Br. You would say so, indeed, if you knew what I know.

Po. What’s that, I pray?

Br. No, no, I must not tell you.

Po. Why so?

Br. Because he that entrusted me with the Secret, made me promise Silence.

Po. Do you entrust me with it upon the same Condition, and, upon my honest Word, I’ll keep Counsel.

Br. That honest Word has often deceived me; but however, I’ll venture; especially, it being a Matter of that Kind, that it is fit all honest Men should know it.  There is at Tubinge, a certain Franciscan, a Man accounted of singular Holiness in every Bodies Opinion but his own.

Po. That you mention, is the greatest Argument in the World of true Piety.

Br. If I should tell you his Name, you’d say as much, for you know the Man.

Po. What if I shall guess at him?

Br. Do, if you will.

Po. Hold your Ear then.

Br. What needs that, when here’s no Body within Hearing?

Po. But however, for Fashion Sake.

Br. ’Tis the very same.

Po. He is a Man of undoubted Credit.  If he says a Thing, it is to me, as true as the Gospel.

Br. Mind me then, and I’ll give you the naked Truth of the Story.  My Friend Reuclin was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was some Hopes of his Recovery; he was a Man worthy never to grow old, be sick, or die.  One Morning I went to visit my Franciscan, that he might ease my Mind of my Trouble by his Discourse.  For when my Friend was sick, I was sick too, for I lov’d him as my own Father.

Po. Phoo!  There’s no Body but lov’d him, except he were a very bad Man indeed.

Br. My Franciscan says to me, Brassicanus, leave off grieving, our Reuclin is well.  What, said I, Is he well all on a sudden then?  For but two Days ago, the Doctors gave but little Hopes of him.  Then, says he, he is so well recover’d, that he will never be sick again.  Don’t weep, says he, (for he saw the Tears standing in my Eyes) before you have heard the Matter out.  I have not indeed seen the Man this six Days, but I pray for him constantly every Day that goes over my Head.  This Morning after Mattins, I laid myself upon my Couch, and fell into a gentle pleasant Slumber.

Po. My Mind presages some joyful Thing.

Br. You have no bad Guess with you.  Methought, says he, I was standing by a little Bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant Meadow; the emerald Verdure of the Grass and Leaves affording such a charming Prospect; the infinite Beauty, and Variety of the Flowers, like little Stars, were so delightful, and every Thing so fragrant, that all the Fields on this Side the River, by which that blessed Field was divided from the rest, seem’d neither to grow, nor to be green;