Chapter IV. That he who loves Wickedness, hates both his own Soul and Body

But perhaps somebody may be moved with that of the Psalmist, He who loves iniquity, hates his own Soul: But I say, that he hates also his own Body. For does he not hate it, for which he daily merits more and more fire in Hell; for which, according to his hard and impenitent heart, he treasures up wrath against the day of wrath? Notwithstanding this hatred as well of the Body as of the Soul, is rather in effect than affection. So the phrenetick man hates his own flesh, when he endeavours to mischief himself; the diliberation of Reason being asleep in him. But can there be a worse phrensie than impenitency of heart, and an obstinate resolution to go on in sin? For such an one lays violent hands upon himself; nor does he tear and gnaw his flesh, but his mind. If thou hast seen a man fret, and scratch his hands till they bleed again, thou hast in such an one a clear and lively pourtraicture of a Soul when it sins. For the pleasure gives place to grief, and pain succeeds the itching delight. Nor was he ignorant of it, that so it would be; but dissembled it when he scratched himself. So we tear and wound our unhappy Souls with our own hands; but with this difference, that we wound them so much the more grievously, by how much a spiritual Creature is more excellent, and more hardly cured. Nor do we this out of hatred or ill-will, but out of a stupid internal insensibility. For the Soul being poured out abroad, it has no sense of its internal dammages; because it is not within it self, but in the belly perhaps, or under the belly. In fine, some mens Souls are in their Platters, and others in their Coffers; where thy treasure is, says our Lord, there also is thy heart. And what wonder, if the Soul feel not its own wounds, when forgetful of it self, and wholly absent from it self, it was gone into a far Country? But the time will come, when returning home to it self, it shall understand how cruelly it tore out its own very bowels, under the pretext of a miserable hunting. Neither indeed could it then be sensible of it, when with unsatiable desire catching at the vile prey of a few sorry flyes, like the spider, it seemed to make Nets of its own Bowels.