pain cannot but be with loss of understanding ('tis an aphorism of Hippocrates).
And on the other side Opiniastry is a sullen Porter, and (as it was wittily said of Constancy) shuts out oftentimes better things than it lets in.