body; and it recalled to my thoughts the story of Plutarch, who, hearing a nightingale, desired to have one killed to feed upon, not questioning but she would please the palate as well as the ear; but when the nightingale was brought him, and he saw what a poor little creature it was, Truly, said he, thou art vox et preterea nihil, a mere voice, and nothing else-so is the hypocrite: Did a man hear him sometimes in more public duties and discourses, O, thinks he, what an excellent man is this! what a choice and rare spirit is he of! But follow him home, observe him in his private conversation and retirements, and then you will judge Plutarch's note as applicable to him as to the nightingale. (2.) This bird is observed to charm most sweetly, and set her spirits all on work, when she perceives she has engaged attention; so doth the hypocrite, who lives and feeds upon the applause and commendation of his admirers, and cares little for any of those duties which bring in no returns of praise from men: he is little pleased with a silent melody and private pleasure betwixt God and his own soul.

Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hos sciat alter.
Alas, his knowledge is not worth a pin,
If he proclaim not what he hath within.

-He is more for the theatre than the closet; and of such Christ saith, "Verily they have their reward." (3.) Naturalists observe the nightingale to be an ambitious bird, that cannot endure to be outvied by any; she will rather choose to die than be excelled; a notable instance whereof we have in the following pleasant poem, translated out of Starda, concerning the nightingale and a lutanist.

• Now the declining sun did downward bend From higher heavens, and from his looks did send

A milder flame, when near to Tyber's flow,
A lutanist allayed his careful woe
With sounding charms; and in a greeny seat
Of shady oak, took shelter from the heat;
A nightingale o'erheard him, that did use
To sojourn in the neighbor groves, the muse
That fill'd the place, the syren of the wood,
(Poor harmless syren!) stealing near, she stood
Close lurking in the leaves, attentively
Recording that unwonted melody :
She con'd it to herself, and every strain
His fingers play'd, her throat return'd again.
The lutanist, perceiv'd an answer sent
From th' imitating bird, and was content
To shew her play more fully; then in haste
He tries his lute, and giving her a taste
Of the ensuing quarrel, nimbly beats
On all his strings-as nimbly she repeats;
And wildly raging o'er a thousand keys,
Sounds a shrill warning of her after lays :
With rolling hand the lutanist then plies
The trembling cords, sometimes in scornful wise
He brushes down the strings, and strikes them all
With one even stroke-then takes them several,
And culls them o'er again; his sparkling joints
With busy descant mincing on the points,
Reach back again with nimble touch, then stays :
The bird replies, and art with art repays.
Sometimes as one unexpert, and in doubt
How she might wield her voice, she draweth out
Her tone at large, and doth at first prepare
A solemn strain, nor wear'd with winding air,

But with an equal pitch, and constant throat,
Makes clear the passage for her gliding note;
Then cross division diversly she plays,
And loudly chanting out her quickest lays,
Poises the sound, and, with a quivering voice,
Falls back again. He, wond'ring how so choice,
So various harmony could issue out
From such a little throat, doth go about
Some harder lessons, and, with wond'rous art,
Changing the strings, doth up the treble dart,
And downward smite the bass, with painful stroke
He beats; and as the trumpet doth provoke
Sluggards to fight, even so his wanton skill
With mingled discord joins the hoarse and shrill.
The bird this also tunes; and whilst she cuts
Sharp notes with melting voice, and mingled puts
Measures of middle sound, then suddenly
She thunders deep, and jugs it inwardly
With gentle murmur, clear and dull she sings
By course, as when the martial warning rings.
Believ't, the minstrel blush'd, with angry mood:
Inflam'd, quoth he, thou chantress of the wood,
Either from thee I'll bear the prize away,
Or vanquish'd, break my lute without delay.
Unimitable accents then he strains,

His hand flies on the strings; in one he chains
Far different numbers, chasing here and there,
And all the strings he labors every where !
Both flat and sharp he strikes, and stately grows
To prouder strains, and backward as he goes
Doubly divides, and, closing up his lays
Like a full choir, a shivering concert plays:
Then pausing, stood in expectation
Of his co-rival, nor durst answer on.

But she, when practice long her throat had wet,
Enduring not to yield, at once doth set
Her spirits all to work, and all in vain ;
For whilst she labors to express again,
With nature's simple voice, such divers keys,
With slender pipes, such lofty notes as these,
O'ermatch'd with high designs, o'ermatch'd with woe,
Just at the last encounter of her foe,
She faints, she dies, falls on his instrument
That conquer'd her, a fitting monument.
So far even little souls are driven on,
Struck with a virtuous emulation.

And even as far are hypocrites driven on by their ambition and pride, which is the spur that provokes them in their religious duties.

MEDITATION II.

UPON THE SIGHT OF MANY SMALL BIRDS CHIRPING ABOUT A DEAD HAWK.

HEARING a whole choir of birds chirping and twinkling together, it engaged my curiosity a little to inquire into the occasion of that convocation, which mine eye quickly informed me of, for I perceived a dead hawk in the bush, about which they made such a noise, seeming to triumph at the death of their enemy; and I could not blame them to sing his knell, who, like a cannibal, was wont to feed upon their living bodies, tearing them limb from limb, and scaring them with his frightful appearance. This bird, which living was so formidable, being dead, the poorest wren or titmouse fears not to chirp or hop over. This brings to my thoughts the base and ignoble ends of the greatest tyrants, and greedy engrossers of the world, of whom, whilst living, men were more afraid, than birds of a hawk, but dead, became objects of contempt and scorn. The death of such tyrants is both inglorious and unlamented: "When the wicked perish, there is shouting." Which was exemplified to the life at the death of Nero, of whom the poet thus sings ;

Cum mors crudelem rapuisset sæva Neronem,
Credibile est multos Romam agitasse jocos.

When cruel Nero died, th' historian tells,
How Rome did mourn with bonfires, plays and bells.

Remarkable for contempt and shame have the ends of many bloody tyrants been. So Pompey the Great, of whom Claudian the poet sings.

Nudus pascit aves : jacet en qui possidet orbem,
Exiguæ telluris inops

Birds eat his flesh. Lo, now he cannot have,
Who rul'd the world, a space to make a grave.

The like is storied of Alexander the Great, who lay unburied thirty days, and William the Conqueror, with many other such birds of prey; whilst a beneficial and holy life is usually closed up in an honorable and much lamented death.

For mine own part, I wish I may so order my conversation in the world, that I may live, when I am dead, in the affections of the best, and leave an honorable testimony in the consciences of the worst; that I may oppress none, do good to all, and say, when I die, as good Ambrose did, I am neither ashamed to live, nor afraid to die.