God offered us those things, and placed them at hand, and near
us, that He knew were profitable for us, but the hurtful He laid deep
and hid. Yet do we seek only the things whereby we may perish, and bring
them forth, when God and Nature hath buried them. We covet superfluous
things, when it were more honour for us if we could contemn necessary.
What need hath Nature of silver dishes, multitudes of waiters, delicate
pages, perfumed napkins? She requires meat only, and hunger is not
ambitious. Can we think no wealth enough but such a state for which a
man may be brought into a praemunire, begged, proscribed, or poisoned? O!
if a man could restrain the fury of his gullet and groin, and think how
many fires, how many kitchens, cooks, pastures, and ploughed lands; what
orchards, stews, ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could spare;
what velvets, tissues, embroideries, laces, he could lack; and then how
short and uncertain his life is; he were in a better way to happiness
than to live the emperor of these delights, and be the dictator of
fashions. But we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and we serve
fame and ambition, which is an equal slavery.
[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]
I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted
out a line.
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