Well, but objects the Swearer, I do not swear so often, and my Conscience by seldom accusing me of that Sin, assures me that I do but unfrequently commit it.
Answ. But sure in Vice, whose Essence consists in a repugnance to Mediocrity, every little is too much; and he that swears fewest Oaths, swears yet too many by the whole number that he swears. One Oath is too many by one, when one is enough to damn. And who would swallow Poyson, because obliged seldom to repeat his draught? To pass over this, that the same Considerations that contract the Number of your Oaths, do aggravate their Guilt, by arguing both a clearer knowledge of the ill you act, and a more bridling power to restrain it. But alas! how seldom does the silence of his Conscience make for the Swearer? We know that Insensibility of Pain may as well proceed from the deadness and stupifi’dness of the part, as from a perfect and unmolested Health. In fighting, that is held a heavier blow, that (stunning) takes away the sense of Pain, than that which pains the Sense. Beware your Tranquility resemble you not to the Toad, that feels not Poyson, because he is all Poyson; and resents no alteration from it, because ‘tis natural to him. There are Legions of Swearers, in whose mouths Custom swears undiscernedly; and who being tax’d with it, (and believe what they speak too) swear that they are no Swearers, and thus commit the fault they would wipe off the imputation of. But wise Physicians hold it a fatal Symptom when Excrements are voided without the Patient’s knowledge; and ‘tis a sign that the Thief has haunted long, when the Mastiff forbears to bark at him. In such cases, Conscience, like oppress’d Subjects under an arm’d Tyrant, forbears Expostulations, not out of want of the causes of complaint, but out of use of sufferings. But certainly this Lethargy of Security is much more dangerous than the Feaver of a restless Conscience; since in the one, the smart soon drives us to the search of Physick, but the other is so far from addressing us to Remedies, that it never lets us know we need them. In such still Consciences, as in the Sea, the smoothest Seas, the smoothest Calms forerun the rudest. Tempests: For Conscience, when long forc’d to play the Mute, turns to a Scold at last; being like o’erladen Muskets, which whilst no Fire comes near them, can scarce be known from them that are not charg’d; but at the least Spark (of serious terror) that falls into the Touchhole, they will be sure to fly about our ears.