but he gives you a cure; you need not run to Apollo, nor æsculapius; and if he was so choleric as you make him to be, he would have drawn his sword for anger, to see the ill conditions of these people that can spy his vices, and not his virtues. The eternal God, when he made Mars, made him for public good, and the sons of men shall know it in the latter end of the world. Et cælum Mars solus babet. You say Mars is a destroyer; mix a little Wormwood, an herb of Mars, with your ink, neither rats nor mice touch the paper written with it, and then Mars is a preserver. Astrologers think Mars causes scabs and itch, and the virgins are angry with him, because wanton Venus told them he deforms their skins; but, quoth Mars, my only desire is, they should know themselves; my herb Wormwood will restore them to the beauty they formerly had, and in that I will not come an inch behind my opposite, Venus: for which doth the greatest evil, he that takes away an innate beauty, and when he has done, knows how to restore it again? Or she that teaches a company of wanton lasses to paint their faces? If Mars be in a Virgin, in the nativity, they say he causes the cholic (it is well God hath set some body to pull down the pride of man.) He in the Virgin troubles none with the cholic, but them that know not themselves (for who knows himself, may easily know all the world.) Wormwood, an herb of Mars, is a present cure for it; and whether it be most like a Christian to love him for his good, or hate him for his evil, judge ye. I had almost forgotten, that charity thinks no evil. I was once in the Tower and viewed the wardrobe, and there was a great many fine clothes. I can give them no other title (for I was never either linen or woolen draper), yet as brave as they looked, my opinion was that the moths might consume them; moths are under the dominion of Mars; this herb Wormwood being laid among cloaths, will make a moth scorn to meddle with the cloaths, as much as a lion scorns to meddle with a mouse, or an eagle with a fly. You say Mars is angry, and it is true enough he is angry with many countrymen, for being such fools to be led by the noses by the college of physicians, as they lead bears to Paris garden. Melancholy men cannot endure to be wronged in point of good fame, and that doth sorely trouble old Saturn, because they call him the greatest infortunate; in the body of man he rules the spleen, (and that makes covetous man so splenetic) the poor old man lies crying out of his left side. Father Saturn's angry, Mars comes to him. Come, brother, I confess thou art evil spoken of, and so am I; thou knowest I have my exaltation in thy house, I give him an herb of mine, Wormwood, to cure the old man. Saturn consented, but spoke little, and so Mars cured him by sympathy. When Mars was free from war, (for he loves to be fighting, and is the best friend a soldier hath) I say, when Mars was free from war, he called a council of war in his own brain, to know how he should do poor sinful man good, desiring to forget his abuses in being called an infortunate. He musters up his own forces, and places them in battalia. Oh! quoth he, why do I hurt a poor silly man or woman? His angel answers him, It is because they have offended their God, (Look back to Adam:) Well, says Mars, though they speak evil of me, I will do good to them; Death's cold, my herb shall heat them: they are full of ill humours (else they would never have spoken ill of me;) my herb shall cleanse them, and dry them; they are poor weak creatures, my herb shall strengthen them; they are dull witted, my herb shall fortify their apprehensions; and yet among astrologers all this does not deserve a good word. Oh the patience of Mars!

 Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere caucas,
 Inque domus superum scandere cura facit.
 O happy he that can the knowledge gain,
 To know the eternal God made nought in vain.

To this I add,

 I know the reason causeth such a dearth
 Of knowledge; 'tis because men love the earth.

The other day Mars told me he met with Venus, and he asked her, What was the reason that she accused him for abusing women? He never gave them the pox. In the dispute they fell out, and in anger parted, and Mars told me that his brother Saturn told him, that an antivenerean medicine was the best against the pox. Once a month he meets with the Moon. Mars is quick enough of speech, and the Moon not much behind hand, (neither are most women.) The Moon looks much after children, and children are much troubled with the worms; she desired a medicine of him, he bid her take his own herb, Wormwood. He had no sooner parted with the Moon, but he met with Venus, and she was as drunk as a hog. Alas! poor Venus, quoth he; What! thou a fortune, and be drunk? I'll give thee antipathetical cure. Take my herb Wormwood, and thou shall never get a surfeit by drinking. A poor silly countryman hath got an