Attempt > Volume 3

THE ATTEMPT. 259
bitter, and I feele welle-nighe as if I woulde gladlie lie doune and die, and i-este
my bones among ye Willoiighbies, and shut mine eyes on Whitehall, and Ivinge, and
Commons, and all, and be at reste. Keste ! reste ! what reste can I hope for or finde
ever in this wearie worlde 1 A wearie, wearie, worlde,—all vanitie, vanitie, and vexa¬
tion of spirit, as I did reftde in ye wordes of ye great preacher Solomon—all vanitie,
vanitie, and vexation of spirit. Ah, Bertram, when I doe feele myselfe a-wearie,
and tired oute, and sadde, and all my hearte doth seeme but one greate sigh, I long,
I long, for mine owne mother—she woulde surelie have comforted me, and have
greatlie helped with her love and her counsel. " As one whom his mother com-
forteth "—-I heai-de our chaplaine reading last Sundaye ; and I can never knowe what
that is—I muste live uncomforted, and beare mine owne burthen as best I may.
Ah, welle ! I speake thus to thee, mine owne goode Bertram, because I know
thou dost not despise me for these thoughtes. I doe telle oute untoe thee some of
my deeper, softer, better nature, that some knowe not I doe possesse. I doe goe
about my dailie tasks with a laugh on my lijjpes, and a jest or conceit on my
tongue, and ye young gallants I meete in ye Strande or ye Mall, and with whom
I doe mayke merrie, and bandie wordes and jokes, thyuke doubtless that Hubeit
Willoughbie is noughte but froth and bubble ; and they woulde as soone thynke of
talkynge of grave subjects untoe me as they woukle of calling me ye Kinge's Majesty
him self e.
Aye, Bertram, we are all riddles—'twoulde e'en puzzle ye wondrous CEdipus
himselfe to rede us aright; and I myselfe am to myselfe greatest puzzle, moste in¬
comprehensible of all. A moste strange paradox—an anomalie, that neither I, nor
anie other, can understande—that is, an anie one careth to thynke about me, which I
verrie much doubt—alwaies barring you, and my friende Eliot Warner of Chester.
That a man shoulde not be able to understande his owne soule—and that he doth
soe often appear to others to be soe compleatlie what he is not, by shrouding uppe
and covering over all that is beste and nobleste within him, by a cruste of laughter
and frivolities, and suche lyke—is it not wondei-fuUe 1 I doe sometyme feel as
though that terrible Sphynx of elde had piitte to me that question to answer, and
had layen me under a ban, a heavie weird, that shoulde never departe untille I had
gotten a goode and true answer thereuntoe. And ye ban niuste remayne where it
is—for by my lyfe, I cannot give an answer that doth satisfie me; and I muste walke
in darknesse, and thynke, and thynke—and never mayke it oute, and be quite
sure.
Tush! what nonsense ami writing! we muste fayne