Chapter XI. That there is nothing in this world worthy of taking off our affections from heavenly things, practically considered.

There is a place, where the woman is clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet (Revelations 12), where the Church, and every member of it, is robed with glory, and far above the reach of any mutability. But, as St. Bernard says, this is in the City that’s above; it is not here: this place is the moon’s chief region, her very exchange, as it were, to vent all her varieties, and nothing, save alteration, continues here. Earth, you see, is the least of elements, and to the heavens no more than is a single atom to the sun. An infinite substance, then, such as the soul is, must needs be straitened here. This little circle can never fill the heart’s vast triangle; no, nothing but the trinity. Vain it is, therefore, to think of placing our affections here.

This again is the lowest and most dreggish element, the sink of all, and so the shop of dangers and diseases, and they both so destructive, that they obstruct our abiding here. ’Tis the valley of the world, earth, the valley of tears, tears indeed, where we enter life with cries, continuing with sighs, and going out with groans. This is our music here! here, where mirth is but apparent, grief is real; where we eat the bread of carefulness, and mingle our drink with weeping, and all our actions with sinning. This is our diet here! here we only taste of joy, but glut in sorrow; we walk in happiness, but journey in calamity. This is our travel here! here where riches are but thorns, honors but pinnacles, and pleasures bees that leave more sting than honey. These are our treasures here! So that the world you see, with all its pomp, makes but up a Nebuchadnezzar’s image (Daniel 2): though the head be gold, the breast of silver, belly brass, and legs of iron, yet are the feet of clay. Let one be honorable, another rich, a third beautiful, and a fourth never so vigorous, yet are the foundations of them all but clay, and a small stone from out the sling of death, does break and liken them to dust: and this is the end of all things.

… So after all this colloquy of ours, anatomizing the vain world, what can we find here worthy our affections, and not worthy our disdain? Then what do we here, here in our unsatisfied desires? our eager prosecutions? Treasuring for the moth and thief, like spiders, spending our bowels to catch flies, and, as Menot says of sharp hunters, who lose a horse of a price in pursuit of a hare worth nothing. Here being neither a city of strength, unity, rest, nor safety: What do we then here, but Ixion-like, grasping of a cloud for Juno.

… So one thing must our soul desire of God, that we may live to see that christened, baptized in the tears of penitence; and then away to our continuing city. What do such eagles here, when as their carcass is in heaven? Indeed, what do we so long, looking on this terrene globe, whose zones are all intemperate (freezing charity or scorching envy, avaricious drought or riotous profuseness); whose parallels are equal cares and fears: whose circumference is vanity and center is corruption? Hark how the philosopher calls us off: Behold now the beauteous frame of heaven, and desist at length to admire base earthly things. Let the body’s figure be the soul's tutor, and an elevated eye teach an upright heart—the heart to seek that continuing city; the eye to look for one to come.