For though he that
grieves for the miserable, be commended for his office of charity; yet
had he, who is genuinely compassionate, rather there were nothing
for him to grieve for. For if good will be ill willed (which can never
be), then may he, who truly and sincerely commiserates, wish there
might be some miserable, that he might commiserate. Some sorrow may
then be allowed, none loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who
lovest souls far more purely than we, and hast more incorruptibly pity
on them, yet are wounded with no sorrowfulness. And who is
sufficient for these things?
But I, miserable, then loved to grieve, and sought out what to
grieve at, when in another's and that feigned and personated misery,
that acting best pleased me, and attracted me the most vehemently,
which drew tears from me. What marvel that an unhappy sheep,
straying from Thy flock, and impatient of Thy keeping, I became
infected with a foul disease? And hence the love of griefs; not such
as should sink deep into me; for I loved not to suffer, what I loved
to look on; but such as upon hearing their fictions should lightly
scratch the surface; upon which, as on envenomed nails, followed
inflamed swelling, impostumes, and a putrefied sore.
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