general pieces of wonder, the flux and reflux of the sea, the
increase of the Nile, the conversion of the needle to the north; but
have studied to match and parallel those in the more obvious and
neglected pieces of Nature which, without further travel, I find in the
cosmography of myself. We carry with us the wonders we seek without us;
there is all Africa and her prodigies in us.

Thus there are two books from whence I collect my divinity: besides that
written one of God, another of His servant, Nature, that universal and
public manuscript, that lies expansed unto the eyes of all. Surely the
heathens knew better how to join and read these mystical letters than we
Christians, who cast a more careless eye on these common hieroglyphics,
and disdain to suck divinity from the flowers of Nature. Now, Nature is
not at variance with art, nor art with Nature, they being both the
servants of His providence. Art is the perfection of Nature. Nature hath
made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial,
for Nature is the art of God.

This is the ordinary and open way of His providence, which art and
industry have in good part discovered, whose effects we may foretell
without an oracle. But there is another way, full of meanders and
labyrinths, and that is a more particular and obscure method of His
providence, directing the operations of individual and single essences.
This we call fortune, that serpentine and crooked line whereby He draws
those actions His wisdom intends in a more unknown and secret way.

This cryptic and involved method of His providence have I ever admired;
nor can I relate the history of my life, the occurrences of my days, the
escapes, or dangers, and hits of chance, with a bare grammercy to my
good stars. Surely there are in every man's life certain rubs,
doublings, and wrenches, which pass a while under the effects of chance;
but at the last, well examined, prove the mere hand of God. 'Twas not
dumb chance that, to discover the fougade, or powder plot, contrived a
miscarriage in the letter. I like the victory of '88 the better for that
one occurrence which our enemies imputed to our dishonour and the
partiality of fortune: to wit, the tempests and contrariety of winds.

There is no liberty for causes to operate in a loose and straggling way,
nor any effect whatever but hath its warrant from some universal or
superior cause. 'Tis not a ridiculous devotion to say a prayer before a
game