with blessings, to be entitled to exact our sufferance of a fewslight sorrows for his sake? Does he not promise us still more, sufficiently precious to sweeten the trifling disgusts attached to the fulfilment of his ordinances? Must not he find it strange, that vile creatures, who hold all from him, who exist only through him, and who expect all from him, should complain of dislike to his service? That worms of the earth, whose only boast is the honour of belonging to him, dare complain of feeling no inclination for him, and that it is both melancholy and wearisome to serve or to be faithful to him? Is he, then, a master like us; fanciful, intolerant, indolent, entirely occupied with himself, and who seeks only to render himself happy, at the expense of the peace and comfort of those who serve him? Unjust that we are! We dare offer reproaches to the Almighty, which we would regard as outrages upon ourselves, from the mouths of our slaves I
Second truth: — The disgusts which accompany virtue are not so bitter as we represent them to ourselves.
Reflection III. — But even were they so, I have said, in the third place, that they would still be infinitely less than those of the world. And it is here, my brethren, that the testimony of the world itself, and the self-experience of worldly souls, answer every purpose of a proof. For if you continue in the ways of the world and of the passions, what is your whole life but a continual weariness, where, by diversifying your pleasures, you only diversify your disgusts and uneasinesses? What is it but an eternal void where you are a burden to yourself? What is it but a pompous circulation of duties, attentions, ceremonies, amusements, and trifles, which, incessantly revolving, possess one single advantage, that of unpleasantly filling up moments which hang heavy upon you, and which you know not otherwise to employ? What is your life but a flux and reflux of desires, hatreds, chagrins, jealousies, and hopes, which poison all your pleasures, and are the cause that, surrounded by every thing which ought to insure your happiness, you cannot succeed in being contented with yourselves?
What comparison is there between the frenzies of the passions, the chagrin of a striking neglect, the sensibility of a bad office, and the slight sorrows of virtue? What comparison between the unlimited subjections to ambition; the fatigues and toils of pretensions and expectancies; the pains to insure success; the exertions and submissions necessary to please; the cares, uneasinesses, and agitations, in order to exalt ourselves; and the slight violences which assure to us the kingdom of heaven? What comparison between the frightful remorses of the conscience, that internal worm, which incessantly gnaws us; that sadness of guilt, which undermines and brings us low indeed; that weight of iniquity, which overwhelms us; that internal sword which pierces us to the quick; which we know not how to draw forth, and carry with us wherever we go; and the amiable sorrow of that penitence which secures salvation? My God! can we complain of thee, after
