BEing come to Paris to justifie my Innocence and oppose the Calumnies of mine Ene­mies, whilst I expected answer of Letters written to the Court in my favour, and was in the mean time retir'd with my intimate Friend M. P. one day after dinner M. Chappelein, Trilport and Menage came to visit me. These Gentlemen concern'd themselves infinitely in my disgrace, and acted in my behalf with a noble heart, not to be found in the Histories of Orestes and Pilades, and other Friends of antiquity. They sound me in the Hall, where I was hearkning to an excellent Musician: [Page 30]I believed, said Mons. Chappelein addressing himself to me, that in this your Retirement I should rather have found you fasten'd to Seneca's Treatise, which proves, that a wise man is not subject to the Injuries of Fortune, than pleasing your self with Musick, which ordinarily does not delight any, but unperplexed minds. This ought not to surprize you, answer'd I; for first you do me wrong to esteem me of a perplexed mind, seeing you know that my Conscience is very clear: and though this seem strange to you, you that have been accustom'd to regulate your vertue by that of the Stoicks, and would have us, as they, encounter Misfortunes with a stubborn brow, and not take off our thoughts from the Evil we are to combat, till we have made a perfect conquest of it; yet it is convenient for us who follow another Sect, and by another biass defend our selves from Grief, not to wrestle with it, and to endeavour rather to forget, than to vanquish it. This is, said M. Menage, the Opinion of Epicurus, who will have us dream of Pleasures to take us off from the thought of Pains, and ordains, that we master it by Diversion. Truly we must acknowledge, pursu'd he, that this mans Philosophy does marvellously assist Nature, and that his Opinions are very well accommodated to our weakness; and I cannot enough praise our excellent Gassend, whom we may call, as they did Epicurus, the Father of Truth, or ar they called Socrates, the Father of Philosophy; we cannot, I say, praise him enough for having employ'd that profound crudition, and long ex­perience, which hath got him so many Admirers to clear up what remains of the Doctrine of this Philosopher, and anew to found a School, whose Disciples once fill'd whole Towns in Greece. I am very glad, reply'd I, that you have not insulted over this Author of Plea­sure, with the most part of the World, who are deceived by this last word, and who do not dream that the [Page 31]true Epicureans lead a life as regular as our reform'd Monks; and that you may the better see I com­bat Grief by flying it, see but the Books I read in my idle hours, you will not find Boetius or E­pictetus among them. Hereupon M. Trilport coming to the Table found a Lucretius, a Salust and the Ro­mance of Perceforets, and turning towards me; The first of these Books, saith he, is proper for you, the other is one of our old Tales; but as for Salust, who can make an Historian one of the Disciples of Epicurus, who forbids his to meddle with the Commonwealth? I am not sworn, reply'd I, to observe all the Rules of this Philosopher, and I only follow those Opinions of his, to which my Reason and Nature carry me. But, saith he, again opening Lucretius, I find you very bold to read Verse, you that know 'tis Verse hath done you so many bad offices. 'Tis true, answer'd I, that I owe a great deal of ill-will to the Muses, but 'tis to my own: for I might have read all the Verses in the World, if I had not made Verses. It was time for me to retire, for having wrot

I was so embroil'd with the Sex, that I know no E­legies so lamentable, nor Stanza's so flattering, that could charm the wrath of our Ladies. Perhaps then, replied M. Chappelein, you have not only bid adieu to Phoebus and the nine Sisters, but also to Cupid and his Mother; and do not you remember, adds M. Trilport, the Verse of our Country man Bertaut?

I remember nothing but what follows, answer'd I;

And to speak freely, retiring from the Service of Ladies, I rather think I have cur'd my self of a small Disease, than deprived my self of a great pleasure. For this time, says M. Menage, you shall not be alone; and you see one that hath long since hung up his Chains in the Temple of Liberty. Away, away, says, M. Chappelein, you are ingrateful Fellows; for not to mind you of your good Fortunes, do you not remember, that what you have of Civility and Politeness, you have learnt it of Ladies, who have suffer'd you and been belov'd by you? Truly, replied I, I could answer you, that I never was happy enough to obtain that which you call Good fortune, and protest to you with the Spaniard, that ‘Amador fui mas, nunca fui amado.’However, that you may not contest on this point, I am content to tell you, that for the Civility and Polite­ness which you pretend we owe to Ladies, methinks there needs nothing but my Example to satisfie you, that a man may spend much time with them, yet not acquire these Two qualities; but because I impute it to my inability, that I come forth rude and unpolish'd from their Conversation, I leave it to M. Menage, against whom you have addrest your Reproaches as well as against me, and in whom you may justly admire all those good qualities which I want, to explain if it hath been the company of Ladies that hath render'd him so accomplish'd. Truce, if you please, with your Complements, says M. Menage, let it suffice you that I do not aspire so high, and that I pretend not to pass for Baldassars Courtier, who never liv'd but in Cice­ro's Oratory, in Plato's and Sr. Tho. More's Common­wealth: But whether it be that I am not of Mr. Chap­pelein's opinion, I, that am accus'd not to accustome my self to be of other mens, or whether I please my [Page 33]self to oppose them, as you often say I do; seeing there are no Women here, I cannot dissemble, that whatever advantage we may expect from their Conversation, we meet on the contrary with so many things in it that may hinder us from becoming gallant men, that I am ready to dispute against the old Thesis, which exposes it as a thing impossible for a man to be very proper for the World, if he hath not been amorous in his youth. And I, says M. Cha. am ready to maintain it against you. For my part, says M. Trilport turning himself to M. Ch. I declare my self your Second, if M. M. can find one in so unjust a cause, as he is about to defend. If the mat­ter were not gone so far, added I, and that he had been content to sustain, that Ladies were good Friends, but very dangerous Mistresses, I think I had serv'd him against you; but seeing he carries things to extremity, I cannot be of his side. 'Tis not the first time, replies M. M. that you have come with odds against me, yet for all that, not only I have not fled for it, but I have not been vanquish'd. Wherefore I once more resolve, having proposed any thing to imitate Ariosto's Rodomont, who call'd forth the Knights to combat two and two, or three and three, and to take for my Motto ‘Horatio Sol contra Tuscana tutta.’What you say, answer'd M. Trilport, obliges us also, notwithstanding your Rodomontado, to imitate those Knights, who never went two against one; and seeing M. Ch. is he that took up the gage of defiance, which you had thrown down, we will let him enter first into the Lists, and I doubt not to see him come out Victorious. If this happens to mee, replies M. Ch. 'twill be doubt­less more by the force of truth, than by mine: for if his cause were just, I should esteem my self lost, know­ing him a long-winded Knight of great force; or, to [Page 34]speak more familiarly and quit the Romantick Meta­phor, knowing no man more apt than he to maintain Paradoxes, no not amongst us Stoicks, who make a parti­cular study of it. But, says M. M. I do not hold what I de­fend so Paradoxical as you imagine; and to let you un­derstand so much, seeing we have time enough, consider the Reasons on which I ground my Opinion. After these words being silent a while, and seeing we prepared to hearken to what he had to say, he began again thus; I have lov'd, and often

I am forc'd in spite of my modesty to speak to you at this rate, to the end that being to declare much ill of Love, this may take from you all imagination, that I go about to revenge my self for bad usage: and also, that you may give me an entire belief, seeing that I know the good and the ill by my own experience; for, in my opinion, Hannibal had reason to mock the Greek Oratour that gave him Military Lessons, and the Ora­tour had had no less occasion to laugh, if Hanibal had undertaken afterwards to shew him the precepts of Rhetorick. We cannot discourse well of things which we have not practis'd, and often the use does not agree with the speculation; but I who have ‘Couru les mers d'amour di rivage en rivage,’and know all that is done in the Cloyster of this God, to speak with Petrarch; I may well methinks be be­lieved in what I shall say. So much the more also as I find my self at present in a condition to speak of it with an intire indifferency; but because to judge of the [Page 35]effects of a thing 'tis necessary we know the nature, we shall not do amiss to inform our selves who this Love is, that you would have the Author of so much good to Mankind, and of whom you sustain, that young peo­ple have as much need as of Academies and Colledges. I will also do you this favour, not to enquire News of him any where, but in your Books, and as I speak to the chief Poet of our Age and Nation, I will serve my self of the Opinions of those Great men of Anti­quity to whom you have succeeded. They say then, that Love is a Child; they put a Ribband over his eyes; they clap wings to his shoulders; they hang a quiver of Arrows by his side; they arm his two hands with a Bow and a Torch: Thus far this Figure does not make for you, and to consider the outside of this Picture, Cupid appears only a piece of Grotesque, or a Chimera. But you will tell me that Poetry hath its mysteries, and we must not do that wrong to the men you esteem, and who had the honour to be the first Philosophers of the World, to think, that without reason they design'd Love under so strange a Figure. I know that the extraor­dinary things which Poetry presents have all of them a hidden sense, and that she serves her self of strange and surprizing Pictures to draw the vulgar to the search of truth. The Modern Italians, who have out-done the Invention of the Greeks (for the Latins did but copy them) expose nothing so fantastical, to which they have not fixt an Allegory, and tell us, that their Enchant­ments, their Furies, their Gyants, their Monsters, and other pieces of Knight-errantry are only to allure the People, and to instruct them whilst they seem also to please them: But I go further and say, that amongst all the Images, which Poetry hath represented to us, there is none more ingenious than this of Love; so naturally it expresses this passion. Wherefore let us examine it, if you please, and we will consider first this Child Love. [Page 36]Here I demand of you, if you were to represent For­titude, Prudence, or any of the Vertues, should it be under this Figure? I am confident you will answer me, that you should like better to draw an armed Pal­las, or shew a Hercules overcoming a Lion; but on the contrary, if you were to describe Weakness, Impru­dence, Softness, Incontinency, and many other of our bad qualities, what could serve better to this design than the Picture of a Child? What think you Poetry would teach us by this? nothing doubtless, but that a man is subjected to all the imperfections of Childhood, when he becomes amorous. So the Comicks introduce Love upon their Theaters, without counsel, without guide; accompanied with Suspitions, Injuries, Enmi­ties; sometimes in Truce, sometimes in Peace, some­times in War; and find that these disorders and inequa­lities are so natural to him, that they conclude, 'twould be the utmost of Follies to believe we can love wisely. And 'tis no wonder a Poet in love found out, that he who first painted Love a Child had an admira­ble hand, because he first discover'd how Lovers pass their life, that they are depriv'd of good sense, that they lose solid goods to run after toys; but the worst is, that these Toys and these light Cares do often consume our whole life, and remain with us to decrepitude. I­magine then, what a sight it is to find an Old man making Love, and who, like an Ape to run after Nuts, tears the Robe of Philosophy wherewith he was clad; to see an Old woman every morning put on a forein Face, dress her self up like a Puppet, and buy the Ca­jolleries of a Younger brother with the best of her For­tunes. 'Tis for this some body says Venus is angry with Old people, that Marriage does not become them, and as a Poet in Plutarch sings

[Page 37]And you may remember, that in Old times they pub­lickly hooted at these Gallants of Proserpine, and that against their approach they armed themselves with the same preservatives that Pagan Superstition had ordain'd for the worst things. In fine, to continue Love when we begin to cease to live is a dotage most deplorable, and there is nothing more shameful than

I know not how to let you proceed, said I, interrupting him, without praying you to spare M. G. and that you may not refuse me, do but call to mind the pleasure you once took to see him cherish his yellow Ribband which his Mistress gave him, and how wittily he discours'd of this Favour of hers, so that you wanted little of wish­ing an Old age like his; at least, reflecting upon his Nymph, his Musick and his good Cheer you told us, he past this age as Horace had wish'd. Truly, added M. Trilport, the Romance of his life is so pleasant a thing, that I think 'twould be spoil'd should it be reduc'd to a serious History, and as I have the reputation of solicit­ing the affairs of my Friends, I also recommend him to your favour. M. Menage calling to mind the Verse of Tasso,

for there is no fear that this one Swallow should lead back the Spring to Old men, which is the season of Courtship, nor that a general defect can be excused by by one mans merit. But to return to our Discourse, this Child is Naked; in this without doubt appears his Imprudence, at least if we will believe the old Maxime, That there is nothing more shameful, than to strip our [Page 38]selves before all the Worid, and if he will believe Eusta­tius, who calls Love the Father of Impudence: unless we may say, that he is painted Naked to let us understand, that he ruins his Followers even to the despoiling them of every thing. Let us now pass on to the equipage they give him: They say then he has a Ribband before his eyes; what do you think this Blindness signifies; but that the Soul of a Lover is in an eternal darkness, and that Reason knows not which way to turn her self, having Passion for her Guide? There is an Italian who will not let reason scape so, but says she is dead, whereas we only say, she goes astray. Now without divining, and to speak only according to our Love-Writers, do you know what excuse they betake themselves to, when they would defend the Irregularities of their thoughts, or action? they think that whatever extravagancy they commit they apologize enough, when they pro­test that, thanks to Love, they cannot see what they do; and that you may not appeal from these hearken to Ovid, who hath made an art of a Passion, and given rules for a Folly; he does not only grant, that Lovers do not see what is reason, but he carries their Blindness even to a want of good manners, and exempts none from this defect. In the mean time, that this Ribband may not be taken off, that is, that Reason may not return to Lovers, such as are not willing this madness should have its lucid intervals, are not content to cover Loves eyes, but they wholly take away the use of his sight. In this condition, methinks they should rather furnish him with a Dog and a Staff to conduct him, than fasten Wings to his shoulders; and as often as I fancy him blind and flying, I am fearful he should maim himself against some Tree, some Tower, or some Mountain. I doubt not but those who have thus made a Bird of him, would have left him a plain humane Figure, rather than thus have shap'd a Monster, if they could have imagined any [Page 39]other way to send him about the World, which they pretend is necessary for its conservation: but consider­ing he could not do so many things at once, nor, for Example, in one day wound a Negro and scorch a Greenlander benum'd with cold, those which drink of the Seine and those which enrich themselves with the Sands of Plata, if they had not furnish'd him with an invention to make these long Journies; they found no­thing so proper as to apply Wings to him, but Wings not only more fit for a flight than those of Falcons, but more light than the Winds, or than thought it self. I remember one day in discourse with M. C. M. R. and A. the first very pleasantly maintain'd, that considering all these great labours, Love was no better handled by Po­ets than their Sisiphus, seeing they employed him con­tinually in a work that seem'd more intolerable, than the rolling of his Stone; the second added freely, that it seem'd to him he was the more tormented, seeing they had to double his drudgery, chosen the Night for him, which Nature appoints for the Rest of all Creatures; but the conceit of the third, that excellent Translator, who gives to his Copies the liveliness of their Originals, was yet more malicious, for concerning Loves Feathers he explained Petrarchs Verses,

He pretended this strait and dark Cage, and this mew­ing of Feathers respected rather the Health than the Manners. But to return to the Allegorical sense of these Wings; they signifie nothing but the Inconstancy, the instability of our Loves; nothing but an uncertain and shameful agitation in the actions of Lovers. Propertius calls these wings Winds, and marvellously strengthens [Page 40]our explication, for they are to turn Lovers about as so many uncertain Weathercocks. It remains only that we examine Cupid's Arms, his Arrows, whereof some are of Lead, some of Gold; and his Torch, which pe­netrates even to the marrow, and which burnt Troy the Great. Certainly 'tis in the use of these Arms that he shews himself stark blind, for he strikes any where and on all sides. Sometimes he makes a Monarch adore the daughter of a Dunghil: but let that pass; Merit is to be found every where. But what will you say to see Old men make love to young Wenches, and Old wo­men fond of ill-featur'd Boys; Wise men sigh for a foolish Gossip; to see this irregularity pass even to dif­ferent species? Do not you wonder to find in the list of your Lovers a Dragon, an Elephant, a Peacock; and, to serve you in Fish and Flesh, a number of Dolphins? You know the story, how this Dragon lay every night with a young Maid of Etolia, and beat her when he thought he had occasion to be Jealous; you know how an Elephant in love with an Herb-wise brought her Nosegays, whilst the Grammarian Aristophanes ena­mour'd of the same Wench, was jealously enrag'd at the Caresses of his mighty Rival, whom he durst not provoke: to repeat here the History of Dolphins were to lose time. If we will turn the Medal, we shall find on the other side our Nature intreagu'd with strange Passions; and Plutarch will tell us, that the Minotaurs, Sphinxes and Centaurs, were the products of these little Loves, and we shall praise Thales for advising Perian­der to marry his Sheapherds betimes; but we can ne­ver call to mind the Adventure of the Golden Ass and that honest Lady, without Laughing a little; and when we consider 'twas Love did it, how can we forbear to cry out with the Italians, bella botta? You see then, by this unreasonable employment of his Arrows to how many poor affections our minds are betrayed when [Page 41]Love governs them; to what transports we abandon our selves against the Laws of Honour and Society; to how many foolish passions we expose our lives. I think, for my part, 'twere better to be wounded with a poy­soned Arrow, than with these dangerous Shafts where­of we speak; and that the Torches of the Furies would not torment us with so much rage, as that does which Love wields: at least the effects are not more dangerous; and those Lovers which this flame devours, dream no less of Poyson and Poignards, nor are less tormented with Fears and Jealousies, and the rest of such disorders, than Criminals with their eternal pains, and the remorse of their Consciences. I had forgot this Gold and this Lead which tips his Arrows, whereof the first give us love, the other cause aversion. To ex­plain this difference, you must remember that Poverty, which Petronius calls the Sister of Wit, having often hindred Poets from being happy in their loves, for Old men and Fools with their Gold are wont to drive them from Families, to which they promised no less than Immortality, they have invented these Golden shafts which find nothing impenetrable; and those Leaden ones, which 'tis true belong to the same Quiver, but are al­waies blunt, though Love lets them flie with never so much force. The Master of Lovers writes, that he does not compose his Precepts for the Rich. And Homer the Dean and Founder of poesie tells them, if they have nothing but Verse, they shall be chased from Lais Street as well as from Plato's Commonwealth: by all which we may easily judge, that these Golden Arrows signifie 'tis Money drives the trade of Love, and that Covetousness over-rules Merit and Beauty. There is no Law which does not stoop to his Shafts, according to the saying of Count Villa Mediana, who might well know them: After many disorders, which they had caused in his Fortune and in his Life, he became their [Page 42]Victim; for you know very well what Jupiter thun­der'd on this Ixion, seeing 'tis a Story of our times: and it seem'd he was better contented with Deaths Arrow, than with all those we speak of; at least he that was in the Coach with him when he was kill'd reports, that when he received the wound whereof he imme­diately died, he said no more, but C'en est fait, as if he had freed himself of a troublesome business. This Count then, who was the Honour of Courtship, and the Wit of the Court of Spain, who had a fair Estate, was of a great hope and a great Merit, and whose Purse was never tied, but with an Onion-peel, as an Ancient would have those of Lovers to be, amongst his Works hath left us these Verses,

He would say, after those experiences which his Libe­rality had given him, that Presents are strange Corrup­ters. Let us confess the Infamy of this traffick, seeing nothing can be so sordid as to sell Friendship, nothing more base than to love for Money. And truly, having considered so many defects, we may well subscribe to what one writes of Love, That by a just Sentence of the great Gods he was banished from their assembly, because he disturb'd it and fill'd Heaven with Seditions: and further, That these Gods when they cast him down to Earth cut off his Wings to bestow them upon Vi­ctory, and to hinder him from ever mounting to Hea­ven again; and they might well have added, That when Love left Olympus for Earth, Peace abandoned men to fly up to Heaven. In the mean time, there's your Cupid in a pitiful predicament, and all his myste­ries discovered little to his advantage. This is his true portraict, wherein I have laboured according to Nature, and I dare say with much success: for, though my Way is not good, yet the piece is perfectly like him, [Page 43]and in one word I can excuse my bad Rhetorick by the ordinary Quodlibet and say, that my Picture wants no­thing but words. O Painter Apelles, Painter Zeuxes, cries out M. Chapp. why are not you now alive? you had learnt much by copying this piece, which exceeds all yours; and profited strangely under this new Ma­ster, whose works pass Nature, whereas yours only went even with Nature. I know not how you understand it, said I, but methinks you do not praise our Friends Picture by saying it surpasses Nature, whereas this Art is consummate when it arrives to equal her. Truly, replies he, I did not design to make a Panegyrick, looking upon it as a piece meant to please, whereof the invention seems handsom, and the order and colours may flatter our Judgment and Eyes; but I do not hold it for the true picture of Love, as I pretend to let you understand. In the mean time, saith M. Menage, I have advanced nothing, which I have not taken from some of your Fraternity; but because you may reply, that Passion made them write against their Consciences, and that I have only quoted them where they com­plain; to act sincerely with you, I must tell you, that I have display'd none of Loves defects, whereof I am not ready to give you Examples; and now I have re­presented this folly, I will let you see some illustrious Fools. So having taken breath he began again thus: I will not entertain you with the story of Iphis, whose Love forc'd her to hang her self for the cruel Anaxar­ches; nor with the disorders of a great many others. The Examples of these particulars profit little, because no man esteems enough the Loves of the Vulgar to re­gulate his own by them; and all blame the Er­rors of the Common People instead of correcting their own by them. Let us cast our eyes then up­on the great Atrides, whom the whole Greek Nation, the wisest and most ingenious of the World, chose for [Page 44]their Chief: He perhaps was elected by the Greeks, be­cause they were of your opinion; they knew him of an Amarous complexion, and judg'd that this tempe­rament would enable him for great matters. Let us look a little nearer, and see if it were so: The first and most notable Action of his Generalship was to present his Daughter Iphigenia to be Sacrificed when the gods stopp'd his Fleet at the Port of Aulide, and would be appeased by this victim. This action seems at first blush above the common Vertue; but if I should tell you that he corrupted the Mariners to give out, that the Winds were contrary, and Neptune wroth; that he spent some daies in the preparation of this execrable Sacrifice, to give time to his Emissaries to find out a certain Boy of whom he was desperately enamour'd; you would cry out, Is this the man whose Magnanimi­ties ennobled him above all others, and upon whom all Greece had turn'd its eye? I pass with silence so many wretches which he suffered to die of the Plague in the Camp of Troy, because he would not deliver the Daugh­ter of the Priestess Chrysis. I insist not on the quarrel he had with Achilles, when he carried away Briseide, by which Rape he not only retarded the taking of Ili­um, but endangered the Greek Vessels to be fn'd. I only let you know, that when he carried away Cassan­sandra from her house al dispetto di Madonna Clitem­nestra, he provoked the vengeance of his Wife, and arm'd for his execution the weak and effeminate hand of Egistus. But his Rival, the man that was nourish'd with the marrow of Lions; brought up under the discipline of Chiron; so robust that no man could use his Launce; Achilles, for whom the death of Hector was reserv'd; what does he when Agamemnon stole his Mistress? doubtless something high and noble, for he was a Hero and a Lover; first he rayl'd at the King with the scoldings of an Oister-wife, calling him [Page 45]Cuckold and dirty Dog, whereby he disparag'd the Gentaur which should have brought him up better. When that would not do, the pitiful fellow went crying to his Mother, and stay'd in his Ship far from the Ar­my, and at the expence of his Reputation. But what will you say to Hercules, that mighty tame of Mon­sters, when you shall find him sitting by Omphale, ha­ving chang'd his Lions-skin for a Peticoat, and when you see him

Can you like the condition to which Love had reduc'd this gentle Spinster? rather would you not wish, as the Captain in Terence, that the Wenches had clap'd his Cheeks with their Pattins. But not to spend time in reckoning up the Follies of the amorous Hero's of An­tiquity, let us go directly to the Fountain, and consider the Father of gods and men, Jupiter that darts the Thunderbolt, who makes Olympus tremble with one wink of his eye, who brags, that with a Chain tied to his Toe he will toss the rest of the gods out of Earth into Heaven: We shall find him, saving the respect I owe to to Poetical Divinities, as very a fool as the rest. Nay, he is worse handled by Love; and Petrarch, who had seen the Triumph, sings, that amongst all the gods which past before the Chariot of Love, he was most op­prest with the number and weight of his Chains. 'Twould be tedious to repeat here all his Metamorpho­ses, or to consider this Governour of the World some­times like a Goose, sometimes in some other Figure as ridiculous; 'tis better let Ovid conclude upon this Subject, and to believe him when he says, that Jupiter by his Loves dishonoured himself and all his House. O Love, how excellent are thy inspirations! and how necessary are thou to humane Vertue! I see by M. Ch. [Page 46]looks, that he is vext to hear me thus scoff at the Chil­dren of Homer, and that he is in a great deal of impa­tience to answer me; I will give way to you presently. In the mean time, if you are not contented with Ex­amples out of the Fable and the old History; if you will tell me, that the Inhabitants of Parnassus sing no­thing that is not subject to Caution; that honest Homer slept sometimes, and that a good Poet is but a bad Witness; I will leave your Hero's and your Gods at rest, and will shut my eyes, that I may not observe in them the Imperfections of Lovers. I know you have your answers ready, and that some Mythologist is at hand to relieve you; but I am sure they have nothing to say to Plato, nor to Aristotle, and these are Men of such weight, that if you will lay them by, I know not upon whom we may cast our eyes to examine humane Actions. But I imagine, you have a secret content to sce these two marvellous Wits number'd with the Lovers, and indeed, if amidst their Loves they had preserv'd those great lights with which they penetrated the most obscure Science, and so prudently establish'd Rules of Manners, Conduct of Families, Polity of Cities, and Government of States, you had reason to be proud. But on the contrary, if Love hath no less darken'd these all-seeing eyes than those of the Vulgar, and that this Passion hath made these great minds descend to Fooleries, dare you still maintain, that Love is necessary to Mankind? See how the thing goes: Plato being yet young became amorous of Aster, and immediately suffer'd in his understanding. He never lay down, but he call'dAster was a Boy. her Lucifer and Hesper; and according to the or­dinary gibberish of Lovers, plac'd her above the Stars. If he were to bid her farewel, he presently complain'd he had lost his North-Star, and that his Reason was benighted. But the Epigram he [Page 47]composed for Archianassa shews us more plainly, that Wisdom goes out of the Head when Love gets in. This Woman approach'd Old age, so that he could not say she was the Aurora or the Sun, but he must write high Lines and make Phoebus speak in her praise; but see an Impudence that never any Poet durst be guilty of, whatever Hyperboles they have invented in favour of their Ladies: Plato seeing that in this surrow'd-face there was no room for Beauty, thought fit to say, that Love hid himself in those wrinckles as in an Ambus­cade; whereas, if he had had his Reason about him, he would have said, that he lay there interr'd as in a ruinous Sepulchre. I know not, says M. Trilport, how you un­derstand it, but if you pretend to censure Plato for his Epigram, you pronounce your own Sentence. How so? demands M. Menage. See, replies M. Trilport, how your memory, that furnishes you upon the place with so many handsom things, is wanting to you at your need, and in your own case: Do not you remember that you have made a Sonnet of this Epigram? and that you as well as Plato have had wrinckled Mistresses. Truly, answer'd M. M. I had forgot that Sonnet and those Mistresses, and I do not care for remembring the Follics of my youth. For your Mistresses, replies M. Trilport, let them be drown'd in Lethe, it shall not trou­ble us; but the Sonnet would serve to excuse this Action of the Philosopher. One Folly, says M. M. cannot be the apology of another; and if my Sonnet forbids me urging the Epigram of Plato, I cannot see how you will defend the Verse he compos'd, when he was in love with the fair Agathon, which says, he never kissed this. Beauty but he shut his Lips, for fear his slippery Soul should sally out. Now, what think you of this Kiss? is it according to good Manners? is it not too wanton for a Philosopher? is this handsom discourse for a man they call Divine, as if it were too little to style him [Page 48]Wise? Besides, this Plato in the rest of his life was as very a Vagabond, and as inconstant as Hylas in our A­strea, and like him went di ramo in ramo, di fior in fior: besides the gallantries recited, he lov'd Phaedra, he lov'd Zantippe; perhaps it was Socrates Wife, and that he made a Cuckold of him the Oracle had pronounc'd the Wisest man in the World. Cuckolds are very happy said I, that have Socrates for their Patron. Let us not Jest, says M. M. upon so shameful an Action. This Gent. replies M. Ch. does here what Socrates would have done, who believ'd men ought not to lay matters of this nature so to heart, and would have been Scandal'd at it less than you are. I see how things go, continues M. M. you would support vanquish'd Reason with a Jest, and I see you in so merry a humour upon this Subject, that I can expect nothing serious from you. Perhaps you will excuse the Scholar as well as the Master, and find some pretence for the worst of Ir­regularities into which Aristotle sell, when he Sacrificed to the Eunuch Hermia's Concubine; but he Sacrificed not his Heart or his Liberty, which are the Imaginary offerings of our Lovers; he Sacrificed to her solemn­ly, and to say all, in the same manner as the Athenians Sacrificed to Ceres. I should be too tedious to stop up­on the Examples of other Philosophers, and I have chosen only these two; first, because publick Opinion hath placed them above the rest: and further, because it would have been only a repetition of the best part of Diogenes Laertius History, which is full of the Love­tricks of those which the World has worshipped as the Lawgivers of Wisdom. However, because you may chance to suspect the Grecian Faith, and despise beyond-Sea Manners, and because our discourse seems princi­pally to regard our Nation: We cannot abstain from considering some one of our own, who have been slave to the Son of Venus; but they shall be Knights without [Page 49]reproach, whose Famous Acts raised them above others; Lovers of that age, when nothing in the World was so great as our Court, when Charlemain counted almost the daies of his Reign by the number of his Victories; when they preserv'd Justice, protected Widows, defen­ded Orphans, exterminated Tyrants, and with their Swords did more good to Mankind, than the Pens of Plato and Aristotle wrote. And now enter Orlando. Love made him an enraged Fool; but his folly was incurable, at least as to the remedies of Hippocrates and Galen, and of so strange a nature, that Astolpho mounts Elias Chariot and goes to fetch a little phial of com­mon Sense for him; and that out of St. John's Shop, which the Poet makes a Chymick. I could produce Hannibal, who fail'd to Triumph over the Romans, and ruin'd the Reputation of his Countrey by giving himself up to the Caresses of the Capuan Dames; and Antony, who lost more by the love of Cleopatra, than by the genius of Augustus. I could mix Sacred story with Prophane, and shew you David without Conscience, Solonton without Wisdom, Sampson with­out Strength; not to say any thing of our Father A­dam, whose Love cost us so dear. But not to weary you with Examples, and yet to confirm my opinion, which I wish were yours, let us, if you please, ima­gine with Petrarch a delicious Island cover'd with Rose­bushes, Jalsomine and Orange-trees; where the gentle Zephyrs temper and heat; where the Flowers perfume the Air; where Hills and Woods give shade; where the Winters are moderate, and where they pass their time in Sports, Feasts and Idleness; and now let us imagine, that Love has chosen this place to triumph in, and that here he has assembled all the Lovers be­tween the Poles: and in the last place let us imagine, that a Tempest hath cast us upon this shoar; for I will never consent that we go thither in quality of Lovers; [Page 50]'twere better we got thither upon a broken Plank, the remains of a Shipwrack, as to an Enemies Countrey, than to go before the wind in the Egyptian Queens Vessel, if we went to pay our homage. Let us walk up and down a little, to refresh our selves after the Voyage amongst these troops of Lovers, upon these Flowers and in these Meadows; but on condition that we heark­en to their words, that we mark their actions, and that we judge then if it be good to imitate them. These that first present themselves seem very melancholy; at least they have pale faces and heavy eyes, as if they had past the Night without sleep. But O Jupiter, what discourse! the first, who is clothed Pastorally and re­sembles the Myrtillus of Guarini, would have Foun­tains weep for him, and the Winds sigh out his Mar­tyrdom. See one there, that consults the Echo, and is foolishly afflicted or joyed at what he says to him­self. Another recounts his misery to the Sun, to the Moon, to the Day, to the Night. He there says, he should die contentedly, provided 'twere embracing her he loves, and that he might have it in an Epitaph. But mark him on the left hand quite despairing, for he curses the day in which he began to love. His Neigh­bour seems more mad, and threatens no less than to break Loves Bow. But let us leave him for fear of mischief, and let us approach the merry Troop. Some you may perceive dancing under the Green Trees: let's hear the burthen of their Song,

See how imperfect their Joy is, they do not find their affairs well assured, though they are in the best condi­tion they can wish. Now those that stand by and look on are crown'd with Myrtle too, but for all that in an [Page 51]eternal inquietude. One torments himself to explain a word his Mistress said to him, because he doubts 'tis not advantagious for him: Another complains, that his Lady look'd upon his Rival too long and too plea­santly. This laments, because he believes he did sur­prize upon his Ladies Cheeks the remains of a Smile, wherewith she favour'd another. Do you understand this, do you not think you are in Bedlam? were it not better for these poor Lovers freely to confess the debt, and instead of these Fooleries, wherewith every one amazes us in his turn, they should joyn in one Chorus and ingeniously sing.

Now to see if they act as they speak; look upon those there, that kiss the Threshold, crown it with Flowers, rub it with Perfumes; See those that engrave a thou­sand insipid stories upon the Trees; those, that read worse in their Table-books. One, his arms crost with grief, another skipping. But see that Wretch who poysons himself, those Rivals who kill one another. See ‘Leandro in Mare, e Hero a la finestra.’See those who have ruin'd their Health by a disease de­tested in ours, and unknown to past Ages. In one word, they are for the most part without Wealth, without Reputation. In the mean time, see how they flatter their Tyrants, how they disguise their Deformities, and though their Mistresses be never so ugly, they make them Angels and Divinities. Let us reimbark, said I 'tis not safe to remain long in an Island thus inhabited. Then you acknowledge, said M. M. that 'tis dan­gerous to be amongst Lovers, and that the habit is dangerous. I have heard say, that ordinarily we re­semble [Page 52]those we frequent, and that we are equally born good, but bad Company ruines us. But saith M. Ch. to me, do you think the matter goes, as our Friend says it does? What can I do, said I, against so many Ex­amples and Authorities? truly, if any thing keeps me yet on your side 'tis, that I have found you so Judici­ons in all you hold, and you are so litte accustom'd to choose Opinions that are not good, that I am as yet wavering, and as the Italian says, ‘Ne sì ne nò nel cuor mi suona intero.’But in the mean time, pursued I, methinks M. Trilport is a little Melancholy, as if he mistrusted his cause. You ill explain my Seriousness, replied M. Tr. and esteem me a man of small Courage; the truth is, if any thing startles me, 'tis to see M. M. treating us like Children, to whom they shew painted Devils with Tails and Claws, and terrifying Faces, to make them afraid; for I do not believe, continued he, that you think Devils are so made, nor that you would go about with the Poet Bernia, to take the just length of their Horns and Tails. So M. M. with his Islands, his Imaginary pi­ctures, his Fabulous examples endeavours to fright us, and take us off from solid Reason. To what purpose is it to speak of Agamemnon or of Aristotle, to know if a Young man ought to court Ladies? We shall see, says M. M. a little heated, what this solid Reason will a­mount to in the case; but to let you see, if I ought to alledge Agamemnon or Aristotle, whose Examples you believe such strangers to the question, I demand of you, if this Induction is not reasonable? If Love assembles in himself all the Defaults of Kings, of Hero's, of the gods of Fable; if Philosophers, who I place above these Gods; if Men, who have excelled in Policy, in War, and pass the rest of Mankind, have fallen into [Page 53]these shameful Errours, when they became Amorous; if generally all Lovers are mad, may we not conclude, that a Young man who Loves will become imperfect and vicious, as other Lovers; nay, is more subject to these defects, than Kings, or Hero's, or Gods, or Philo­sophers, or Law-makers, or Conquerours, whose Ex­amples we have been obliged to produce? though we have besides strengthned our Position with Authorities and Reasons, the Image of Cupid, the Isle of his Tri­umph, and the rest which we have advanced. We should do you wrong, said I, in this matter to reproach you for having alledg'd any thing without proof; your discourse in my opinion hath been much to the purpose: But to handle the Question more fully, and to act entirely according to the taste of your Adversa­ries; will you not think it necessary to speak some­thing of our Young Gentlemen and our Ladies, the Lovers and Mistresses of our Times and Nation; of their Conversation and of their Courtship? for from things that are so familiar, and which we have every day before our eyes, 'twill be easie to see with which of the Opinions contested between you we ought to close, and we may judge by the manners of our Lovers, whether we ought to fly or follow them. For my part, answers M. M. coldly, I should think you might spare me this pains, which seems altogether needless; and after I have shew'd you, that generally all Lovers are extravagant, you cannot think our Nation more ex­empt than others. And I am vext, continued He, that you did not acquaint me with your desires before we weigh'd Anchor to come from the Amorous Island; for there I could have shew'd you a great many of those people you enquire after, which yet are not diffi­cult to be met with elsewhere. But now we will un­dertake no more Voyages, nor will we quit Paris. To proceed orderly, let us take our young Cavaliers, [Page 54]who a few Months since left the Academy; and Sons of the City, Officers newly come to their charge. Let us imagine them Amorous, and by their Actions examine the qualities Love endows them with. Let the Gentle­men march first, that we may muster up the good parts they have acquir'd with their Mistresses: And first, to study their Conversation, we shall find it nor wise, nor solid, nor polish'd, nor gallant: What then? would you know? Let us draw near them, you shall hear nothing but a gibberish eternally repeated, composed of fifteen or twenty extraordinary words, which have a vogue in their Cabal, which they speak improperly, and only to speak them, without considering how they may cultivate their understandings; they spend in a quarter of an hour a number of Fooleries, which yet they pro­nounce with a Jesting Authority, as if there were Salt in them; or some conceal'd mystery. The Ladies in the mean time they laugh upon the publick Faith, as if they understood the subtleties; if they meet with any man, that will not quit Reasons side to comply with them, God knows with what scorn they use him, and how he shall be handled in all places where these Star­lins assemble to whistle. They believe nothing such an enemy to wit as Silence; they infinitely esteem their Judgment, which furnishes them with decisions for e­very thing upon the place: In fine, by force of admiring one another, they are brought to think they are at the top of an agreeable conversation. And now we have exa­min'd their Wit, which we find in pitiful plight, let us consider their bravery. We shall quickly discover, that their highest design is to guild a Coach, or to vary a Livery, or as Malherbe says,

[Page 55]We find them busied, as Women, to dress and trick up themselves, and with such indecent Effiminacy, that 'tis left to us to divine not only, if they are Men, but whe­ther they seek not other men. In the mean time the presumption of being Sparks gets up into their pates, they esteem themselves worth the Courtship of an A­mazon Queen, and all run the same danger for their Beauty, which the Narcissus of the Fable did. In this condition, they choose rather the Fortune of Paris, who was Fair as they, and possest Helen, than that of Ajax. But they merit the Reproach, which in Homer is given to this Original of Effeminateness, ‘Lasche Paris au visage tres-beau.’and deserve to be treated as this Divine Poet handles this little Wanton, when amidst so many thousand Combatants he brings him in flying the Battel, to go lie with his Wife. From their Conversation and their Per­sons let us pass to their Manners. Amongst other faults Libertinism offers it self first: for, as their end is not to stop at a union of Wills and Hearts, but to proceed on, as they say, to something more solid, they em­ploy the utmost force of their Wits to debauch the Consciences of Ladies by a pure malignity of Nature. Without having any occasion to doubt, as learned Li­bertines have, they jest with Religion, they commit a hundred indecent actions in the Church. With five or six passages out of Charon and Montague, which the ablest among them preach to the rest, they pretend to overthrow all Divinity. The rest of their Sentiments are nor noble nor high; they think nothing worthy the Vertue of their Ancestors; the wings of Love cannot raise them to any generous thoughts; every day passes alike; the flower of their Lite slides away in a shame­ful and unquiet Idleness, whilst they are seated in their [Page 56]Chairs, extended in their Coaches, or bring disorder into Families that receive them. But 'tis not in these times only, that such kind of People make a trade of imbroiling Families; for you know, the Centaurs, the first Cavaliers of the World, came to the wedding of Perithous only to make Love, and by consequence they disturb'd the Feast. I should be too long, if after the Gentleman I should examine the Town-Child: I will content my self to say by the by, he is one that believes himself an able man; that will talk Latin a­mongst his Kinswomen, and before his Mistresses; that will judge of the Merit of his Rivals by their Money; that wanting Experience in the World, will want Po­liteness and Agreement. In the mean time the Citizen and the Gentleman, governed by their Passions, neg­lect all the duties of Life, ruine their Domestick affairs, abandon, together with their Friends, the thoughts of their Fortune, Honour, and Reputation, and render themselves wholly despisable; and all this for the Love of Ladies. According to this sense, the Greeian Sculptors, whose Works often taught Morality, carv'd a Venus upon a Hee-Goat, thereby comparing a man subjected to the power of Women to this Animal, which is blindly led to all the unruliness of Love: but chiefly they were admirable for the invention of a Fi­gure, which they erected over the Tomb of that fa­mous Courtizan, who had seen all Greece on their knees before her Gate, and to whom they built a Se­pulchre at Corinth, near to the Temple of Venus the Brown; these Masters placed a Lioness emboss'd, which tore in pieces a Ram. I should never have done, should I recount all the Errours of this Sex when they once fall in Love; and yet, if I would take the pains, 'twould amount to a great Argument against the con­trary Opinion. For how can we conclude young men should learn any thing that is good of persons that are [Page 57]accompanied with nothing but Vanity, Weakness, Ine­quality, Treachery; that have nothing sincere, nothing great; who have double Hearts, counterfeit Faces and Actions? Would it not rather draw to a consequence, that these Young men by conversing with Women, should lose all seeds of Goodness, and all inclination which their Souls might have to Vertue? Nor is it this Vertue Women seek for; they still choose the worst; Venus leaves Mars for Adonis; Helena Menelaus for Paris;— You are in a fair way, cries M. Ch. and if we let you go on, 'tis very likely you will not stop in haste: for you take a marvellous pleasure in this Story, and I foresee something very odd like to scape you, if I do not prevent the Storm. You have reason, pur­sued M. M. and to tell you true, if you had not hindred me, I was strangely tempted to tell you the Story of Giocondo, and the Matron of Ephesus, with others of that nature. Reserve those to another time, replies M. Ch. and I am not of opinion, you ought any longer to give way to your Choler; and to spare you an un­profitable pains, you may remember, if you please, that when we enquir'd of you concerning those pretended Maximes you attributed to Ladies, we did not ask for the Dialogues of Lucian's Courtizans, nor Juvenal's sixteenth Satyr, nor the life of Celestina: we would have you tell us of Artemisia, Penelope, Lucretia. I take you at your word, says M. M. on condition you will not except against these Test monies you have de­manded, and that you will judge of Women upon the depositions of Artemisia, Penelope, and Lucretia; and that after this you will be content I end a Dis­course, which in my opinion hath no need of further proof. For Artemisia, continued he, I know no de­clar'd Gossip that would not be ashamed of the trans­ports of this Queen: I do not speak of those which her affection caused; they were just, they were honest; [Page 58]and if her grief had stifled her, whilst she complains of fortune, when she drown'd her face in tears, and said against the stars, what could be said:

I say, if she had expir'd then, it may be that to this time her Friendship would be as much a marvel as her Mausoleum. But by misfortune she buried her Grief, for the loss of her Husband, with his Ashes; and this vain and pompous ostentation of Conjugal union quick­ly gave place to a second Passion, which transported her to kill her self. Scaliger, upon the fame of an ancient Author, informs us, that this Queen fell in love with a young man of Abidas, call'd Dardanus, and to revenge her self of his coldness, she surpriz'd him sleeping, and did tear out his eyes; but that her Revenge did not di­minish her Passion, its violence forcing her to throw her self from the Rocks of Leucadia, she dy'd of the fall. As for Penelope, Seneca avows, that he found so much concerning her affection, pro and con, that he durst not conclude, whether she were a sinner or an honest Woman. Another Author less solid, but very witty, hath an unlucky conceit about the continual Feast­ings in her House amidst a crowd of Gallants, and in­terprets maliciously the trial of her Husbands Bow. And to take away all doubt, Pausanias assures us, that in his time there past an ancient Poem, which recount­ed how Ʋlysses, when he return'd from the Siege of Troy, beat her out of doors; and that there was a Tra­dition then currant amongst the Mantineans, that Pe­nelope fled to their Town and died there. Lastly, What can we judge of Lucretia, but with M. L. that she kill'd her self after the fact? Thus by searching things to the bottom, we see that the most part of these Beauties, [Page 59]who appear fierce and cold, as the ancient Sabines, have often no advantage over the rest, but that of dissem­bling well; and all these Heroin's, which in Ausonius threatned to crucifie Cupid, at the instance of Venus re­duc'd his punishment to a whipping with Roses. Let us not then abuse our selves in a belief, that Women can inspire generous thoughts; but rather think their Beauty corrupts our Judgments, making us believe, their Conversation is as profitable as we find it pleasant. Let us still remember, that this Beauty, whereupon the most of them would raise a legitimate domination, is no other, according to Socrates, but a short Tyranny; and that Sophocles often repeated in his Old age, that he esteem'd himself very happy in that he had shaken off the yoak of this Amorous tyranny. But we will end with the Advice of Thales, and admire the Coun­sel he gave a miserable wretch, asking what he should do to free himself from Love; he first advised him to fast; and when a Diet would not serve, he perswaded him to expect his health from Time and Absence; but after many months and a long perigrination, seeing that Hunger, Distance, and Time were too weak Re­medies, he ordain'd him to Hang himself. I have said. Seeing M. Menage had done, you have, said I, handled Lovers, as one advised a maker of Romances to handle his principal person, when he would needs perswade him, that he could not find out an event, nor more new nor more surprizing, than to cause him be pub­lickly hang'd. In this at least I am excusable, an­swered M. M. which is, That I have been content to open the cause, and to let the Sentence be pronounc'd by another. On the contrary, replied I, 'tis to be feared you have acted with malice, and have brought in this Philosopher, that his Sentence might be as authentick as that of a Judge. That may be, added M. Trilport, but there is a remedy for it, and I declare to you, says [Page 60]he, addressing himself to M. M. that I appeal from your Sage to ours. And from Thales to M. Chappelein is à minori, says M. M. Stop there, replies M. Ch. I must interrupt you, lest you should think I agree and confess my self a Sage, which God forbid. But, con­tinued he, addressing himself to M. M. though I am to plead the Cause of Lovers, your self shall be the Judge. You hold your Cause very good then, says M. M. seeing you are content to be Judg'd by your Adver­sary. As good as your Conscience, continued M. Ch. and I believe you so just, and find my Cause so ground­ed in equity, that I declare, I shall be content with what you shall pronounce, after you have heard me. We here were silent, and after some moments M. Ch. begun: If I do not lend to your Opinion that full consent you could wish, you ought not to complain 'tis for want of attention. I have hearkned to your discourse with an intire application, and truly, you have so ingeniously spoken against Love, that if I had not been bound with the Cords of Truth, you had perverted me: but at last I am, as a seeond Ʋlysses, escap'd from the danger of the Sirenes, after having been charm'd with their Songs. Whatever enchantments, for all that, you have pra­ctised to prove the opinion sustained by you; I am a­bout to let you see, that, if I am not deceiv'd, the contrary is the better; wishing passionately, that in this cause you would act better than the Medea of Euripides and Ovid, and that after you have seen and approved the Truth, I shall declare, you do not remain the Au­thor of a heresie, that cannot appear fair, but because you paint it. I shall act clearly with you, answering what you have advanc'd point by point; shewing, if I can, the falseness or the weakness of them. I will also ac­commodate my self to your way of Philosophizing, which is without doubt the most proper for a Conver­sation, and of which I shall willingly serve my self, [Page 61]because it is not so severe as that which is commonly practised; but is not less strong for being more deli­cate: and gently to draw out a confession is better, than to do it by putting a knife to the throat. So that I shall continue to banish from our discourse these Syllogisms of the Schools, which make their heads giddy that stu­dy to comprehend and resolve them. We will not take Love from amidst the Graces, to put him into the hands of Disputants: and I will take care, that our Conver­sation, which hath hitherto been sweet and easie, does not degenerate into the querulous noise of two Masters of Art. You began your accusation with explaining a Figure, whereby you would scare us, as M. Tr. well noted; and if we should believe you, you have placed Love, which is the sweetest bond of Humane Society, in the number of Harpies and other Monsters of Anti­quity: I will presently examine, if this Picture be as good as it is common; I will content my self in the mean time to let you know, that 'tis capable of recei­ving quite another sense to that you have given it; and that there is nothing but vertuous in this piece, which you set out as if all the defects, which Humane frailty can suffer, were assembled in it. To proceed orderly, you pretend, that this Child notes the weakness and o­ther imperfections of that age. But, if it were so, the most Learned Painters are much in the wrong to repre­sent him as they do, holding Lions under his subjecti­on: and Poets were no less to blame for shewing him in their works, snatching the Thunderbolt from the hand of Jove, and exercising his power on his Mother. And those of Cytherea believed, that this Venus, who drew all her power from Love, presided in War; and the Cypriots figur'd her with a Launce; others represented her Statue arm'd; yea, the Romans built a Temple to Venus the Victorious. The Prudence of Love is as ea­sily justified as his Force: and we cannot doubt of it, if [Page 62]we will remember, that he unravell'd the first confusion of the Universe, and that we may attribute to him with the Italian Poet, ‘Pensier canuti in giovenit etade.’We must not then accuse Old people for being in Love, provided their thoughts resemble those of this Boy. But we must agree on the point, that Love is painted Young only to let us see what we are about to conclude, That Love is necessary to Youth. And 'tis almost the same reason, which Agathon in the Divine Philosopher urges to prove that Love is young; be­cause, saith he, he is alwaies sound amongst Young people. But this Boy, say you, is impudent to go al­waies naked. 'Tis true what you say, that 'twere a foul action to strip ones self in the open Market, but you advance little by this; for not only this is not al­waies true, for the Dacedemonian Boys and Girles were naked together in the place of their Exercises, and that under a discipline the most austere in the World; but further, though your Rule should be general, 'twould not follow, that Impudency were a vice of Childhood, none ever said so: nor that Shamelessness, which is a sign of this defect, and which proceeds alwaies from a long custome of filthy and bold actions, is figur'd by Childhood. Far from this, we are pleas'd with those Pictures of the people wherewith we adorn our Tem­ples, and wherewith we represent Angels. And you would be more scrupulous than our devout Matrons, who are not yet aware of being scandaliz'd at these nu­dities. As to the Testimony of Eustatius, which you alledge, if I remember right, it means nothing but the first boldness of Lovers, and ought rather to be taken for a piece of Courtship, than an injury. Nay, this Bishop so little thought of charging Love with Im­pudence [Page 63]for his Nakedness, that he writes this God is naked only, that he may dive into the water to preserve the species of Fish. And in one place of his Romance, Ismenias seeing his Mistress throw her self into the Sea, prays Cupid to dive after her, and bring her up again. By this we may easily judge, that the Nakedness of Love ought not to be explain'd in a bad sense, as you do, and that it signifies nothing less than his Impudence; and those who have spoken of it without Passion, have given it a sense different from yours. Whether they have concluded with Antiphanes, ‘Que l'on ne peut cacher l'amout, qui va tout nud.’or whether, according to the Opinion of others, this Love thus exposes his Beauty to shew, that he disallows of all artifices wherewith Beauty is set off. And, ac­cording to this sense, the Jupiter of Homer sharply chides Juno for stealing the Girdle of Venus, to the end that she might augment his flames: or whether this Nakedness signifies, that the thoughts of Lovers ought to be so noble, that they may expose them without a Veil to the sight of all the World: or lastly, whether this god is minded to shew his exceeding force in this weak estate. You will come off no better, I believe, in your interpretation of his Ribband. You take it for a hoodwink'd reason, whereby our minds are cast into darkness worse than Cymerian, and which hinders us even from discerning what is good Manners. I could here object to you, that you had forgot they call the Eyes the Guides of Love: but I will not serve my self of this Opinion, because I disapprove it, and am of that of the Queen Olympias, who accused a Young man for want of Wit, because he married only by the counsel of his Eyes; I will only say then, that our Understanding never is more awake nor more [Page 64]active, than when we love and have ambition to please. And in this matter I send you to Ovid, who compares the vigilancy of Lovers to that of Captains. But in my opinion, the true explication of this Ribband, which we might call a Diadem, if we would defend our selves with as much passion as you accuse us with; the best ex­plication, I say, is to imagine, that Venus is willing his Thests should be conceal'd, as one of the Ancients plea­santly said; and that Discretion is the best quality, not only of Lovers, but of men the most debauch'd. You are not ignorant, that the Italians fay, Discretion staben sin al—pardon me the rest, and permit me to pass on to the Wings, Arrows, and Torch. For his Wings, I confess in this Article your railleries are very pleasant, and there is much wit in the Conceits of our Friends, but we will take them, if you please, only for Jests, and not accept of their Testimonies in other manner, than as you intended to spend them, and let you know in the mean time, that they who first invented these Wings would teach us, that ous Desires and Thoughts ought to raise themselves up to Heaven, and not al­waies grovel upon the Earth. For his Arrows, I can easily approve of those reflexions you made; but, to judge wholsomly, your Invective only strikes at the ill use of Love: and these two sorts of Arrows do only note the secret motions to inclination or hatred, which we find in our selves, but not the Causes which give those motions, and least of all any thing of Avarice or Presents. For in all the Children, which ever pro­ceeded from the marriage of Theagines and Chariclea, that is, in all the Romances that ever were, from the Ethiopick History to the Grand Cyrus, is there any thing so handsom or so frequent, as that scorn wherein Lo­vers hold Greatness, Crowns, Treasures, only to pre­serve their Fidelity to miserable and exil'd persons, who groan under Irons, and have no other advantage, besides [Page 65]their Merit and their Passion? Nothing therefore can better set out these noble, elevated, and generous Senti­ments than to say, that their Souls are really wounded with a Golden shaft; and that to destroy these illustri­ous Prerogatives of Heaven, all the Treasures of the Earth are leaden arms, which bend and cannot pene­trate. Merlins Fountains, whereof Aristo makes his Knights to drink, and whose scurce Claudian found be­fore him, confirm what we fay. They were both of a like Water, and without the advantage to murmur o­ver Golden dust, as Pactolus and Tagus, they did glide peaceably over the same Sand, and one gave a violent aversion, the other a violent passion. Ovid, who for the most part explains ingenuously the nature of these Arrows, when he speaks of the Golden ones, does not give us the least suspicion, that he thought of Presents, no not those of his age, which were Fruits, Nosegays, and Persumes. It only rests, that we speak of his Torch, which you compare to that of the Furies, for which I am much tempted to accuse you of Impiety; and, I think, I could not say too much against a man, who so ill handles a fire, that we may call the Soul of the World, which actuates and conserves all that has any sense in the Universe, and without which the face of Nature would appear wild and desolate. But because I would not quarrel you, and that I endeavour to perswade you without displeasing you; I conjure you, that we may understand this matter aright, to cast your eyes upon the effects of this Torch, and do not sear it will trouble your fight, as those dismal Torches of Nights three Daughters,

[Page 66]You know what follows in the Pastor fido of Guarini, and how he carries it even to Animals and Trees, which feel the sweet warmth of this fire: believe me, this fire hath in it something Divine; and the Egyptians, who (compar'd with their Wisdom) esteem'd that of the Greeks but Boys play, when they would express Love, did it only by Fire, as the purest and noblest E­lement. Now, as you, after your malicious explicati­on of Loves Figure, conclude with him in Atheneus, that the gods did well to banish him Heaven: I also, having given the true sense of it am bold to say, that Hesiod, Solon and Plato, never shew'd more Wisdom, than when they took Love from the Mountain of Heli­con, to lead him into the Academy adorn'd and crown'd with Flowers; in the midst of Musick and Sacrifices, to constitute him Director and Master. From what I have said you may conclude, that my Praises make a more reasonable Picture of Love, than your Invectives; and that the same matter, which hath serv'd you for his Accusation, is very proper to make his Panegyrick. But because the sense of this Picture may yet remain a Problem to obstinate Wits, we will not abide by it; besides, 'tis much contested, and divers Learned men are not of accord with the Vulgar opinion. Theodorus, in Plato's Banquet, mocks at those who make a Child of this god; which he esteems the most Ancient of all the gods, not excepting Saturn. Another Greek in his Hue and Cry for the sugitive Love, far from thinking him blind, says, he has most penetrating Eyes, and takes this mark for so true a one, that he gives it to know him by, that, if they met him, they should bring him home. Eustatius fastens those Wings to his Heels, which the common Opinion puts upon his Shoulders: Eubulus in Atheneus goes further, and will allow him no Wings, but says, that the Painters, who invented them, were ignorant Fellows, and fit only to paint Swal­lows: [Page 67]Another, in the same Author, gives him two Bows: In fine, Propertius saith, Love was born in the Fields, and that his Bow and Arrows were only for the chafe of Wild Beasts. These, as you see, contradict the common Image of Love: Mosebus adds, that his Body is of Flame-colour, his Hair frizeld, his Look malici­ous, his Hands small, and concludes with the rest, that he is a right dangerous Archer. If we should add the fantastical Conceits of some Modern Spaniards to the Inventions of the Ancient Greeks, I could furnish you with one Cristova, who in his Verses strives to demon­strate, that Love is perfectly like the Great Turk. This resemblance, says M. Menage, is very extraordinary; but I know one that will no less surprize you, and yet it is of the Old Rock: for what say you when you read in Macrobius, that the Cypriots, who ought to know Venus, erected a Statue, which represented her with a Beard? After we had laugh'd a little, leaving, continued M. Ch. these Representations, which make little to the Question, I will come to Plutarchs Opinion, who assures us, that Love is not visible; and will fay, with one of the Ancient Comicks, that Painters and Sculptors did not know what Love was; for, as he in­geniously adds, Love is neither Male nor Female; God nor Man; Wise nor Foolish; but he is made up of all these, and assembles many different species under one Figure, which hath the boldness of a Man, the fearful­ness of Women; is serious in his Folly, circumspect in his Rage; which suffers the transports of Wild Beasts, and labour cannot tame him; of a wild Ambition, bringing no less Discord along with him, than we ima­gine in Hell; who is capable of things Serious, of things Peacable, of things Violent. You say more than I could desire, said M. Menage, and to save you trouble in examining the rest of my Discourse, I will joyn issue with you here. Your Cause w'ont be the better [Page 68]for it, answers M. Ch. and I shall not fail to reply to the rest. But that we may see to the utmost, what we ought to conclude concerning Love, and rigorously to examine the Good and the Evil that may be alledged, I will add Plato's Testimony, who calls Love a cruel Monster, that has as many Heads as Hydra. I will add that of Sophocles, who says, Venus is not only Venus, but Pluto, Necessity, Rage, Covetousness, Grief. I will add that of Plutarch, who considering that Love does Cherish and Hate, Follow and Fly, Threaten and Pray, is Angry and feels Compassion, is Sad and Re­joyces, Will and Will not; and all this at one time and for the same person, concludes, 'tis not a thing very Judicious, but an imbroil'd Enigma, and of difficult Interpretation. If this is not enough, we will continue the description of Moschus, which we began, and say, that Loves Thoughts are malicious, his Words flatter­ing, his Discourse contrary to his meaning; that he hath a sweet Voice, is mad in his Anger, a Deceiver and a Fool; and in all his sportings hath some Black de­sign. And this is enough fully to perswade you, that I have betray'd my Cause, and that you have gained yours; or at least, that I act too sincerely with you, producing Testimonies which you know well, but had forgot, and which alone seem capable to convince me. But, as you very well remark'd at the entrance of your Discourse, that the first Poets did Philosophize, and then you plac'd me upon Parnassus; from a place so e­minent, which my Modesty durst not pretend to, suffer me to reason with you in a few words, and till then suspend, if you please, your Judgment of what good or ill you and I have delivered concerning Love. I say then, that all things which we possess, let them be never so good, or whatever praises they deserve, become evil when they pass the bounds of their perfection; whether it be excess or defect that draws them. For [Page 69]Example, Prudence, which is that that Mankind ought most passionately to covet, and which indeed is the greatest gist that God doth bestow upon Man, becomes visionary and fanatical when it is too much refin'd, and in this condition is no less dangerous, than Folly. 'Tis the same in other Vertues, whose extreams are never wholsom; good Sense only is that which moderates them; and all the advantage which persons have we call Vertuous, is, the knowledge of the true measure to which they ought to reduce their good qualities. 'Tis the same in Love; and therefore Plutarch writes, that Erato, one of the Muses, did preside over it for its regulation. When it is at the top of its perfection, there are no praises which it does not merit: When it passes its limits, it is worthy of all the blame you and I have alledg'd. Greece, as amorous as it was of Lais, mock'd at those who brought a Talent to this Courtizan to pass a Night with her; but the insensibility of Zenocrates was no better handled by them, when he compar'd her to a piece of Wood. Hence you may collect, 'tis not that regulated Love about which we contend, that Au­thors have said so much ill of, but that Love which our excess depraves, and which we are ready to blame as well as you. The better to comprehend the diffe­rence between these Loves, learned Antiquity acknow­ledg'd two Venus's; one Celestial, the other Vulgar: The first they call'd Ʋrania, the other Pandeme, or the Ve­nus of the Common people. And they had each of them their Love, whereof one was govern'd by the Muses, the other, according to the testimony of a Greek Poet, durst not approach them; the first was free from all violent Troubles, the other was the Father of Disor­der: that was for Wise men; this, for Fools. Accord­ing to this sense one Judiciously said, Wise men Love, but others desire; whereby he would signifie, that the advantage of knowing how to love was reserv'd for the [Page 70]Vertuous, leaving to the Multitude all the Misfortunes that follow irregular Passions. But what defect is it, you will here say to me, that makes the most part of Mankind stray from this happy Love, and which casts them upon the furies and griefs of the bad Venus? 'Tis not one Error, I must answer, but all those which carry them from the possession of other good qualities. Yet in my opinion a principal cause of the Disorders of those who love is, they imbark themselves in this Pas­sion before they have chosen, whence finding humors contrary to their own, or unruly minds, their life must pass in disquiets, or they must abandon themselves to that disorder, which they pursu'd without any fore­sight. Doubtless here some one cannot forbear to al­ledge the half Loadstone, which Plato says we have at our first Creation, which is not without trouble till 'tis joyn'd to the other moiety from whence 'twas broken off; for my part, I pretend to pay you with currant Money, and to discourse more roundly than those that nourish themselves with Idea's. I say then, that when Esteem precedes Love, and that we judge of the object before we engage our Passion, Love becomes one of the greatest advantages we have. Bertaut, according to this sense, of all the Errors we commit in Love con­demns chiefly that of failing in the election, as the source of all the rest, when he says,

You see, that to this he adds another in favour of the good Love, and which he thinks no less an Error, it is, not to love that which deserves Love. Accommoda­ting himself in this to Ovids Opinion, who in his Re­medies, [Page 71]exhorts those who have chosen well to continue with constancy, and, finding their happiness consists in their Passion, he advises them to make good use of their Joy, and to spread all their Sails, and says, he looks upon them as upon those, who enter'd victorious into the Capitol. Now you will confess with me, that the Common people, for the most part subject to their first motions, and almost incapable of reflection, have not this good discerning, especially in a thing where they trust their Eyes and Sense of the matter, whence we conclude, that 'tis no wonder they fall into disasters, which themselves procure, and that what is said against Love does not respect that of Wise men, but of the Vulgar, who corrupt it by their bad use of it; I can­not better conclude this discourse; nor leave with you a more pleasant Idea, than the Opinion which the Spar­tans had, they who profest a Vertue so rigid, which is, That when Venus pass'd the River Eurotas to present her self to Licurgus their Lawgiver, she left upon the the Banks her Girdle full of Charms, her Glass, and all her wanton Robes, which drew in part the adoration of the rest of the World, and appear'd before this se­vere Man with a Helmet upon her head, her hand is charg'd with a Launce and Buckler. Let us apply this, and we shall find that Love, which represents it self to Common men with all those salse Beauties that deceive and ruine them, lays by these pernicious Inchantments when he approaches the Wise; or rather, that 'tis the Vulgar who dress up Love in this attire, Idolizing him because they do not know him, and following him down Precipices; whereas Gallant men strip him to re-cloath him with Ornaments proper for him, and give him that perfection, which is the happiness of those who know how to love: Now as those who write to reform the Manners of men, do not aim at these Wise men we speak of, because they have no need of Remon­strances, [Page 72]and make up the least part of Mankind; we need not wonder, if those who discourse of Love, con­sider it in that deplorable condition to which 'tis re­duc'd in the hands of the People, and if to divert or cure this multitude, lost in its own Folly, they have studied to describe it hideous, and capable of making men miserable: and yet as monstrous a thing as they have represented it to be, you shall see that they still mixt some good, yea, in such a degree, that often its excellent qualities surmount the bad. Whence we may be bold to determine, that Love is alwaies good in it self, that we can accuse nothing but the disorders that happen in it, and that they are these vulgar Lovers who have thus disfigur'd it. And I shall by and by let you see, that they have handled that of Wise men better. In the mean time, upon this foundation, which I assure my self you will find solid and reasonable, it will be easie for me to build the Answers I am to make, and to defend my self from all those Examples wherewith you are arm'd. I will add only two things to this Dis­course, whereof you shall grant me one, unless you would have me convince you by your self, which are, That all the exaggerations in the discourse of Lovers serve as well to shew the quickness of their wit, as the force of their passion: and that there are certain things in use, which have a good grace in certain places, which we should be unjust to condemn, though they are not cur­rant amongst us, otherwise we must expect the like; and we should draw towards the excess of presumption, if we esteem our selves enough to believe, that our Laws and Customes ought to be the rule of those of Mankind. I come now to a particular examination of the rest of your discourse, after you have aggravated Loves faults, the better to make it good, you pass to Examples. Which at first sight seem to have somewhat of weight in them; for you bring upon the Stage the [Page 73]great Atrides, the valiant Achilles, the stout Hercules, and at last Jupiter himself, which is all that Fable hath of Noble. For the first, which are the People of the Iliads, I would joyn issue with you, if instead of Agamemnon and Achilles you would produce Ʋlysses. But I will take these three, the better to confirm by them what I have advanc'd, That there is a great dif­ference between the Love of Common people, and the Love of Sages, that we as much blame the first, as we approve the other, and that almost all your Examples lie against that which we find fault with. Horace, whose Censures are very regular, when he writes his opinion of Homers two Poems, notes well, that the War of the Greeks and Barbarians contain'd only the Passions of mad Princes and foolish People. That in the Camp and in the Town all was full of Sedition, Deceit, Cruelty, Rage, and bruitish Sensuality; and that the Souldiers suffer'd through the Folly of their Princes. Coming afterwards to consider the Odysses, he saith, that the Poet hath propos'd Ʋlysses for a perfect and profitable Example of all, that Prudence, Wisdom, and Vertue can do. So that you need not wonder, if Agamemnon and his Rival had their transports in Love; they whose whole life was irregular, and who, in all they did, never consulted their Reason, nor took counsel, but of their Will and their Power. After this discourse of Horace, we may rank their Examples among the Vulgar, and ought to judge of them according to Seneca's Opinion, That Merit and not Dignity, separates us from the crowd. If we return to Ʋlysses, we may consider, that in his greatest Misfortunes he hath had some little Loves, by which the Poet seems to insinuate, that a Wise man ought alwaies to make Love. But in all his Loves we find nothing disorderly, nothing defective, nothing which does not set him off with some advan­tage, nothing in fine, which were not to be wish'd. [Page 74]And now let us come to Hercules, and without seeking to excuse him, as we might, let us place him amongst this crowd, that goes astray. And indeed all those who have exalted his Strength, have had but a bad opinion of his mind; and such as have reported the great Ser­vices he did the World, have defam'd him as a Mad man, and one who fill'd his own House with horrible Spectacles. There remains only Jupiter to be consi­dered by us, and with him, if you please, all the gods of Antiquity; if we look upon them as men, we must say, that they have preferr'd Violence to Equity, and abus'd their Power in their Passions. Or if you will, that we treat them as Immortal gods, it must be on condition, that we remember Antiquity, which has learnt us their Loves, far from blaming them, have had them in veneration, and that she has made her greatest Mysteries out of the most ridiculous Adventures; that she hath rais'd upon Altars and peopled Heaven with these Generations, and that among the Egyptians we find stately rooms of Jupiters Mistresses. Thus, you cannot draw consequences disadvantagious to us from the Examples of these Men-gods, seeing that as Men we hold, that in their Loves they are capable of all the weaknesses of the Common people; and that as Gods, we ought not to reduce the Religion of Pagans to our Reason, who invented these Fooleries to consecrate them. You see now, that you have got little by these Examples, that we blame the Faults of the peo­ple as well as you, but that they have nothing propor­tionable to that Love which we preferr. And now you lead in Plato and Aristotle; great Names, and worthy of a great Respect; and we are so far from presuming to censure their Actions, that on the con­trary we are ready to take them for the Model of our own. They have Lov'd, say you; we believe a Wise man ought to do it. But during their Gallantry they [Page 75]wrote Verses, and did things unbeseeming their Gravi­ty. Let us see, if in this they did not allow something to the Mode of their Countrey, and if upon a matter indifferent in their Customes they have not suffer'd their Genius to sport it self. You know how far Greece once countenanc'd Love: And you know that Socrates, who taught Morality to other men, taught Love to Alcibia­des; and that amongst the Works of Philosophers in those Ages there was still some strain of Love. Now, Love then was accompanied with Poesie, and the Mu­ses were alwaies present at Greek Feasts. Plutarch says, That in his time men did not cease to Love, though they made no Verses; as if before, these two had been inseparable. But these Nine Sisters did not accompany Lovers with that severity, which they assum'd for the Hymns of the gods; they came attended by Bacchus and Ceres, drest, perfum'd, and merry; they came, as we find them in the Poetry of Sappho, Anacreon, and other Lyricks, celebrating, amidst Wine and garlands of Ro­ses, the Beauty and Wit of those they Lov'd. And this being so, can you think it strange that these Philo­sophers follow'd the fashion of their Countrey in Acti­ons, which the Manners of their Nation and Age not only made lawful, but which were so esteem'd, that the wise Solon, who also made Love-Verses, forbids Slaves to make Love, reserving this honour for Free men? Are you offended, that in making Verses they serv'd themselves of the same Praises, and us'd the same Language with other Poets, that they employ'd the Sun, the Stars, and the rest of the comparisons of Beauty? If you are not yet satisfied, but will continue to blame those transports of Love, which Plato shew'd for Dion, I will answer, that 'twas Rapture carried him to the expression, but that he did not feel in him­self all that he said, nor did think his Verse should one day be examin'd by so severe a Judge as your self. [Page 76]And for the Kiss of Agathon, without examining Gre­cian Manners, let it satisfie us that the World then found no fault with it; nor will we insist upon the reason he had to love Archianassa, the Wisdom of that Woman charm'd him, and his conceit of Love hid un­der wrinckles, ought rather to please than offend you. For what concerns Zantippe, she it may be you us'd lets us know, you did not believe 'twas Socrates's wife, and I think you only play'd upon the Names, or tempted the goodness of your Memory; for, you know, the Time and other circumstances destroy this fancy. For the Sacrifice of Aristotlé, if he held the Divinity of Ceres as veritable, I would blame him exceedingly for having prophan'd it; but if he was undeceiv'd, ought you to wonder, if to honour what he lov'd, he paid to his Mistress the respects which the Vulgar ren­der'd to Idols, and perform'd a Ceremony, which not only was indifferent to him, but which he laugh'd at? You know that he fled from Athens, for fear lest the Magistrates, through the politick necessity of Govern­ment, should use him for matters of Religion, as they did Socrates, and, as he said, lest he should be forc'd to sin against Philosophy. Having examin'd the Actions of these two Great men, we will not meddle with the rest particularly, because you propose them but in gross, and our general Reasons may serve to your general Ac­cusation. Now, as if you had foreseen, that these Greek Examples were weak and could not decide the affair, you descend to our Knights errant, and bring in Orlando Furioso; but if you will have Romances, and consent we should draw consequences from them, we have absolutely gain'd our Cause. But you pass him and come to Antony, Hannibal, Sampson, David and Solomon; see a troup of Enemies muster'd against me, but a little patience will lay this Storm, and in a few words I shall be able to rid my self of these famous [Page 77]Names wherewith M. Menage thinks to oppress me. Let us begin with Antony; this Roman having only judg'd of Cleopatra by his eyes, and suffering himself to be seduc'd by those Flatterers, which ruin'd him by upbraiding him with the kindnesses of this Queen, still crying out to him ‘O homme ingrat de tant de doux baisers.’This Roman, I say, deserves to be put amongst the Lovers we have blam'd. To make Love the Author of Hannibals losses, is it not to be ignorant that the Feasts, and Bannia's and Delights of Capua ruin'd him? and if Love had any part in it, 'twas that debauch'd Love which we condemn, and which ordinarily follows Wine and Idleness. The same may be said to the rest of your Examples. Now after you have ended their retail, you pass on to a general Maxim, that all Lovers are Fools; which you pretend to prove by their Acti­ons, and by their Discourse; and to this purpose you leave the firm Land to go to an Island where you assem­ble Lovers. And here your Learning furnishes you with a long train of passages which you cite from the Greeks, Latins, Spaniards, Italian; but truly you take all these things in the worst sense, and 'tis not fit we explain them thus literally as you do. They are things, as I said, that Wit has invented, but does not believe, and a peculiar Language, which long Custome hath past from hand to hand, amongst all those who have wrote of Love. Believe me, we ought not to banish figures of discourse: let us not imbroil our selves with Lovers that make Verse; let us leave them their Pearls, Scarlet, Roses, Lillies, the Aurora and the Sun, which they have possest time out of mind. But whatever they say, let us not think they take Hair for Chains, nor Eyes for Archers. If we find one of the Ancients com­manding [Page 78]his Torch be put out, for the fire of his Passi­on makes it light enough, let us not imagine he is per­swaded 'tis so: and if we meet with one of the Mo­derns singing to his Guitarr, that the Passing-bell should be toll'd as often as his Mistress arms her self with her two Suns, let us for all that believe, that this Spaniard fear'd a Feaver or the Small Pox, more than the en­counter of this Basilisk. If I should now combat your Citations with others, and seek Loves Praises in Books, the day would fail before I could finish half of them. As for those Lovers which you make to act worse than they speak, which Stab, Hang, and Drown themselves; I can tell you, that 'tis out of fashion now: But if any of these desperate persons remain any where, but upon our Theaters, I consent that such depravers of honest Love be chain'd up, not only in your Isle of Petrarch, but in the inaccessible Isle of Polexander, lest the mode should return again. But to answer what you find more to say against the Humors and Actions of Lo­vers; you do ill to make Crimes of indifferent Gal­lantries, of these garlands of Flowers with which they crown'd the Doors, or those little Courtships which like Garments fall into the modes of the Age wherein we live, or places where we dwell. I could send you again to Plutarch, who says, That what young Lovers ordinarily do, as to go in Masquerade, to Dance, to Sing, to present Nosegays, brings some handsom and honest relief to their Passion: and in one word, for what concerns these little things which you disallow, Nature hath as great a share in them, as Love, and we must not lay to its charge the defects of Humanity. Now there nothing remains but to answer the descrip­tion you give of our Youth of both Sexes. In which particular I cannot do better than to proceed with you as Homers Jupiter, who of two things Agamemnon ask'd, granted him one, and refus'd him one; so I will [Page 79]confess, there are some of our Young Gentlemen such as you paint them, and who doubtless are worthy of your Scorn: but I not only deny that 'tis Love which betrays them to this condition, but on the contrary, I know nothing which can redeem them from it, but an honest applying themselves to some Lady of Merit. The best is, that the number of them is but small, and your Satyr hits but few. It is true for the Citizen, that the foolish Pride which descends to them with their Inheritance, and those false Idea's which they form of a Voluptuous life, corrupt in them the sense of Vertue. But this disorder is not general. In the mean time you accuse Love for this Artificial handsomness, which you pretend effeminates our Youth, and alledge that such men seem to seek other men; to which I reply no­thing, but that it were to be wish'd they resembled him who was first reproach'd with it, which you know was Pompey, and you know also, that if it had not been for one man, Pompey had been the first man of the World. As for Paris, what he did was without doubt of bad Example, but I cannot think you will impute his want of Courage to his Beauty, for then Hector should have been as very a Poltron as he, seeing Homer calls him ‘Hector ayant le visage tres-beau.’And Achilles should have been the veriest Coward a­mongst the Greeks, seeing, according to the report of the same Homer, he was the fairest. Let us add, to reconcile you to mens Beauty, the request that Thales made to the young Eumetis, that Thaeles, which you esteem wiser than all his six Companions together, finding this Maid accommodating the Hair of Anachar­sis, whom the Barbarians oppos'd alone to all the Sages of Greece, he kiss'd her and pray'd her to dress up the Scythian in such a manner, that he might appear hand­som [Page 80]to the Company that were to Sup with Periander. You see then, that Beauty is not a fault in men, and that what Faults they have cannot be imputed to Love. And are you not of this opinion, when in that part of your discourse wherein you imploy our Gallants to de­bauch and pervert the Consciences of our Ladies, you blame them for not being content with a union of hearts and wills? whereby you seem to acknowledge, as well as I, an honest Love which may there be termi­nable, and that those who pass those bounds by Excess, corrupt Love, and are not corrupted by it. 'Tis true, answer'd M. Menage, I did merrily tell you that these Gentlemen would not stop there, but I did not say they ought to do so: and to examine the matter better, if you reduce your honest Love to these Spiritual affecti­ons, I fear your defence is but ill grounded. Not but that I know, how Philosophers in all times have boast­ed of this Union of hearts; but I know also, what Cicero observes, that these People wrote magnificently concerning things, which they practis'd no better than the Common people; and the conceit of a Greek Poet pleases me well, who saith, he can no more be per­swaded, that a Lover does adore without hoping any thing, than that a Beggar does importune a Rich man, without pretending to draw an Alms from him. After all, you know how those Stoick Philosophers were laugh'd at in Atheneus, who said, they had no design but upon the Soul. Here you will alledge what Plu­tarch writes, that the love of the Body cannot be call'd Love; and that Euripides contends for a Love that only pursues the mind, and that in fine, an Italian calls the Union of hearts ‘Ʋltima speme di cortesi amanti.’But after all we must return to Nature, which hath an [Page 81]end more noble and more necessary, that is, the con­tinuation of the Species, and which draws us to it by the charms of Beauty; and conclude, that in despite of all these refin'd Reasonings, that these Spiritual Lovers dwell only in the imagination of those who feign them. In this particular, says M. Trilport, I fall in with the Opinion of M. Menage; and for my part I believe that it was the opinion of the Ancients, but those who have descanted upon their Love Treatises, have a little too much subtiliz'd their thoughts. For instance, What would you have us judge of the Discourse which So­crates holds in the Banquet of Zenophon, but that he approves the Love where the Body hath its part as well as the Mind? seeing 'tis said, that the whole Company were so touch'd with this Discourse, that those who were Married hastned home to make much of their Wives, and all the Young people swore to Marry forth­with. Truly, added I, seeing one of the Ancients said, Beauty was the flower of Vertue, I cannot think M. Ch. will be so unjust to forbid honest people loving this Flower; on the contrary, I assure my self he will judge of Loves as of Orange-trees, which are the fairer for bearing Flower and Fruit together; and that he will also believe, that Love must be so much the more satisfactory, by how much the Lady we serve is Fair. I will not meddle with you two, replies M. Ch. having enough to do to save a wholsom Proposition from the art and force of M. Menage. Besies, I am not at such distance from your last opinion. And if you mark'd my words, I said, Love might cofine it self to a Union of hearts, not that it ought; and in my opinion it may pass further, provided it does not lead us into disorder. That which further keeps me from blaming your Opinion is, that I hold the nature of perfect Love to be such, that it grows in the possession of what we love; for a generous mind cannot receive [Page 82]new favours without augmenting its Passion. Thus when I have granted you, that Love tends to enjoy­ment; I must add at the same time, that the Good tend to it by good ways of Honour, Vertue and fair qualities, which render a man lovely; and that we en­deavour to acquire them when we love after this man­ner. On the contrary, those who manage their passion ill, and who love without choice, imploy evil means; whence it happens, that their intreagues being ill con­ceiv'd and ill conducted, are not lasting, end with Scan­dal, and during their course are travers'd with conti­nual disorders. Confess now, that in this Chapter you find me less severe than you expected. We find you, says M. Trilport, in this, as in all the rest of your Sen­timents, very reasonable. And I, adds M. M. am content to agree with you here; and in the mean time, replies M. Ch. this will not favour your Opinion; for though I confess to you, that the Body makes up part of the Object which Love propounds to it self, this will not say that Love is irregular, as you think, but on the contrary renders it more accomplish'd, and the possession of Beauty is a Cord that binds it more strongly and more sweetly; but this is when we use it well, and that we choose before we love. Let us come now to an apology for the Ladies, which you handle after a strange rate. You will tell me, you mean only the Gossips; if so, we are agreed, for your discourse does not touch me; but this Invective was too general, and 'tis not to be thought, that a man who hath attack'd the reputation of Penelope and Lucrece, aims only at those who make profession of being fair, and lay out for a great many Servants. However, I am willing to believe, that in this you have imitated Euripides, who blam'd upon the Theater the Sex he ador'd in private, and that you have not spoken ill of them because you believ'd it, or because you have been [Page 83]wronged by them, and the design of well defending your Paradox hath made you betray your Conscience; for I know no man respects or esteems Ladies more than you, to say nothing of your Loves, in which you pass for the true pastor fido. But this Consideration shall not stop me from assaulting your discourse; and as you have appear'd to us a great Enemy of Ladies, I find my self obliged to defend them from your accu­sation; which I will make appear to you is more in­genious than true. In effect, 'tis easie to sustain their Cause; if 'twere unjust, their Beauty only would suffice to plead it. You must remember the Judges of Greece, and the Courtizan Phrine; this Woman was accus'd; Hyperides defended her; he was a famous Oratour, and one from whom might be expected all the succours of Eloquence; but the cause being very foul, and the Judges severe, his Rhetorick was too weak, and the matter inclin'd towards a hard Sentence: Now to what had this Advocate recourse in this desperate case? to an infallible remedy, to the Beauty of Phrine; he tears the Robe of this Criminal, and lets them see so fair a person, that making Conscience of condemning her, they sent her away discharged of her Accusation; whence Horace learn'd,

I assure my self, if I should do so, I should not find you more difficult than these Reverend Judges; but as I do not speak of Courtizans or Gossips, so I have no need of using violent Remedies, and 'twill be enough for me to perswade your Reason, and not drag it along by force. I speak for Ladies which we call solid, whose Sentiments are elevate and noble; in a word, for Ladies which are not of your fashion. But yet, [Page 84]Ladies that can suffer Courtship; and we believe 'tis not misbecoming them to make illustrious Slaves: and we dare not be more severe than Plutarch, who advi­ses honest Women to sacrifice to Love. It rests we en­quire, whether there are many such to be found, or only those which you have mention'd. But this Sex hath not been so unhappy as you pretend. All Ages have had illustrious Women as well as Men, and they have shar'd with us in all good qualities. I will not prove their Vertues to you by Examples, which you may doubt of; I will not tell you, that during the course of Seven hundred years there was not one marri­ed in the Isle of Chio, which was not found a Virgin; I will not cite the Amazons which fought against Her­cules: in the humor you are in you will hold the first for Apocryphal, and will say, the last is not very cer­tain. I only say, that in all Nations Women have per­form'd in the general, and in the particular, quantity of remarkable Actions both for Policy and War. History hath plac'd a great many Queens at the head of Em­pires and Monarchies: if we would have marks of their Courage, Wit, and Vertue, without seeking a­mongst the Modern Indians, or our Ancient Gauls, the glorious paleness which we see in the face of Seneca's Wife, tells us, she will die with her Husband. Arria, by giving her self a deadly wound, teaches us better than Petus to despise this life. Portia will perish gene­rously after Brutus. And when we see Sophronia and Olindo inviron'd with flames, we cry out

But we shall be surpriz'd with a profound astonishment, seeing Laena dumb-in the midst of Torments, and as little apt to reveal the Complices in the Conspiracy of [Page 85] Harmodius and Aristogiton (who, as Plutarch speaks, had drank in the same Cup of Love with her) as that Lio­ness of Brass could have been, which the Athenians would have erected without a Tongue, in favour of the silence of this woman. If we would have quali­ties more peaceable, Greece, which vaunts of Nine Ly­rick Poets, boasts also of Nine Ladies excellent in this kind of Poetry: and Pindar, the Prince of these Nine famous Poets, was the Scholar of Myrtis, one of those Ladies, and was not asham'd to be corrected by Corin­na, who was another of them; nor five times to be solemnly overcome by her. If we go amongst the Philosophers, Aspatia can boast she did share with Al­cibiades the Cares and the Love of Socrates, and we shall find Leontia in the Gardens of Epicurus. But if we descend to our Age and our Court, we shall find as in a crowd these wonders, which were but thinly scatter'd in the past; and we shall confess with reason, that these illustrious persons are the honour of our Na­tion, and have their minds no less perfect than their faces. You know the Ladies I speak of as well as I, and what honour I owe to this great Princess; you often enter her Palaces, which are fam'd for celebrious Schools, where utmost Politeness is learnt: and I ap­peal from you to your self, whether there men are judg'd of by their outsides or the advantages of For­tune. Believe me, these are the Examples you ought to have produc'd, and not have troubled your self to shake the Reputation of Penelope and Lucrece, too well establish'd by the general opinion and consent of so many Ages, to depend upon a Jest, a Tradition, or a Manuscript. That which remains to be prov'd is, that there does redound very great advantages to those who are happy enough to be of the number of our Lovers, and who have their Souls rais'd to that point, that they dare aspire to please excellent persons of the other Sex; but [Page 86]the heat being over, and it being almost time to walk abroad, I must end, for I make conscience of hin­dring you from a walk in an Evening that prepares it self to be very fresh and fair. M. Trilport and my self, and M. Menage, who took a singular pleasure in heark­ning to M. Gh. and to whom the matter was not so material, that he should care much though he chang'd an opinion, which he had taken up only for Discourse fake; when, I say, we had all conjur'd him not to make such haste, I have been too long, replied M. Chappelein, and I was not resolv'd to spend any more time in teaching you a Doctrine which you know as well as I; however, seeing I am engag'd, I will add a few words. No body replying, he continued in this manner: I have always esteem'd the Opinion of Empedocles, who calls Love the principle of all good; and indeed, when we exactly examine mens lives, it does seem to be the source and original of whatever passes well. For whether we consider the policies of Towns and business of Peace, or whether we regard the Wars of Nations, which have been the Theaters of Heroick Vertue, both publick employments and private retreats owe to Love what they have of fair, sweet, and honest. To begin with War; Plutarch takes notice of divers Nations, who were subject to Love and extreamly Warlike: he reckons up several Great men addicted to Love. We may say, that this divinity presides no less in Combats than in the calms of Peace; at least, the Lacedemonians Sacrificed to him in the head of their Troops, when they were rea­dy to begin a fight. The Candiots did the same, only with this difference, that they drew out the fairest men from among their ranks to offer this Sacrifice. There have been Nations who to assure themselves of Victory, would have the persons lov'd Spectators of the actions of their Lovers in sight. But to say all, [Page 87]Did Antiquity ever see any thing more gallant than that Cohort of Thebaus, which they call'd Sacred, and which was compos'd of Lovers? And do not you fancy the criticism of Pamenes, who censures the Sage Nestor for having in Homer put the Greeks in Battel by Nations, whereas he ought to have put all the Lovers by themselves? I willingly pick out Greek Examples, because we must confess, that this Nation knew and e­steem'd Love better than any other; but yet I know not any which has not had its brave Lovers, or where Valour does not owe much to Love. To this purpose, I remember that amongst other Romances which were brought me once from Spain, one of the Songs began Muy rebuelto anda Jaen; this Romance speaks of a sally the Christians made upon the Moors: the Chri­stians might be twelve or fifteen hundred, all Gentle­men of Honour and Lovers in earnest, these are the words of the Song, or rather of the History, for these Songs serv'd then for Chronicles. Now the Poet, for­getting Religion and Countrey, for which the most fearful become valiant, attributes the Victory the Spa­niards got only to Love. They sallied out, says he, when they had first solemnly sworn upon their Mi­stresses hands, not to return to Jaen without a Captive Moor, and those who had Mistresses exceeding fair, en­gag'd for four Prisoners. If from these general A­ctions we should pass to particular ones, we might judge that Plato had good reason to call Love the General undertaker, and that he believed Love gave Courage, seeing the only recompence he appoints for the Conquerours after a fight, is the pleasure of choo­sing amongst the fairest persons her he best likes, and to kiss her. In this your Perceforests hath imitated him, and the prize in one of his famons Tournaments is to kiss the fairest Woman in Great Britain. Now these Tournaments, which during the time of Peace [Page 88]were little Images of War, never had other object but the Love of Ladies; and as they past into Europe with the Moors, so among the Moors 'twas Love invented them: I will end this after I have let you know, that Ferdinand and Isabel could not conquer the Kingdom of Granada till the King Chico had banish'd the Aben­cerages, that is to say, Love; the Knights of this Race being the greatest Courtiers, and the most amorous of all the Africans. Yea, Fame had rais'd them to such a high esteem for gallantry, that 'twas said, never any Abencerage had serv'd Lady of Granada without being favour'd by her, and that never Lady was thought worthy of the Name, if she had not an Abencerage to be her Servant. Thus much is said by the Moor Abin­derass in the Diana of Montmajor; where the History of this Lover seems to me so lively handled, that if it were separate from the body of the Romance, what Greece hath best in this kind would have no other ad­vantage over this small Adventure, than that of An­tiquity. And now having seen Love cover'd in the arms of Mars, valiant and victorious; let us place him in a condition a little more tranquill, in calms and peace. Zeno the Stoick teacheth us, that in this estate he hath care of things which concern the welfare of the Common-wealth, and that he is the god of Liber­ty, Friendship and Concord: And we read in Athe­neus, that he was much honoured in the Alliances of Nations. After this, if we consider the good manners of a City, the Athenians, the most polish'd men in the World, will shew us in the Academy dedicated to Minerva, the Statue of Love with that of this god­dess. If we seek Opinions more regular than the Common one and will not be satisfied but with those of Philosophers, Atheneus will inform us, that in the place where they did their Exercises was rais'd the Statues of Mercury, Hercules and Cupid; to shew that [Page 89]Eloquence and Strength are unprofitable, unless Love guides them. If we have a mind to pass a little amidst honest divertisments, Euripides will tell us, that 'tis Love which hath bestow'd Verse and Musick upon us. And an Italian will confirm you in this opinion,

But not to do all by Authority, but after these con­vincing Testimonies to give some place to Reason, I ask of you if it be not true, that Man being an animal born to live in Society, amidst this great diversity of humors which we behold the most accommodating are the best? You will grant me this without doubt; but this Com­placency is nothing else but a design to please, and that we have not this design without some object, I do not suspect you will deny me. In the mean time, usually Young people do not take up this design to please, but in order to render themselves agreeable to Women, that they may return them their Love; for, that nei­ther Ambition nor Avarice can carry them to this, I believe you will also confess. Then at the same time grant me, that by this Love is bred in mens minds the quality which is most necessary to Civil life, which is, to know perfectly, and without trouble to accommo­date ones self to the Manners and Sentiments of others. And without doubt, this sweetness of Spirit is so much an effect of Love, that the Thebans did not ordain that Love should be practis'd publickly amongst them, but with design to adulce and bend their Manners, which were too gross and rude. But Love not only renders us capable of acting civilly, and of being esteem'd, it not only gives us good qualities, but corrects our bad; and Plutarch compares it divinely to the Dictator, whose power suspended the functions of all the Ma­gistrates [Page 90]of the Roman Common-wealth, whereby he would signifie, that all our other Passions do not appear when this possesses us. The Polyphemus of the Poets, not only forgot his barbarism and cruelty when he fell in Love, but, as one of the Ancient says, he went so far as to turn gallant, and comforted himself in his love with singing. Pluto himself, this inexorable God

gave up Euridice to the love of Orpheus; Circes left her Wichcrasts for Ʋlysses, with whom she treated sin­cerely and faithfully. Did not Love make an able man of an Ideot in Baccace, who represents his Cimon in his nature so much a Block, that to increase the number of them he voluntarily left the City to dwell in Woods; And because likeness breeds love, he resolv'd to seek no Friendship but that of Animals; and as a good Politian he imitated them so well, that he forgot hu­mane Speech, retaining only a confused and indistinct sound, which signified nothing but the bestiality of Cimon. One day, whether by chance or destiny, he found a beauteous young Lady sleeping under the Trees; he thought he saw the Sun lying in the shade; she wrought in him a Miracle contrary to that of Medusa's Head, and of a Stone he became a man. He began to use that Reason which at first he did not know, and to himself discours'd excellently well of Beauty: it seem'd that Cupid by the wound in his heart let in vertue into his Soul; he beheld that face as an excellent book, and in an instant became a Master in Loves School; the brightness of those eyes though shut, did shoot light into his eclipsed understanding, and in a short time he prov'd an excellent Philosopher, and a gallant Courtier. Does not this bring us to the Italian Proverb?

If these Allegorical instructions are not enough, Hi­story will teach us, that the Courtizan Lais became staid and constant when she fell in love with Hippolo­chus. We say further, that Love can make Prodigies in Arts and Sciences; and we may call to mind, that at Antwerp they admire to this day the famous Picture of Quintin, whom this god in one year, of a Smith which he was before, made the best Painter of his Age. If the noblest Sentiments are inspir'd by Love; if 'tis he that corrects our defects; if whatever is handsom in Civil life and in Military actions proceeds from this noble Passion, ought we not with Euripides, pray the gods to preserve us from having to do with those who are not initiated into these Holy Mysteries, who this Poet calls fierce and rustick Spirits; and have we not good reason to advise Young people not to shun Love, but to use it well? and this I think is enough to esta­blish what the Italian lays down as an assured Maxim,

He had scarce ended these words, when, &c.

THE Conspiracy of Walstein was certainly one of the most famous Enterprizes of the last Age; and therefore such as are pleas'd with the recital of great Actions, and who would profit themselves of the Vices or Vertues of Famous men, will like the History. 'Tis this perhaps hath engag'd many Learned men to give us divers relations, which I should esteem perfect, if they were not interessed. But certainly the Animosities of contrary sides in which most Authors are found, slides insensibly into their Writings, and Invectives or Flatte­ries fill up the room of Truth. Some have accus'd the Emperour of Cruelty; many prais'd his Prudence and Justice. These have render'd Walstein a Monster; those, a Hero: whilst love to the Court of Vienna, hatred to the House of Austria; a design to please or to offend, hath depriv'd them of the freedom of speaking.

I, not being preoccupied with any of these Conside­rations, and finding my self at equal distance from hope and fear, esteem it no offence against modesty, if, after so many Famous men, I also write a Relation of this Conspiracy. But we must first speak of the manners and power of this Man.

Albert Walstein was of a great and bold Spirit, but unquiet and enemy of Repose; tall and strong of Body; his Face rather majestick than pleasant; he was natu­rally very Temperate, sleeping little, alwaies in action; supporting easily Cold and Hunger; flying Pleasures, and surmounting the incommodities of the Gout and Age, by temperance and exercise; speaking little, thinking much; writing all his Affairs himself; vali­ant and judicious in War; dextrous in raising and su­staining Armies; severe in punishing, prodigal in re­compensing, but with choice and design; always firm against evil Fortune; civil in occasion, otherwise proud and fierce; immeasurably ambitious; envious of others Fame, jealous of his own; implacable in his hatred, cruel in his revenge; apt to kindle; a friend of Magni­ficence, Ostentation, and Novelty; extravagant in ap­pearance, but doing nothing without design; never wanting the Publick good for pretext, though he made all serve to the growth of his Fortune; despising Reli­gion, which he kept in service of his Policy. Extreamly artificial, chiefly in appearing disinteress'd, curious and clear-sighted in the designs of others, most advised in the conduct of his own; above all, dextrous in hiding them; and was by so much the more impenetrable, as he affected in publick candour and liberty, blaming in others that dissimulation whereof he serv'd himself on all occasions. This Man, having studied carefully the Maxims and Conduct of such, who from a private con­dition had arriv'd at Sovereignty, was always fill'd with thoughts and elevated hopes, despising such as con­tented [Page 95]themselves with a Mediocrity. In what estate so­ever Fortune placed him, he dreamt always of mending it: and at last being come to that point of Greatness, that there was nothing but Crowns above him, he had the courage to think of usurping that of Behemia. And though he knew the design full of peril and perfidious­ness, he despis'd the danger which he had always sur­mounted, and thought all actions honest which tended to Empire. 'Tis true, that Ambition, conjuncture of Affairs, and the accidents of his Fortune, representing the Enterprize just and facile, push'd him upon the exe­cution.

But it is necessary, before we begin the Recital, to re­flect upon his Life to the time of his Revolt, that we may be the better inform'd, what it was that intic'd him to this Conspiracy, and the means that he u­sed.

They who have said Fortune rais'd Walstein from the Plough, and that his Birth was obscure, err'd through Malice or Ignorance: for his Father was a Baron of Bohemia; that is, one of the greatest Lords of that Kingdom, in which there are neither Dukes nor Mar­quesses. The Barons being so jealous of their Dignity, that if a stranger Duke would be naturaliz'd Bohemian, they would oblige him to quit his Title, and to content himself with theirs. Besides, they measuring the greatness of Families by their Antiquity, some Authors have reckon'd that of Walstein among the chief, though not the richest. His Father brought him up in the Protestant Religion, and would have had him apply himself to Letters; but his turbulent Spirit not being proper for the repose of the Muses, his Masters drove him from their Schools, where, instead of studying, he made leagues and parties, and took off his Compani­ons from their obedience and discipline. Such force hath Nature in that age, when it can neither be hid [Page 96]by dissimulation, nor corrected by prudence. By this his Parents saw themselves constrain'd to send him to Court sooner than they intended; so they present him Page to the Marquess of Burgh, Son to the Arch-Duke Ferdinand of Inspurch. Whilst he remained there, fal­ling from a high Window without hurting himself, he turn'd Catholick: and fancying, that after this happy scape he was reserv'd for something extraordinary, he quits his Master with intent to Travel; thereby to ren­der himself worthy of that, which his destiny seem'd to promise him. He sees Germany, England and France, accommodating himself to the manners and habits of those Countries; noting their Scituations, Laws and Forces, taking from each what he liked best, and at last sits down at Padua, having curiously visited the rest of Italy. Here it was that he repented his neglect of Learning (absolutely necessary to a Great man) and render'd himself capable of Arts, if not knowing in them. Particularly he falls upon the study of Politicks and Astrology, which suited his genius and his designs: pleasing himself infinitely with those Maxims which are distasted in publick by those who practice them in private; fancying for himself immoderate Grandeurs, lodg'd in the Stars, which he did not forbear to hope for, though his Reason seem'd to set them at an infinite distance. But partly awaking from this dream, his mind stuff'd with vast pretentions, perceiving that with his small Forces 'twas not possible for him to compass his designs, resolves to accommodate his means to his ends by seeking in Marriage a rich and noble Lady; and gain'd, by his excellent address, so much on her affections, that she preferr'd him to several Great persons, who were ingaged before him. And after she was married, continued so desperately amorous and jealous, that she had almost kill'd him by mixing with his drink one of those Philters, which instead of win­ning [Page 97]the mind wounds it; making strange havock in the body that suffers its violences. A Poyson by so much the more inevitable, as it stands for a mark of affection with those that give it. He was scarce recovered when his Wife dies without Children, leaving him her Heir and Master of a great Estate. Soon after, the War of the Arch-Duke Ferdinand with the Venetians breaking out in Friol, he imbrac'd the occasion he had so often wish'd, and thought so necessary for him: believing, that to able men, the way of Arms was the most cer­tain and shortest to arrive at Greatness; whereas Peace might enrich many, but rais'd few: so levying at his own charge three hundred Horse well appointed, he offer'd his own and their Service to the Duke at the Siege of Gradisk: where, by his liberality to his Offi­cers, and readiness to succour his Souldiers in their necessities; by his conduct in War; often fortunate, alwaies remarkable, doing actions extraordinary; prais­ing other mens, silent in his own; acting with vigi­lance and care; keeping his Troops in abundance, when the whole Army wanted; he put himself in the repu­tation of one, that amongst many good qualities had some extraordinary, and gain'd, together with the friendship of Ferdinand, the charge of Colonel over the Moravia Forces.

The Troubles of Bohemia following, and the No­bility of that Kingdom conspiring against the Empe­rour, Walstein continued faithful, though the Rebels solicited him by offers of chief employment, and by the hopes and recompences of the War. But he pretend­ing no less from the Emperour, and as yet preferring things certain and honest to things doubtful and tumul­tuary, after having endeavour'd in vain to repress the Sedition of Prague, when he saw that he could not keep his Moldavian Troops in their obedience, and that his Countreymen had confiscated his Estate, he got as much [Page 98]of the Publick Treasure as he could, and retir'd to Vi­enna, where all was squeez'd from him except twelve Thousand Crowns, which he had conveyed away, and with which he rais'd a Thousand light Horse. But here I must not omit one passage, which shew'd the parti­cular care that Fortune took of this man; which is, that at the first of these Troubles, and before the Rebels had begun the War, the chief of the party enter'd in Arms, and without leave into the privy Chamber of the Emperour; where they made their propositions with such insolence, that one of them, his hand on his Sword, durst say, 'twas that should satisfie their de­mands, if denied. In this fear and surprize of Ferdi­nand Walstein arriv'd by chance with a new rais'd Troop, which he meant to shew the Emperour, which oblig'd these bold Rebels, who thought themselves be­tray'd and lost, to throw down their Arms and to cast themselves at the Princes foot, whose favour Walstein possess'd from this time to that of his revolt. Whilst what he did in this War, particularly his defeating six Thousand Hungarians with fifteen Troops of Horse, purchas'd him an extream Fame and an extream Envy, (for never any could separate these two) the Prince of Leistaine constituted Judge of the Bohemian Rebels and Governour of the Kingdom, accused him at Vienna. But he, that well knew the nature of the Court, where Absence is criminal, if it be not defended, and where Safety is alwaies found, if we will buy it, hastned thi­ther with sixty Thousand Crowns, and not only pur­chas'd an esteem for his Innocence, but minding to ac­quire some of the Great ones, that might protect and sustain his Fortunes; besides that Artifice and Interest gain'd him divers, he marries the Daughter of Charles of Arach, chief Counsellor and Favourite to Ferdinand and by the credit of his Father in Law, and the succours of Money, which he lent the Emperour in his pressing [Page 99]necessities, he obtain'd, besides his light Horse, two Regi­ments of Foot, and the charge of Serjeant Major General.

The victories of this party and the weakness of the Revolted having in appearance ended the War, Walstein, who perceived how things went, and knew that the Rebellion was rather dissembled than extinct, and that the Leagues made all over Europe against the House of Austria might surprize it unprovided; undertook a thing as memorable as extraordinary, and whereof the execution might seem impossible for any Private man, who had not that credit with the Souldier which his good conduct had gain'd him. He offer'd the Emperour to raise an Army of thirty Thousand men at his own charge, on condition he might be General: and so wrought by his Industry, his Friends, and by ingaging his whole Estate, that he in a short time accomplish'd it, and succeeding to the charge of the Marquess of Mont­negro, who was depos'd for having unfortunately serv'd the Emperour in Transylvania, he ow'd his Dignity to nothing but his Ambition and his Vertue. In this high employment he added much to his Reputation. He took the Town and Diocess of Alberstad. Conquer'd Hall and its Bishoprick; wasted the Territories of Magdeburgh; enter'd into those of Anhalt; fortified Dessau; defy'd Mansfield, and with him four Thousand Flemings, the chief Force of the Danish Army. After that, having taken Debst, and perceiving that Mansfield and Weimar with their Forces bent towards Hungary by way of Silesia, to give life to the Rebellion and joyn with Bethlem Gabor, he pursu'd Bethlem and Mansfield, and finding them at the Siege of Novegrade, vanquish'd them; cut in pieces the Janizaries that were come to the succour of Transylvania, and drove Mansfield out of Germany, who had been its Terrour for so many years. Return­ing into Silesia, where he found Weimar dead, he ob­lig'd half his Troops to surrender themselves, and [Page 100]overcame the rest, took in all the revolted Towns, and after he had pacified the hereditary Provinces, led his victorious Army, strengthen'd by that of Tilly, against the King of Denmark. With these great Forces he defies the Marquis of Ʋrlach, conquers the Archbisho­prick of Breme and Holsace, fill'd his Troops out of the new Levies that Charles of Lauemburgh had rais'd for the Enemy; render'd himself Master of all that lies between the Ocean and the Baltick Sea; leaving the King of Denmark nothing but Glucstad, and that little corner of Land which is separated from the rest of his Dominions. And though the King had tempted his Fortunes, he was still worsted; Walstein driving him out of Pomerania, into which Province he had made a descent and progress; forcing him to remount his Ships, where yet perhaps he had not found his safety, if Walstein had had Sea Forces: insomuch as from that time to the Peace of Lubeck, the Dane never enter­priz'd any thing, contenting himself to succour those of the Sound, who only were able to stop the torrent of the Imperial Arms, which so many Nations had in vain opposed.

In this flourishing estate of the Empire, Walstein wil­ling that his Master should profit himself of his victo­ries, and build the greatness of his House upon the weakness of his Enemies, leaves Tilly in Frise, under pretext that something of the Rebellion remain'd, and that there he should take up his Winter quarters: but in effect it was, that the Emperour might not have any longer the Duke of Bavaria for Companion, and that himself might remain, without Competitor, sole Dire­ctor of all things. After this, knowing well that the poverty of the Common people and the depression of the Great ones, were the ways that lead to the servitude of Nations, free and little affected to the Emperour; instead of disbanding this multitude of Souldiers, who, [Page 101]having conquer'd all, seem'd now useless, he rais'd seve­ral new Troops, and augmented the number of his Officers, to increase by their charge the poverty of those who were to defray it. His own Example taught his Commanders sumptuousness and profusion; and, to furnish that, Rapine and Violence. All Germany was overflown with these Troops: they could no longer distinguish Friend and Allies, from Enemies and Neu­ters. The Insolence of the Souldier being unpunish'd was boundless; as was the Oppression of the people and their hatred against Walstein, who they believed the Author of these Evils. Besides, from the Impe­rial Court was issued a severe Edict, declaring all those Traytors that were found to have any way participated in the Counsels of the Rebels: by which they had the means to secure themselves of the Great ones, and got money to satisfie the Souldiers and Courtiers. It being not only easie, but honest in appearance, to ca­lumniate those they meant to ruine. And that the King of Sweden, who so many miserable wretches look'd upon as the last refuge of their Liberty, should not when he would, or foment a Rebellion, which with­out him could have no force, or oppose himself to that absolute dominion of Austria, which Walstein labour'd to establish; after having condemn'd the Duke of Me­kelburgh for holding Intelligence with the Enemy; and being by the gift of Ferdinand, Master of his Estate and Titles; Walstein secures himself of all the Ports in the Baltick Sea, except the Sound, to which he laies violent Siege, and put all his care to the equipping of a Fleet, that might render him Master of these Seas, as he was of Germany. And now, in spight of hatred or envy, he might quietly have enjoy'd the glory of his great and faithful Services, if his Pride, that was always above his Fortune, had not transported him. But being born away with a blind presumption of him­self, [Page 102]and an insupportable despising of others; made Prince of the Empire and Duke of Meckleburgh; styl'd Highness; eating alone; stamping Money; and in his Equipage, Expences, and solicited Audiences affecting to resemble Kings, he corrupted the solidity of his Vertue, and gave the World aversions for his injurious and irre­gular Vanities.

The Peace with the Danes being concluded at Lu­beck, the Emperour, extraordinarily press'd by the Clergy, on whom he depended in all things, precipi­tates himself after their passions, and resolves to give the last blow to the liberty of Germany before it was weak enough to receive it. He publishes an Edict, commanding the restitution of all the Ecclesiastical goods, which the Protestants had usurp'd from the first Troubles of Lutheranism; believing, there could not happen to him any sinister accident: Not from abroad, whilst the King of Sweden and Bohemia were in War; he of Denmark weary of his Losses, and the Transylva­nians divided into Factions; the French busied among themselves and in Italy. And at home he had Walstein; ever terrible to the Factious, and Armies ready to stifle any Sedition before its growth. But the Protestants, de­spoil'd of Lands which they had inherited; and ap­prehensive, that in sequence of that, their liberty of Conscience might be taken from them too: finding themselves in despair on these considerations of Reli­gion and Interest; and the Princes of that party per­ceiving well, that 'twas they were aim'd at; amongst others, the Elector of Saxony seeing the command of Magdeburgh taken from his Son, which the Town had bestowed upon him; the Pope having nominated for their Archbishop Leopold the Son of Ferdinand; en­deavour'd to find remedies for these utmost extremi­ties, and, by the help of the French, to oblige Gustavus Adolphus King of Sweden, alarm'd by what was done [Page 103]on the Baltick-Sea and ambition of Honour, to come to their assistance under other pretences. On the other side, the Catholick Princes, to whom the Greatness of the House of Austria render'd it terrible; and general­ly all people opprest with that Poverty to which they were reduc'd y Contributions and Winter quarters (the invention of Walstein, and not any thing of pub­lick calamity) demanded of the Emperour a General Assembly for the good and quiet of his Empire. Chiefly the Duke of Bavaria solicited this Diet; toge­ther with the Elector of Majence, who he had put in­to his opinion. The Bavarois mortally hated Walstein: whether it was, that he thought him an enemy to the Peace of Germany; or whether he had ambition to pre­tend himself to the Electorate, which 'twas said the Emperour had promis'd him, and Walstein oppos'd. He saw also that his General Tilly was remov'd, and found that absolute power lessen'd, which he had me­rited by his fidelity in the greatest peril of the Empire, and by his Services in sustaining the declining Fortunes of Ferdinand: and, that which touch'd him nearest was, that the fruit of all his Labours remain'd in the hands of Walstein; apprehending, that this prodigious Power, to the establishing whereof he had contri­buted with the hazard of his life and Fortunes, might be the ruine of both, if his Enemy, who never par­don'd any, continu'd any longer the Arbiter. These Considerations having cast him into fear and anger, which ordinarily increase proportionably as their Sub­jects are just; he was the man that most earnestly so­licited the Assembly, and the deposing of Walstein. Push'd on also by Monsieur de Lem the French Embas­sadour, and the Capuchin Joseph, a man of Intrigues. It was he also, that to obtain this Diet, and to hinder the Emperour from discovering, they meant to dimi­nish that Authority which he had usurped, gave him [Page 104]hopes, that his Son should be elected King of the Ro­mans; an insensible introduction to succession in the Empire. His Arts took place in a mind that wish'd nothing more; for we believe easily what we desire earnestly. The Emperour with his Son came to Ratis­bone the end of June 1630, where all the Electors were met, except those of Saxony and Brandenburgh; who excus'd themselves by their Deputies, as not able to defray the charges of the Journey, the great expence of Walsteins Garrisons having impoverish'd them: and 'twas true, that fourteen compleat Regiments had Winter'd in the Territories of Brandenburgh only. The present necessity, and the fear of the future, augmented the boldness of the Electors. And, besides their depen­dance on the King of Sweden, who had begun the War in Germany, they were imbolden'd by the absence of Forty thousand men, who, contrary to the advice of Walstein, were employed in the War of Mantoua, or lost in that of Polonia. They were further encourag'd by the French Embassadour: for upon complaint made in the Diet by the Duke of Lorain, that a powerful French Army was upon the Frontier, the Embassadour assur'd the Electors, they were there only to sustain their Propositions in case they should be refused. They first treated the Peace with the King of France; it being of the Protestants interest not to be ingaged with him, that he might the more freely assist them. Next, they re­solv'd upon an Assembly at Frankfort the year following, touching the Edict of the restitution, several difficul­ties impeding the determination now: the Protestants expecting, that before that time the King of Sweden should render it null; and the Catholicks believing, that their right would be fortified by the possession which they had. But when they came to speak of the affairs of the War, all these parties with one common Voice demanded the deposing of Walstein, and it seemed as [Page 105]if they had assembled for nothing else. The hatred born him was general; and the weakness of the Emperour, astonish'd by this unthought of blow, was enough to draw a consent to lay him aside, and so to strip himself of his Power and his Fortunes, and to abandon a man whose ruines had never been so much their study, if he had been less faithful to him, or had render'd him less powerful. The Spaniards, who often were the Ar­biters of his Councils, desiring one less proud, and more obedient in his place, seeing that the King of Sweden was descended into Pomerania, were content with Tilly, who the Duke of Bavaria, willing to re­assume his Authority, offer'd them to oppose him. The Emperour saw himself constrain'd to disband his Troops of the upper Germany, and to consent to a reformation of the rest, which lost him the greatest part: the Souldier accustom'd to pillage, could not or render that which they had taken, or resolve to take no more. Nor did the Disorders stop here: the Ge­nerals Anheim and Hoftchen sought entertainment else­where, and a great number of Officers left his Service. So that from that absolute estate, which made Germany tremble under Walstein, the Emperour by his weakness, the artifice of the Protestants, and the passions of his own, was reduc'd in an instant to dread the Swedish Forces, which Walstein would have slighted, if in his Authority he had retain'd the chief strength of the Empire. His Ministers perceived as well as he, but too late, that they were deceived; seeing, that after he had forsaken all the interests of the Empire, on the hopes of making his Son King of the Romans, the Electours wav'd his nomination by proroguing it; which in such matters, holds the place of a civil Re­fusal.

In the mean time Walstein having heard of his be­ing depos'd, though the suddeness of the blow sur­prized him, seem'd rather to regret the Misfortune of Ferdinand, than his own: Without speaking of him­self, he only said, that the Emperour was betray'd, and his Council corrupted. That same Vertue which had gain'd him the Generals Staff, serv'd him to resign it in appearance without disorder or grief. His displea­sure for all that was very great, but very secret, and on­ly known of his Confidents. Divers Colonels repair'd to him: some he kept with him; assign'd others upon his Lands (whither he sent them) to live honourably; being in this careful of his Friendship and Reputation. Resolving to keep such men as he guess'd by this vo­luntary proof could never abandon him, whatever the dangers were which he might be cast into by his am­bition and resentments. For certainly, under this pro­found simulation of a moderate Spirit, which he affe­cted in his Misfortunes, he hid an extream desire of Revenge, and cast projects to put himself into such a condition, that they should not again take away his employment, if the necessity of affairs would that they recall'd him to it; whereof John Baptista Seni his Astrologer shews him approaching hopes, and whereof he assur'd himself by the Judgment he made upon the disorder of the Empire: confirming thus by his own solid reasoning, the conjectures of an uncer­tain Art. And thus he fills his mind with high and bold designs, even then, when he seems to think of no­thing but a private life.

And now it may be seasonable to say somewhat of his Customes, and of his Domestick life; that you may see better how all his actions tended to raise him above other men, and with more certainty judge of what we write; to which these Remarks seem not altogether impertinent: but truly I fear, that in reading them [Page 107]there will want belief for the History, and that the Truths I shall deliver, will pass for the descriptions of a Romance. This notwithstanding shall not forbid me to speak of them, without exaggeration, without envy. To begin with his Houses: That he liv'd in seem'd rather the Palace of a Monarch, than the dwel­ling of a particular man: for he shar'd in this weakness with other men, who leave piles of Stone for the Monuments of their Greatness; not dreaming of those importunate accidents of Nature or Fortune, which may destroy them in a moment; and at the best, what­ever care is taken to preserve them, they ruine of themselves. His House at Prague received those that came by six great Gates; and in a mighty space of ground, cast its foundation over the ruines of an hun­dred Houses, that were pull'd down to make way for it. The apartments were beautiful, magnificent and com­modious; the ornaments and movables represented Luxury and Abundance, and his Lodgings shew'd them in Excess. I would willingly describe the retail: the Gardens, beautified with a great number of Statues; the Fountains, Grots, Fish-ponds, Volaries; rare for their extent, planted with Trees, fill'd with Birds of all sorts; if the History would suffer unprofitable, though pleasing digressions. The Model of this Pa­lace was different from all others: whether it was, that he believed his fashion of Building the best; or whe­ther by this particular affection, he would also in these things stand at distance from vulgar Customes. Near his House at Gidzin he built a Wall about a fair Park, where he kept above three hundred choice Horses. For his Stables, of choice Architecture; Marble Man­gers and Fountains to fall into them: I forbear to make any particular remark on them, for almost all the Ger­man Princes are curious in these. If Death had not constrain'd him to leave his Castle of Segan unfinish'd, [Page 108]possibly he had surpass'd in that Edifice all those of the Ancient Romans, as he equall'd them by inlarging the Town of Gidzin, building a Charter-house, founding a Colledge of Jesuites, and a Church of the Protestants. Admirable in this particular, that all this was done in those few years that he was Master of his Fortune; whereas often, the lives of two Kings do not suffice to finish a Palace. For his Expence, 'twas an unheard of profusion. A hundred Dishes always serv'd up to his Table: and the neatness added much to the good Chear. Fifty Halbardeers were the constant guard of his Anti-Chamber; Men chosen by their Faces, and known by their Actions. Without were Centinels, and every where Lacquies. Twelve men march'd continually about his Palace to hinder Noise, which he could not suffer: in this, delicate even to weakness. He entertain'd sixty Pages, Sons of the best Houses; who learnt their Exercises under famous Masters, which he kept on pur­pose. His Liveries were gorgeous and rich. He had an infinite number of Gentlemen attending him: four of his Chamber inform'd him of those would speak with him, and brought them to audience. Six Barons and six Knights were always near him to receive his Commands. The Steward of his House was a Lord of great Note. When he took the field, he had for his Baggage and for his Table fifty Wagons drawn with six Horses, and fifty drawn with four, and six Coaches for Gentlemen of Condition, that follow'd his Court. He always carried with him fifty Leer Horse, beautiful to wonder, and cover'd with the most precious Harness, and these led by fifty men, each mounted on a Horse of price. Such as love frugal and modest Vertue will blame this Pomp, whilst such as adore outward Vanity will like it, and all will judge it easie for Walstein, living more splendidly than Kings, to aim at their rank and dignity. I have not mention'd the Palace of his [Page 109]Wife; the Pensions he gave, or the Recompences: nor of the vast sums he spent throughout Europe to be in­form'd of all; I have said enough, methinks, for my design and for my leasure: Besides, that things of this nature please in passing, but tire us when we dwell upon them. Let us then betake our selves to the Histo­ry.

After Walstein had given up his Command, those who in his stead they opposed to the King of Sweden, having little experience in Military Affairs; some want­ing Courage, others Foresight; all, good Fortune; their Party was weakned by several losses. The E­lectors of Saxony and Brandenburgh left it openly, joyn­ing with Gustavus; and 'twas only Tilly, that sustain'd for a time the burthen of the War. He, who possest the Vertues of a good Captain, Fortune, Prudence, Valour, Care; and, what is rare, Piety, endeavour'd to arrest the Victories of the Enemy, and to maintain the Reputation of his own. But whether it were, that he alone was not sufficient for the conduct of the Em­perours Armies, and those of the Catholick Princes, Leagu'd for the defence of Germany; or whether he was destitute of the absolute Authority of Walstein; so that not daring to undertake any thing, without consulting the Council of Vienna, or the Confederates, the time to deliberate lost him that of Action: or finally, whether it were that Fortune, which favours things in their growth, pleases her self in forsaking them in their maturities, he was vanquish'd at Lipsic; and the loss of this Battel made the Empire decline to­wards its ruine. More than half Germany was sub­jected to the Swede; the Duke of Saxony seiz'd on Bohemia; the Lantgrave of Hess cast himself on the side of the Victor; the Elector of Triers sought pro­tection of the French, and the danger seem'd so great to the Duke of Bavaria, that he stagger'd in his fidelity [Page 110]to the Common Cause, and the House of Austria. 'Twas believed also, that the King of Sweden might have ended the War by the Conquest of the Heredi­tary Provinces, if he had turn'd his Force thither after this Battel: but truly, without reflecting on what might be said to the contrary, humane Counsel seems to be subjected to a Superiour cause, that excuses its de­fects; and in all actions there is often a fatality, that overbears Prudence or blinds it. In the mean time, Gustavus being busied in the taking in the Mein and Rhein, those of Vienna seeing he did not march that way, having leisure to dismiss their Fears, employ'd themselves with diligence to find ready and apt Reme­dies for these Evils, and after many Consultations, the extremity of their Affairs obliged them to have recourse to Walstein, who only seem'd capable to re-establish them, if he would undertake it. They consider'd his Courage, augmented by Difficulties, far from being terrified by them; industrious and passionate to exe­cute what others held impossible; his active Vigilance never surpriz'd; his Riches, proper to facilitate great designs, and ready to succour the necessities of the Empire; his Credit, his Intelligences, and the desire the Souldier had to serve under him. And as it is the fault of our Nature to hold no mean, neither in Prosperity nor in Affliction, those to whom his Vertue had been intolerable then, when he seem'd useless, prais'd in him in this pressing occasion even things vain and fortuitous. They believed moreover, that he would return to his employment with an extream satisfaction; that what­ever disgust he had in losing it, his Ambition, which was the Master of his other Passions, would stifle his resentment; that this his obstinate cleaving to a Pri­vate life, had less of truth than ostentation. On these and the like Considerations they resolved to shew him some assured hopes of his re-establishment, thereby [Page 111]to draw from him some testimony of his desire thereof: and thought, that by ingaging him to ask that Charge they were willing to give, the Obligation would be less, and the Conditions easier. To this purpose, not­withstandig the opposition of the Spaniards, who would never consent, they dispatch'd Maximilian Wal­stein, Master of the Horse to the King of Hungary, having first instructed him in what they thought ne­cessary: for besides that he was his Nephew, he was one of those he treated with most esteem and confi­dence. He then goes to visit him at Zeman, where he remain'd after the loss of Prague; and after he had entertain'd him with a general discourse of the Affairs of the Empire, that he might be the less able to penetrate the aim of his discourse, he dextrously turns his Speech on the Praises that were bestow'd on him in the present occurrence, and upon the desire all people had to see him again undertake the defence of the Empire; ad­vising him not to reject the occasion, but to go forward towards that Fame that attended him. Walstein per­ceived well the Artifice; wherefore minding, accord­ing to his projects, to hide his design more carefully now he saw it ready to take effect; and to draw all advantages from the necessity of Affairs, he first, touching his Interest, answer'd sparingly and modestly; then extended his discourse unto the sweetness of his condition, and the desire he had to grow Old in quiet; no more to tempt that Fortune which had treated him so shamefully, that though she were minded to give him all again, yet it must be by robbing him of his Repose: and coming at last to deplore the Misfortunes of his Sovereign, as if he had been deeply affected, he mingled with his discourse tender and doubtful words; such as might not wholly take off the hopes of his Ser­vice, but represent it almost impossible.

Now, the Ministers of the Emperour seeing they had advanc'd little by this means, press'd with time and danger, serv'd themselves of the only way which remain'd; to act openly, to intreat, to offer, to yield to any thing that they might bend him. The Baron of Questemburgh and the Count Wardemburgh, his Friends, attempted him several times, but in vain. His obstinacy appear'd so great, that they had despair'd to overcome it, if the Prince of Echamberg had not labour'd in it. And 'twas to him all men expected Walstein should yield, having lived a long time with him in the straitest confidence, and always powerfully serv'd him at Court; imploying all his diligences to prevent his Fall, and in his disgrace never grew cold. They consider'd also the Authority of this man; powerful over the inclinations of the Emperour, whose Dire­ctor and Favourite he was. And certainly his Favour was not ill plac'd; the greatness of his Merit going even with that of his Fortune. He then caused himself to be carried to Zenam, being much vexed with the Gout; and after he had given Walstein the Empe­rours Letters, dictated as the present occurrence would; he lively represented the Honour of saving his Prince and Countrey; the obligation they must have to him; the beauty of such an Enterprize; the Fame, and what else might stir up a mind passionate of Glory. He ad­ded the Intreaties of Ferdinand; that he was Arbiter of all; that he might dispense; that he might act; with assurances he should find an entire Obedience, and great Recompences: engaging for that the Credit of the Emperour and his own, which he knew to be great, and had ever prov'd it certain.

Walstein, though he saw that it was time to close, yet at first deny'd his assistance, though in a fainter manner than ordinary: opposing, as in doubt, the ma­lice of his Enemies, ready to calumniate what he [Page 113]might do; the facility of the Emperour to believe them, and perhaps to cast him off after he had drawn Service from him: And besides, though he might be secur'd in these particulars, he asked, where was the Army whereof they would make him General; and what means to set right a desperate Affair. But at last, seeing himself incessantly press'd, sometimes feigning to acquiess in their perswasions; sometimes, to give way to the importunity of his Friends, he promis'd his Service; but for Four months only: in which time he would be sole and absolute; and that ended, lay down this burthenous Authority; to which Echamberg consented; believing 'twas enough he had engag'd him to the Imployment, in which the occasions them­selves might oblige him to continue, if his Ambition did not; so having consulted of what they thought needful, after this final Resolution they departed. Walstein being left alone, unquiet and raving, began to revolve in his mind the greatness and difficulty of that which he was about to undertake; sometimes measuring it by Fear, which renders every thing hard; sometimes by Ambition, which finds nothing so. The impossibility of usurping a Kingdom from a legitimate Prince; and of ingaging to Rebellion a People, that make Obedience to their Sovereign a point of their Religion; the danger of trusting such a Secret; the ordinary infidelity of Factious minds; the punishment and Infamy; if it did not succed; if it did, the Murthers, Poysons, and distrust of all things terrefied him. On the other side, his resentment of his ill usage; his hatred, appetite of Revenge, and above all, his covetousness of Rule, which could never be extinct in his unruly mind, blindly precipitated him. He saw the half of Germany under the King of Sweden; the rest tottering and ill assur'd; the Princes of Europe Leagu'd with Gustavus, or Ill-willers to the House of Austria; this House in decline: And [Page 114]he judg'd by these Conjunctures, the time ripe for No­velty. He well knew, that extremity of Affairs only having forc'd the Duke of Bavaria and the Spaniards, powerful at Vienna, to consent to his re-establishment, he could expect no other recompence of his pains, if he should settle the Empire, than to return to his Pri­vate condition, and to a shameful and obscure life: wherefore he thought it more just to serve himself of those Forces his Enemies had put into his hands, in venturing to ruine them and to raise himself, than to secure them and to lose himself. He thought he had the opportunity and the means. He consider'd himself consummate in the experience of Military Affairs; dear to the Souldier; ready to command a mercenary Army; hardy, opulent, and industrious; always suc­cour'd of Fortune: whereas he look'd upon the Em­perour as slothful; little addicted to Arms; of a soft Nature; slow, expos'd to deceits, and more proper to dissemble Injuries than to repulse them. In this violent agitation, floating in doubts, sometimes em­bracing the best resolutions, sometimes the most per­nicious; after he had a long time suffer'd these tor­ments, he abandon'd himself at last to the worst Coun­sels, and determin'd to attempt the usurpation of Bohemia; not being able to vanquish the motions of his vext and ulcerated mind, nor resist that cruel passi­on for Greatess, which never left him in repose. But seeing, that the execution of such a design depended on the disposing of several things that must be publick and interpreted, being naturally fram'd to dissimula­tions and feignings, he resolv'd, without admitting any Confident of this his last resolution, to bury it under a profound Silence, and to apply himself intirely to act in such a manner, that all he did should seem to tend to the good of the Empire; to the end that his designs not being suspected at first, they should not be able to [Page 115]ruine the beginnings, that are usually weak: and that when they should come to be discover'd, he might be in a condition to carry them on by force. Being thus confirm'd against the danger, and resign'd intirely to something more powerful than his Reason; whether you will call it Fate or Genius; he began insensibly to drive on his ends, for which he had need of much Time, great Fortune, and many Artifices. And this was the state of things and the design of Walstein, when he was recall'd to his Imployment. After this, to put the Affairs of the Emperour in reputation, who had scarce any left; and to relieve the people in their Fears by raising a belief in them, that this side wanted only a Commander, and not Forces; willing also to build up a great Opinion of himself, he gives out Com­missions to levy sixty Regiments; treats with the King of Poland for twenty thousand Cossacks; negotiates with the Duke of Lorain to engage him in the War; sends into Italy to buy the best Arms, and every where sows Reports advantagious for his Party. And to the end, that the success might not deceive his Attempts, and that with more facility he might assemble his Troops, who were to be the source of his second Greatness, he chose the Territory of Znaim to form the Body of his Army in: inclin'd to it by the commodious scituation on the Confines of Moravia and the Hereditary Pro­vinces; where, notwithstanding the Swedish War, A­bundance and Peace had remain'd, and where the fury of the Enemy and the Domestick mischiefs of Winter quarter had not penetrated. In this place, whilst he wrote civilly to the Colonels, dissembling his natural Fierceness, treating them with marks of Courtesy and Friendship, adding largess and profusion, sparing nei­ther Care nor Coyn, Souldiers flocking to him upon his Credit; he rais'd in two Months an Army, if not answering the Fame in number, yet 'twas more than [Page 116]could have been expected: aided in this by voluntary Contributions of the principal Ministers of Vienna; great for the particulars, but made more considerable by the necessity; supplying out of his own Money for the poorer Officers, and ingaging the Richer by his address to raise Troops with theirs, feeding them with hopes of recovering all out of the riches of Prey and Garrisons.

When he saw all was ready, casting himself again within his wonted Artifices, he wrote to Vienna, that he had satisfied his Promise, and that now he would re­tire; that the Army was ready, but he wish'd Dome­stick Peace; that they should send a General and grant him a retirement. He knew for all this, that what he as'kd was impossible: for having put into imployment the Captains he retain'd in his disgrace; given Regi­ments to his Kinsmen and ancient Confidents, under pretence of sparing the principal Pay, and training up new Souldiers under old Commanders, obliging the Colonels to hazard all they had upon the sole hopes of his Parol; winning the Chief Officers by high Imploy­ments, corrupting the Souldiers by Presents, and all men in general by the expectation of his Fortune; he had so order'd things, that this Army could not subsist without him, and reduc'd the Emperour to an absolute necessity of maintaining him General.

When they knew at Vienna, that he persisted to sig­nifie dislike of the Service, the Ministers of Spain and those of Bavaria, attempted once more to take his Command from him. The first, who govern'd the King of Hungary by means of his Wife, absolute up­on his Spirit, and depending wholly on their Counsels, took this occasion to render that Prince Master of Arms and of Affairs. The Duke of Bavaria fear'd to see the Command in the hands of him whom he had de­spoil'd of it. They urg'd both of them, that the Power [Page 117]confer'd on Walstein caus'd the Revolt, and 'twould confirm the Rebellion, if it were renew'd, and make those contrive to revolt, who hitherto remain'd faith­ful; that the presence of the King of Hungary would lead Princes and People back to their Allegiance, who would be asham'd to bear Arms against the Son of their Sovereign, and who must one day be so: besides, what opinion would Europe entertain of the Successour to the Empire, if he should be depriv'd of this Com­mand? And what greater Argument of the weak­ness of the Empire, than shamefully to betake them­selves to a man, who design'd Misfortunes to it? That this was to condemn of Imprudence the last Councils, and expose themselves afresh and voluntarily to dan­gers; that under pretence of Publick good they ought not to trust Walstein, nor put him in condition to re­venge the Injuries he believed to have receiv'd, espe­cially since a design of Rule might be mixt with his appetite of Revenge, and our Fidelities hardly defend themselves against these two; that this man was proud and immoderate; that he every day scatter'd new marks of his Indignation, and that in his retreat at Prague he had meditated nothing but dangerous and vast designs; dissimulation and revenge.

But these Considerations, though pregnant, gave way to the necessity of imploying him for the conser­vation of the new Army, the chief support of the Im­perial party. Ferdinand himself calling to mind in his present calamity, the formidable estate wherein this General had once plac'd him; as it is ordinary for the unhappy to suffer themselves to be blinded with the weakest hopes, flatter'd himself with thoughts of re­trieving his former Greatness, and secur'd himself of the Fears they endeavour'd to instill. Besides, his Council, jealous of the direction of the Affairs of Ger­many, which the Spaniards went about to usurp; [Page 118]hoping that Walstein joyning with them, might uphold their credit, favour'd his Cause and declar'd, that the House of Austria had need of him; that 'twas ne­cessary to reserve the Emperour for last extremities, and not fit to expose the welfare of his state to the Youth and Courage of his Son, especially in a con­juncture wherein they could not err twice, and where­in full experience of the Military Art was scarce suffi­cient. They added, that the Duke of Bavaria oppo­sed good designs, because 'tis natural to hate those we have wrong'd, and that he preser'd his private Ene­mies to the general good; that he would strip the Em­pire of its best defence, the more easily to betray it. For at this time the Loyalty of this Elector became suspected, and by intercepted Letters they found, that he manag'd a Peace with the Swede.

And thus the care of the War was put upon Wal­stein: but as all his feigned coolness was only to ob­tain Advantages on which he might found his Usurpa­tion, perceiving that they did not act sincerely, and that the hatred of his Enemies gave way only to the despair of their Affairs, ready to break out again, when they could ruine him securely; that the good­will of Ferdinand seem'd constrain'd, and that his words were by so much the less real, as they were ve­hement and common in fear; he confirms himself in his resolution of maintaining his Authority by fraud and by force, believing he could do nothing unjust against his mortal Enemies.

And now, after many Instances, having declar'd, that he was ready to do what they would, provided they furnish'd him with what was necessary; E­chamberg and the Bishop of Vienna, who were re­turn'd with ample power to grant him any thing, urging him to declare what he desir'd, as one that accepted of a weighty Charge, and ask'd only such [Page 119]things as might aid him to overcome the difficulties of it, with much confidence he told them, that several reasons would have forbid him accepting the Com­mand wherein he was ingag'd, if the love of his Countrey and desire to serve his Prince had not con­troul'd them; that he had already imployed his Estate; that he was ready to hazard his life also; that they would have him add his Honour, which he esteem'd above Riches or Life; that he was upon the point to begin a War, in which 'twas rashness to hope a good success; with a Great and War-like King, hitherto Arbiter of Victory and Fortune, against whom he should only oppose new and vanquish'd Souldiers; that he could expect nothing from the weakness of the Em­pire, the division of its Councils, the falseness of its Allies; that he found he was the mark of Hatred and Envy; that in this condition, where every thing was against him, and he had nothing but his Virtue to en­courage him, they expected with impatience the suc­cess of his Imployment; that if good men wish'd him prosperous, because he labour'd for the Publick good, his Enemies long'd for his ruine, which they prefer'd to their cause, prepar'd to accuse him as guilty, if he fail'd to be happy, and to impute to him as Crimes the faults of Fortune. That for these Reasons it be­hov'd him to see, that good men might not be deceiv'd; that Malice might be disappointed, and his Honour preserv'd; and that it was but fit, that those who a­gainst his mind had call'd him to such difficulties, should grant him what they, as well as himself, must judge necessary to his present condition, and without which they would ruine the Affairs of the Empire, and his Reputation.

After this discourse, which in appearance was so much the more innocent, as it seem'd free and dis­interessed, he gave them Articles containing, That [Page 120]they made him General of the Austrian Armies, and Arbiter of Peace, with an intire, absolute and inde­pendent Power; that the King of Hungary should ne­ver come to the Army; that he might by his private Authority, and without communicating with the Coun­cils of Ferdinand or the Chamber of Spire, dispose of Confiscations, Permissions and Graces; and that the Hereditary Countries should be appointed for the Win­ter quarters of his Army.

These Conditions were hard, and Walstein to excuse them alledged, That great Enterprizes were scarce ever successful, but under the Conduct of one man; that often the issue had been unfortunate where many were mingled in Command; that the Romans, when they had chas'd away their Kings, were forc'd in the dangers of their Commonwealth to create Dictatours; that Gustavus acting alone, on weak beginnings found himself Victorious beyond his hopes; that on the con­trary, a multitude of Masters had lost the best Soul­diers of the World, and brought the Empire almost to its subversion; that this Example was enough to let us see, how weak Power becomes when 'tis divided; that the fear of Shame and desire of Glory made us act vigorously, so long as they touch'd none but our selves, but when they were in common, we neglected that reputation and that blame, whereof little would come to our share. He imploy'd the like Reasons for Negotiations of Peace, where number hurts the secret; where different Interests and divers Conducts hood­wink Prudence, retarding or diverting opportunities of Treating. He added, that it would not be advan­tagious the King of Hungary should Command in the Army, nor fit he should Obey; that 'twas not con­venient Souldiers should leave the Service, and go to seek Rewards of their pains at Court, where their Faces were scarce known, and where ordinarily for­ward [Page 121]men and Flatterers disguised Truth, decry'd the best Actions, and usurp'd the place of Merit; that 'twas necessary Rewards and Punishments should be present in Armies, if we would preserve Order and gain Af­fection; that there were no Souldiers, that fight for a steril Fame; that the desire of Gain and Greatness drew them to the War; that their Blood was the price of their Fortune; that the transport of our Passions being the cause of our Crimes, the pleasure of satis­fying them would turn these Crimes into Habits, when not severely chastis'd; that upon hopes of Impunity bad men were hardned, Good men corrupted, and Dis­cipline ruin'd; that he did desire permission to esta­blish his Winter quarters in the Hereditary Provinces, only to serve himself of it in extremity, and to main­tain his Army, if he should be reduc'd to that Re­treat, other parts of Germany being harras'd and possest by the Enemy; that he should endeavour by all ways to Winter elsewhere, but if the fortune of Arms, always doubtful, should draw the War in length, as 'twas probable, or if Fortune should continue lavishly to favour the worst side, they ought resolve to suffer this moderated inconvenience, unless they had a mind to see the Swedish Troops pillage the Provinces, and the Heritage of Caesars become a prey to the Barbarous.

Though all this appear'd necessary and innocent, yet the thoughts of Walstein aim'd further, and tended to grasp a Dictatorship in the Empire, that he might render Ferdinand despicable, despoil'd of his Majesty, and reduc'd to a perfect Idleness; and also to accustome the Souldier to acknowledge him their only Master: every one ordinarily fixing his Servitude to the present fear or profit; and does not wonder to see the Sove­reignty usurp'd by him that acts all, from him that vo­luntarily fitting still, seems to have given it away to the more worthy.

Now, the better to cover his intentions, and to shew that he did not stretch his designs beyond those of a Private man, after his Propositions that regarded the Publick, he made others for himself; earnestly urging, that the reward of what Service he should do, might be assign'd him in Austria, and that his restitution to the Dukedom of Meckleburgh should be compriz'd in any Treaty of Peace that might be made: as if he dreamt of nothing, but to joyn himself to, and depend more than ever upon the House of Austria; limiting his Am­bition and his hopes to the bare recovery of his anci­ent Dignity. Praying further, that if they should call him off from his Service, he might have six Months warning, to prepare himself, as he said, to retire with­out disorder: whether it were to make them believe, that holding his Authority as a thing indifferent and uncertain, he was far from any thoughts of keeping it by force; or whether he desir'd to have this warning given him, that he might be the better able to carry his designs to their ends without precipitation, if he sound himself oblig'd to it.

After they had granted him every thing, the Spani­ards accommodating themselves to Affairs, and, accord­ing to the time, feigning Joy for his re-establishment, sent him their Order of the Fleece, as a publick mark of Ho­nour and good-will. However, that their proceeding might not be suspected of dissimulation or weakness, and that they might not seem totally to abandon their Pretentions to rule in Germany, they propos'd, that after the recovery of Behemia, the King of Hungary should remain at Prague with an Army capable to defend that Kingdom, and to maintain it in Peace and Obedience.

Walstein applauded this Overture (though he per­ceived whither it tended) being certain to hinder the execution, and condescended, fearing lest they should augure ill from his refusing. The Duke of Bavaria for [Page 123]his part, fearing to draw the implacable hatred of his ancient Enemy upon his Countrey, bow'd to the ne­cessity, and chose the least Evil, breaking off his plotted accommodation with the King of Sweden, and submit­ted anew to the Fortune of the Empire.

In the mean time, the Court of Vienna was busied in publick processions, and paid Vows for the success of an Army destin'd to its ruine. But Walstein perswaded, that whilst they acted nothing, they addrest themselves in vain to Heaven, which hates the Prayers of the sloth­ful; and on the contrary, that he could not fail of Suc­cess whilst he acted with vigilance, diligence and pru­dence, busied himself only to hasten the preparatives to his design, and attended his good Fortune.

The mention I have made of the Spaniards at Vien­na, minds me to say something of them in a few words, and only for the clearing of the matter. When Charles the Fifth had shar'd to his Family the Empire and the Kingdom of Spain, his Successours remaining in the Union, believ'd it was their interest to make the same Peace, the same War, to have the same Alliances; what­ever concern'd the Greatness of their House being com­mon to them; and after they had consulted together for the publick benefit they acted apart, and each did his own business. Rodolphus and Matthias did thus. But the Troubles of Germany oblig'd Ferdinand to implore, with more importunity than ordinary, the power of the Spaniard: they valued themselves upon his easiness and the urgency of the occasion, to seize on the office of his Ministers, and would themselves have the government and disposal of those aids of Men or Moneys wherewith they assisted him. As this first Usurpation took effect, they fortified themselves in the Emperours Council by Pensions and Presents, so that at length nothing was done without them. Afterwards their Embassadour had a particular Council to deliberate of that which [Page 124]should be proposed in the general, where most Resoluti­ons waited upon his projects; not without the extream jealousie of those among the German Ministers, who pos­sest the Favour of Ferdinand, and would Govern them­selves, accounting it a shame, that Strangers should meddle in the administrations of the Empire. Thus were the two Factions opposed, and the Empire diversly agitated. Let this suffice.

Walstein having laid so happily the foundation of his Revolt, deliberates to prolong the War, that he might have time to gain the Souldiers, to ruine the Duke of Bavaria by the Swedes, to weaken the Hereditary Pro­vinces by Winter quarters, and at leasure to make his Peace with the Enemies of his Master. Without all this he could do nothing, and to bring it about much time was necessary. He resolv'd however to use all diligence in the Conquering Bohemia, that after such a quick expedition they should not suspect him for the length of the War; and that he might insensibly secure himself of that Kingdom. I thought of nothing less, than to recite the particulars of Walsteins Military ex­ploits; divers who of design have wrote the History of the last German War, have carefully and elegantly recounted them. I shall only say what seems necessary to my Subject.

I Remember that in my first years of Stu­dy, at all Academical Assemblies, or Private Meetings of young Students, great things were said of that Love of Plato, which ravishes the mind from vi­sible beauties to invisible. No sort of Argument was more familiar in all mens mouths; no­thing furnish'd Poets with more propitious matter; nothing suggested to Oratours a more benign Subject. Wherefore, not to seem a Stranger amongst so many Citizens of Plato's Commonwealth, I betook my self with a great deal of fervour to look into the reverenc'd Memorials of that worthy Philosopher; and found, that the Pla [...]nical Doctrine had no legitimate conso­nancy with the discourse of my Friends: so that I en­quir'd of them concerning it; but they could never assign me a right definition of the Love they call'd Pla­sonick, according to the true Principles of their Master. [Page 126]The same hath hapned to me concerning Style. What word amongst the Learned and Unlearned, more dome­stick than this? Who is not bold to judge of it? who does not pronounce definitive Sentences, condemning the greatest Authors who have labour'd for Praise? This hath no Style, his Style is too rough; 'tis a difficult Style, that is consus'd, and the other is harsh. I weep over the unhappy condition of the Learned, who per­haps dare not suffer their Pens to take a flight through the unknown fields of Posterity, seeing the Heaven of the present Age thus darkned with clouds of Igno­rance and Envy, which thunder upon Historians, light­en in the face of Oratours, and blast the Bays upon the venerable Heads of Poets. I made it my task there­fore to search among the Writings of the Greeks and Latins, and try if I could establish in my mind with any clearness what Style is, in what it is placed, of what parts it is compos'd, or rather from the conjunction of what pieces it results.

If the Science which God at first infus'd were trans­mitted to the Sons of Adam, as well as the Sin which he contracted is propagated, Mankind would have no need of any other Instrument for the full knowledge of things, than the Names by which they were call'd. For though the Divine light participated to Adam, serv'd to many and noble effects, yet in this it singu­larly shin'd forth, that letting him perfectly know the Essence of Created things, he could impose a Name upon every one of them, which efficaciously exprest their Nature; so that every Name might be call'd, the Definition of the thing named. But because in that woful Patrimony, inherited by his unhappy Posterity, the plague of Ignorance is not the least; we bewail the loss of Infallible Science together with Original Righ­teousness; and wandring through the uncertain and deceitful paths of a cloudy Philosophy, we puzzle [Page 127]our selves amongst shadows of Names, to arrive the best we may at the brightness of Truth and Essences. Wherefore, according to the best Examples, let us ar­rest our consideration upon the Name.

Stylus, according to its Natural sense, was nothing else but an Instrument, sharp at one end and broad at the other, which was us'd to write Characters in Waxen Table-books, or to cancel what was written. From the material Instrument with which they wrote, the signification was afterwards transfer'd to the act of Writing, that is, to the use and exercise of the In­strument. It was likewise appropriated to Compo­sing, and in this sense 'tis most frequently us'd. And because the office of a judicious Author is double, to Write and to Correct, this last is recommended by Quintilian, who prescribes the use of that part of the Style which is less acute, and which serv'd to cancel the Characters. The sharp end of the Style had also its Allegorical signification: for when they would note a Book for being Bitter and Satyrical, they spoke of his Style, not as of an Instrument of Writing, but as of Arms which pierced and wounded.

None of these Considerations can lead us to that knowledge of Style we seek; but there is one place in Terence which goes a little further: for he uses the word Style so, as it is not restrain'd to signifie a bare Composition, but comprehends besides a certain par­ticular quality or, manner of Composing. 'Tis once us'd by Cieero in the same sense, and afterwards fre­quently by Authors of less Fame. But though many took Style for a quality of, or manner us'd in Com­posing, yet none have declared what it is, or pre­scrib'd Rules for it. So that we must proceed in our Inquiry.

The use of Speech was given to man for the Instru­ment of Reason: and if we were what we ought to be, the simplicity of natural Speaking were enough to perswade to Goodness, and when the Understanding had Truth any way represented to it, without any in­ticements of flattering Eloquence, it would run to imbrace it; and the Will, freely bound by the naked, but efficacious proposal of what is good, would feel it self ravish'd to a liking of it, without expecting the Artificial engines of an Elegant discourse. But because 'tis long since that the vigour of our Innocency was enervated, Art strives to come in with its aids to the relief of oppressed Nature; and hath in its Schools compos'd two sorts of Remedies. The one violent, call'd the moving of the Affection, which does not work but by a notable alteration of the Patient: The other pleasant, call'd Elocution, in whose company Perswasion does sweetly instil it self into the mind. Both of them manag'd by the Masters of the Art, not as laudable in themselves, but as necessary to the Infir­mities of the Auditors. The last only serves to our proposed end.

Elocution is generally divided into two parts, Puri­ty and Ornament. Perhaps he would say the same, that bids us take care ut verba sint Latina, aperta, or­nata. Latina, that they do not break the Laws of received Grammar, nor recede from the sense given them by the most Fam'd Authors, nor be rude and uncultivate. Aperta, by propriety and use, shunning improper ones, and such as are not commonly us'd by good Authors. Ornata, with figures, call'd Tropes and Schemes by the Greeks. But if Elocution consists only in the choice of Words, and in the ornament given them by Figures, we cannot rightly call it Style, not will the body of a Discourse be enobled by it only, as it ought. It seems to me, that Words (whether in [Page 129]their own nature elegant, or rais'd to a forein sense by using them figuratively) are like Stones which are pre­par'd for a stately Building. For, whether they are precious themselves (as Marble spotted or sincere) or curiously wrought by a Chissil, if they have not in the structure of the Edifice the symmetry which they ought to have, if they do not keep a due distance, or want equality of measure, they cannot compose a beautiful Palace or a sumptuous Temple. To reduce Elocution then to a perfect Form, 'tis necessary that something be added to the Words and Figures, by virtue of which their worth may appear the better in the composition; which is done by a judicious placing of them; wherein an eye must be had to the Subject which is handled by us. For, as noble and elevate Conceits occur in vain to the mind, if they do not meet with an excellent Elocution, which can fortunate­ly display them: so a treasure of excellent Words and ingenious Figures little avail, if they are not both call'd out to their proper places by a discreet Collocation. Thus Elocution being confin'd within too narrow bounds by those, who restrain it to the propriety and ornament of Words; further inquiring into what the Masters of the best tast have said concerning it, we find that they recommend Elegance, Composition, and Dignity. Under the first name of Elegance is under­stood the Latinism of the Romans, Helenism of the Greeks, and Tuscanism of the Italians, and so propor­tionately according to the Language; by which they mean certainly in the Grammar Rules of that Age; clearness, by the use of received Words, and proper to the matter they handle. The second word, Composition, expresses the good placing of Words and Periods a­mongst themselves. The third, Dignity, signifies the ornament which the Writing recives from Figures, which consist either in Words or regard the Sentence.

To draw now the most general virtues of Elocution into a Compendium: Let it be first Pure; that it does not trip in the path of Grammar. And that it not only be at distance from Vice or Errour, but as much as may be, approach that Vertue which may render the Composition without exception chast and correct. Let it be clear and perspicuous: and this perspicuity is chiefly deriv'd from the propriety of it. We must acknowledge for an undoubted Truth, that those who Writers, refu­sing the way trodden by good Authors, practise un­us'd Forms, do so intreague Elocution, that the poor Reader finds his path intangled, nor can free his feet from those Enigma's which retard him. An Errour common to the Writers of our times, who think then they are Witty, Si ad eos intelligendos opus sit ingenio. But because facility in a discourse for the most part borders upon meanness, we must look that it be clear and easie, but that discretion prescribe a measure, that it does not become low and groveling. To this we must add Ornament, which proceeds from an oppor­tune managing of the Figures, whether they are of Words or Sentences. It must not be effeminate or las­civious; but as Quintilian saith, Virilis, fortis & San­ctus. Also that sort of Ornament must be chosen, that fits the nature of the discourse. For one kind becomes the Historian, another the Poet, another the Oratour: or rather none of these must be always uniform, but vary habit as the matter requires. In Elocution also regard must be had to the Sound and Numbers. For, though Number principally appertains to Verse, yet for all that, Prose hath its proportionate Numbers diffe­rent from the Poetical, whereof the Ear that hath contracted a good habit is the best Judge. And in this particular it were to be wish'd, that some Modern Au­thors bore more respect to the Ears of understanding men: for we see a form of Discourse introduc'd, abrupt [Page 131]and loud, which like Water broke off in the midst of its course by Stones, wonderfully offends the hearing. In the last place, let it be well plac'd or dispos'd. Hence springs the dependance and joynting of Members and Periods. Whence those who work their pieces ala Musaico may perceive, that forming a Discourse made up of bits, not chain'd together, but broken and no way correspondent, make a Garment of divers Snips ill stitch'd together, but do not weave a regular and uniform piece. Every three words a Period. E­very Period a Sentence, which does not agree with what went before, nor calls for that which fol­lows.

Whatever I have said of Elocution, I cannot re­solve that the Style we are in search of, consists in it. 'Tis true we have laid a Foundation, but all the parts of an entire building are not in the Foundation. We must pass on therefore: For if to the constituting Style the three kinds or Characters of Writing are necessary, then Elocution alone is not enough. Elocution, though in its perfection, if it be without the Characters, forms, or Idea's of Speech, remains idle and indetermin'd. For if a discourse were to be examin'd by the fore­going Rules of Elocution, many things would remain unexamin'd, because they do not belong to the Elo­cution, but to the Character or Idea.

The Characters of Speech are three; the Sublime, the Humble, and the Temperate. Homer is said to have excellently observ'd this distinction in three prin­cipal persons of his Poem. To Menelaus he attributes a mode of Reasoning altogether sincere and restrain'd, without superfluity; which is the vertue of the Hum­ble Character; whilst words, they said, flow'd out of Nestors mouth more sweet than Honey, and regards the Temperate. But to express the Sublime, in the per­son of Ʋlysses he composes such an ample and stately [Page 132]Eloquence, as is compared to a Torrent inrich'd and grown proud by melted Snow.

There is no Subject which may not laudably be ma­nag'd with diversity of Character. That Almighty God, who hath the Seat of his Glory upon the back of Cherubins; and sometimes carried upon the Wings of the Wind, sometimes in a Triumphal Chariot to which Seraphims serve for Wheels, and passes over the immense Fields of the Heavens; what matter does not this furnish to the Sublimity of discourse we find in Ezekiel and Isaiah? But the same God, whilst he ga­thers the Souls of the Faithful, as a Hen gathers her Chickens, and under the Wings of his gracious Prote­ction keeps and defends them, humbles himself under the simplicity of Conceit and Character, with which, for all that, his infinite Majesty is not diminish'd or offended. Who more magnificently reasons of Di­vine things than the Areopagite? But, who more de­voutly discourses of the same things than St. Bernard? Nazianzen lightens and thunders; as if having put off humanity, he strove to equal the height of his Subject with a Celestial facundity. Anselmus sighs and weeps, and accompanies the sense of his Soul with Humility of thoughts and words.

Let us add, that certain Authors are endow'd with a Wit and Genius of that nature, that whatever Matter they handle they do it with uniformity of Character; because they are not capable of any variety. Men who write on all Subjects with a Character so generous and high, that they cannot stoop even in the most ten­der and delicate affections. Let us take the Example from Painting and Sculpture. We see in the Pieces of some that are universally famous, a certain particular Manner that distinguishes them from others. One is so excellent in formiug the tenderness of the Flesh, that he unwillingly encounters a Figure that is robust [Page 133]and nervous; or if he is to draw an Athlet, in that vastness of vigorous Members there will appear the delicateness of the Idea, which guided the hand that form'd it: Others, on the contrary, profess a way and Manner more resolute and virile; and these know not how to paint a Youth, which shall not resemble Hippo­lytus in Fierceness: they cannot paint a Lady but like an Amazon; and for all this, their Works are most perfect. Of the first sort amongst the Ancients was Polictetus, who form'd humane Statues beautiful to wonder, but never could arrive to bestow on the Ima­ges of the Gods that Majesty, or, as Quintilian calls it, that weight which is convenient to a Divinity. So it happens to Writers also, according to the difference of Genius, or perhaps of Habit which they contract in composing. Some, though the Argument be low and vulgar, yet for all that, discourse as magnificently of it as they can: so on the contrary, the same variety is osten caused by Circumstances which accompany the Writing. Of a glorious and heroick Exploit in War, may be form'd a Letter, which by way of Advice re­counts it; a Dialogue which examines it; a History that transmits it to Posterity; an Oration that exalts it, and a Poem that sings it; and who does not see with what diversity of Character this sole Argument may be commendably handled?

WHen Spain was divided, not only amongst many Kings, but amongst many Nati­ons; and that the Gothes, Moors, and Spaniards held each a part of it; Aragon was under the power of one King, who amidst the Wars wherewith his Neigh­bours were busied, had always maintain'd his Subjects in Peace; and who had nothing remarkable, but his being Father to him whose History we write. His Wife, when she had given him a Son, left him a Wi­dower, much about the time that the Countess of Bar­cellona, a young and vertuous Princess, lost her Hus­band. [Page 142]band. Though he was now old, his Council and Sub­jects found, that for the safety of his Person and Estate, it were to be wish'd he could leave more than one Heir; and pray'd him to that purpose, to choose a Wife to his mind in his own Countrey, or amongst his Neighbours. The Beauty and Vertue of the Countess were known beyond Aragon. And besides that reason of State requir'd, that an occasion of joyning to his Kingdom a Town so important as Barcellona should not be lost, the inclination of the King did entirely carry him to it. Rosalva (for so she was call'd) was fair enough, and Judicious as she was fair: and finding her self a Sovereign Princess, nothing less than a Scepter could tempt her to a second Marriage. But having only one Daughter, and the King of Aragon but one Son, she believed that it was not only to make her self a Queen, but to leave an hereditary Kingdom to her Daughter: and that being amidst many Neighbours, who design'd upon her State, she could not be blam'd for securing it by putting a Crown upon her head. She easily agreed then to lose the name of Countess of Bar­cellona to be Queen of Aragon; and was received with all the Joy and Magnificence possible. Being young, fair, and witty, in a short time she absolutely govern'd the King, and soon after the whole Kingdom. The most important Affairs were not determin'd without her advice: And the King had quitted all sorts of care for that of pleasing her. But in this great Power, her main design was to marry her Daughter with the Prince: and the knowledge she had of her Son in Law daily augmented in her the desire of this union. Alci­dalis ('twas the name of the Prince) was born so hap­pily, and with so many advantages of Nature, that one of his least qualities was to be Son to a King. He had a Beauty which gain'd the hearts of all that look'd upon it, a Wit which in the first years of his age found [Page 143]no equal, and a height of Soul and Courage which gave respect and fear to all the World. The Child­hood of Alexander was not greater nor more marvel­lous than his. There past no day wherein he did not say or do something which astonish'd all the Court. Those who had the art to judge of mens Fortunes by the lines of their Faces, spy'd promises of many great and incredible events in his. And those who consi­der'd his Actions and his great Qualities, said the Crown of Aragon was too small for a head like his. They foresaw that the Moors, who were the Neighbours of his Father, should one day be forc'd to put the Sea be­tween him and them; and that no more time was necessary to give up Spain to one mans power, than was needful to give this young Prince strength to draw his Sword. All these qualities daily augmented the Queens affection towards him, who knew him better than any. She wish'd with impatience an occasion to effectuate the Marriage which she had projected: and did not esteem it so great an advantage for her Daugh­ter to be Queen of Aragon, as to be Wife to Alcidalis. But whatever we say of Fortune, it must be confess'd there's no prudence like hers. She establishes her designs so far off, and guides them by such secret paths, that 'tis impossible for our foresight to hinder them; and in despite of our conduct she arrives at the end of what she enteprizes. She had resolv'd to combat the Pru­dence of Rosalva: and see, she brings from beyond the Seas an infant Maid, who, an Orphan and a Stranger, shall overthrow the designs of a most powerful and prudent Queen. The Prince of Tenarus, of one of the most Illustrious Families in the Kingdom of Calabria, and which had formerly given Kings to Naples and Sicily, had a great and important Succession in Aragon, which he resolv'd to go in person and possess himself of, be­cause it was disputed him. But extreamly loving his [Page 144]Wife, and both of them having a great passion for an only Daughter about the age of six years, they could not resolve to part, but pass'd with all their Family to Aragon. They were receiv'd of the King and Queen with all the goodness and civility due to Strangers, and to Strangers of their quality and merit. But soon af­ter their arrival the Prince fell sick, and in few days died; leaving his Wife in a despair, wherein 'twas not likely she could live long. She receiv'd from the Queen, whose affection she had gain'd, all the conso­lation and assistance she could wish, in her affliction, and in her Affairs. Rosalva had always found the Princess to her mind; but after her misfortune, pity did in such a manner increase the affection she bore her, that she began to love her as her self. She lodg'd her in the Palace, and had so much care of keeping her near her person, that it seem'd she lost somewhat when ever she parted from her; and that she was not at all her self where Camilla was not: 'Twas so they call'd this affli­cted Princess. In the mean time, these extraordinary kindnesses of the Queen, which perhaps were capable of curing any other malady but hers, wrought no other effect in her, than to sweeten it a little, and to cause her bear her grief with less impatience and de­spair. And to say the truth, the death of the Prince her Husband in such an ill conjuncture was so rude a shock, and so hard to support, that all the goodness and consolation of the Queen could not hinder her being arrested, for want of nourishment and sleep, by a sick­ness which she presently judg'd would be the last of all her Evils. This extreamly griev'd the Queen, who passionately wish'd her health. She conjur'd the most expert Physicians to practise the greatest secrets of their Art; but though at her solicitations they employ'd all their skill, and spar'd no diligence, the sickness of the Princess prevail'd upon all their Remedies: Which [Page 145]she well knew, and resolv'd to follow the Prince her Husband with all the tranquillity which could be per­mitted by the only trouble she had in death, of lea­ving her Daughter in her need, and leaving her an Orphan in an age so little capable of Reason; and in a strange Countrey, where she could not hope assistance, but from the goodness of the Queen. During these different thoughts which agitated her in the height of sickness, the Queen, who visited her as often as possible, having demanded how she did, Camilla sweetly turn­ing her eyes upon her took her hand, which she kiss'd often without speaking: then on a sudden addressing her voice she told her, That she had infinite obligations to the best Queen in the World for the interest she took in her health. That seeing she did her the honour to enquire into the truth of her condition, she would please to suffer her to say, she felt her self drawing near her end. But that the most mortal thought she had in her present condition, was not that of her death; and that loving her daughter more than her life, she had more regret to leave her than to leave the World. She pray'd her then to permit she might ma­nage those few hours that remain'd, and that she might employ them in pouring into her bosom the last and most tender Sentiments of her Soul. Which were, That she should bless Heaven with all her heart, for bringing her into a condition to follow the Prince her Spouse to his Grave, if before her death she would daign to receive from her hand the Present she was about to make of all, which in the World remain'd most dear and precious to her. That in all her miseries she could not believe Fortune was absolutely her Ene­my, seeing she had given her the honour to be known to her; that, excepting the misfortune of her Hus­band, she esteem'd the Voyage of Aragon a happy one, though she easily judg'd, 'twould cost her life as well [Page 146]as his. However, she thought she had the good for­tune of being belov'd by her at an easie rate; which she so esteem'd, that if the World had any thing she lost with impatience, 'twas her Friendship. But that she comforted her self with hopes, that her Daughter should succeed in the honour of her Favours. That she would have the goodness to be her Mother, and would do her the favour to have a care of her, as of a person she be queath'd in dying. That she pray'd her with all her heart to accept the Gift she made: and that lea­ving her with this new quality of Daughter to the Queen, she believ'd she left her richer in it, than in the two Estates to which she remain'd Heir. That she should die content, and believe her death would be in some sort happy for Zelide, if it procur'd her the honour to be brought up by the wisest Queen in the World. The Queen imbracing her said, that she re­ceiv'd with much joy the Present she made her, on condition she would not revoke it: That from that moment she would believe she had two Daughters; and that there should be no difference between them but this, that Zelide should be always the eldest: but, that she would take heart; and that she hoped she might live long yet, to be her self a Witness of the effects of her Promise. This extreamly comforted the mind of Camilla, but did not diminish her disease. She liv'd two days longer, at the end whereof she went out of the World with as much satisfaction, as men go out of Prison; and left all the Court in sadness, and the Queen in an affliction which cannot be represent­ed. Thus Zelide in less than three Months saw her Father and Mother interr'd in the Tomb of those per­sons to whom they came to succeed. See her now at the Age of six years, three hundred Leagues from the place of her Birth, in a strange Countrey, and, which is more to be fear'd by her, in the power of a person [Page 147]by whom the Stars threatned her with all the Misfor­tunes of her life. But Fortune is the best Mother in the World: and no ill can happen to the Children which she will adopt. She took this Orphan into her tute­lage; and, by so unhappy beginnings, undertook to put two Crowns upon her head. Zelide was the most perfect piece that the Heavens ever made. As her life was to be full of Miracles, her person was so also: and this History which is every where likely, is incredible only in what it recounts of her. Since the Sun made his course round this Globe, it had never seen a Beau­ty more accomplish'd than hers: and in the fairest body in the World, she had a mind which cannot be ima­gin'd by ours: it seem'd to be of those which are not to govern other Bodies than those above, and which have been made to conduct the Stars. In an age where­in others scarce know how to pronounce words, she said things which would have been admir'd in the mouths of Sages. There was never known a Birth so happy as hers. All the Stars had conspir'd to be­stow upon her what was best in them: and the Hea­ven had imparted so many of its excellencies, that the least part of her was what she held of the Earth; so that she seem'd a Celestial person dropt down here be­low by miracle. Her inclinations carried her so power­fully to good, that it seem'd she had not free-will to do amiss: and all the Vertues were so natural to her, that she must have done violence to her self not to exercise some one of them. There never was any combat in her Soul. She never was in doubt between good and evil: and she always follow'd what was right and handsom in following all her will. Besides so many perfections which were known, these hidden qualities and secret graces, which make us love a person with­out knowing why, were in her to such a degree, that she was always the inclination of all the World. There [Page 148]was I know not what charm in all her Actions, which shed love and delight in the hearts of all that beheld them: and the tone of her voice had something which inchanted Souls. She had infinite other amiable qua­lities, which cannot be exprest: and the least part of her perfections were those which could be.

With these Arms Zelide must conquer the Kingdom of Aragon: and there needed no other, seeing that for this purpose she was only to gain the heart of Alcidalis, which all the force in the World could not vanquish.

She was received into the Palace with such a general joy and affection, that an augury might have been drawn from thence, that she enter'd as Mistress, and that she should one day Command there. The Queen, who thought she could never have been comforted for the death of the Mother, could not be sad as often as she saw her: and the King scarce found a difference between the affection he bore her, and that which he had for his Son. Alcidalis and Zelide were in the age wherein we are wont to paint Cupids: and both of them with all the charms and all the graces, which the most excellent Painters know how to give them. They had a Beauty so equal, though extreamly different, and men saw Qualities shine in them so extraordinary, that there was no body but thought they were born one for the other. Each of them had been in the World [Page 149]without an equal, if they had not appear'd at the same time in it. So that, to say the truth, though they gain'd the affection of all that saw them, they had never been lov'd worthily, if they had not been lov'd by one another; and there were no other Souls but theirs, which were capable of so great a passion as each of them merited. Love, who resolv'd to give signal proofs of his power in two such rare persons, establish'd it betimes; so that they felt it a long time before they could know it; and would not let them pass this first season of their Age in quiet, which Nature seems to have freed from Passions. Zelide did not fail at first view to work the same effects in the heart of Alcidalis, which were ordinarily wrought by her in other men: and he also at the same time did cause in the breast of Zelide an emotion, which she had never felt for any. The Queen, pursuing the design she had projected, had al­ways brought up the Prince with those Artifices which might induce him to love her Daughter: from the time that he could speak, they were wont to call her his Mistress: they carried him every day to visit her: and all those which were about him lost no occasion to praise her Beauty, or her Wit. But the inclinations of Alcidalis were not of accord with the Queens will. And he who had sweetness and complacency for all the World, seem'd to want it only for the young Countess, and never appear'd so constrain'd as when he was with her. Whether it was that this glorious mind took it ill, that they should destine him to any thing without informing themselves of his will; or that the Stars, which had caus'd him to be born for Zelide, gave him a secret aversion for all those who would usurp her place. So that when she was enter'd the Palace, and that the Queen had given her for Companion to her Daughter. His mind seem'd to be chang'd all at once. He never left the apartment of the Countess, nor en­joy'd [Page 150]good hours, but those he past in Zelids company. Love, to be welcom'd into the Soul, makes its entrance accompanied with joy and beauty: and does no evil or violence till he thinks he is Master of the place, and that he hath render'd himself so powerful, that he need not fear to be chaced thence. At first these two young Lovers felt nothing in themselves extraordina­ry, but an extream pleasure to see each other. At their interviews they were touch'd with a certain joy and content, which they were not us'd to feel: and there was no body, but thought they imbellish'd each other as often as they met. Zelide, who till then had past a dull Childhood, began to be more awake than formerly. And Alcidalis was so gay and pleasant when he saw her, that it seem'd he reserv'd a peculiar humour and a grace to appear in before her. In this Innocent state they were some Months peaceably enjoying this pleasure; which was doubtless the most happy con­dition they knew for a long time after. But their minds from day to day taking new forces, their passion did so too. And Love began to be so powerful, that at last he made himself be felt, and render'd himself knowable. Alcidalis began to be more melancholy than formerly, and when he did not see Zelide, he paid for the content of having seen her by an extraordinary sadness. There were no sports nor pastime for him, but those he took with her; nor other pleasure, but that of seeing her, and if any thing could touch him in her ab­sence, 'twas to be speaking of her. He, who in his Infancy propos'd to subject all the World, dreamt of nothing now but the conquest of Zelide: and if any thought of his first ambition returns, 'tis only with design to render him­self more worthy of her; and to lay at her feet as many Crowns as she deserv'd. As oft as he left her, he seem'd to have fallen from Heaven to Earth; and loosing her company, he could suffer nothing but soli­tude. [Page 151]And then he past exactly in his mind all her words and all her actions: and considering them by all their biasses, he drew conjectures favourable or dis­advantagious. Then calling to mind all that he had said or done, he still repented him of something. Sometimes he blam'd himself for being too fearful; another time for being too bold; and still remain'd as ill satisfied with himself, as he was well satisfied with her. He began by little and little to leave all those pleasures which pleas'd him before. Hunting did not content him, if she was not present: and if he had any care of his Exercises, 'twas only that he might appear more acceptable to her. In fine, he consider'd Zelide as if she had been alone in the World, and all his thoughts and designs began with her and ended with her. Love, on the other side, was well enter'd in the heart of Zelide; but had not made so great a progress, nor extended his power so far: whether ac­quainted with her fierceness, he durst not make him­self known to her; or whether she being younger by two years, was less capable of this passion. However, she felt some change in her self as oft as she saw the young Prince. She had more care of her Beauty and Dress than ordinary. She lov'd less the Countess, be­cause she was destin'd for him: and the Duties which by force he render'd her, though 'twas with more coldness than formerly, did not fail to concern her. In the mean time, as she had a Soul great, strong and lively, and by consequence capable of a passion which had all these qualities; the Merit of Alcidalis, and the Stars which inclin'd her, wrought with time an impression there which nothing could ever efface, and form'd in it an affection as fair and perfect as her self.

Love, between persons of High condition, is like a Fire upon a Tower, which cannot be hid, and which is seen afar off. The affection of Alcidalis and Zelide [Page 152]was quickly known to all the World: and many had taken notice that they were amorous one of another, before they perceiv'd it themselves. At first, when their Childhood render'd their Actions less considera­ble, 'twas thought there was no other Love between them, but that of sports and pastimes, which they took together: But when with time Zelide became more serious, and that Alcidalis made appear in all his actions a Judgment which might serve to govern his Fathers Kingdom, there was no body in the Court but thought their two Souls were united by a veritable passion, and that 'twould be hard to separate them. The Queen, who was very able, and to whom no­thing was so considerable as the young Prince, began betimes to suspect the Graces of Zelide, and was one of the first who took notice of this affection. But trusting much to her Wit and Au­thority, she thought she could not be troubled with them, or find relistance in two young persons over whom she had a power; she, who had bow'd the greatest and ablest men in the Kingdom. In the mean time, the Beauty of Zelide increased daily: and where­as hitherto it had been as it were in its dawn, she now advanc'd with so much light and splendour, that it seem'd she declar'd openly against the Queen; as if in despite of her, she would gain all the hearts in her Kingdom. On the other side, the young Prince, feeling his Birth and his Power, became weary of living under the Laws of Governours, and under the conduct of a Woman. His Breast, naturally great and Royal, was also swell'd up and inlarg'd with the passion which fill'd it, and could no longer acknowledge any other Empire than Zelides. He began openly to let appear the affection he had for her, and granted no Favours but by her recommendation. He wore only her Co­lours in Turnaments; and in Dances all his devices [Page 153]spake of her; and he could not endure it should be imagin'd any, but she had a part in his Soul. There was no body which did not in his heart favour this affection. Every body made secret Vows for them. Their passion was that of all the World; and their desires were follow'd with the desires of all others. The Queen now began to fear, and to perceive she had too long defer'd to oppose so great a fire; that it would cost her care to extinguish it; and that she should be forc'd to serve her self of violent remedies. But she would first try all others. She essay'd by all ways to regain the mind of Alcidalis, which she saw was estrang'd from her. There was no artifice she did not use to diminish the Beauty of Zelide, and to augment her Daughters. She instructed her in every thing she was to say or do. She appear'd always with a great deal of Pomp; always drest, and hid in Jewels. But Zelide neglected, as she was, shin'd more. Her eyes and colour took away the glittering from Dia­monds, and whiteness from Pearls: and the Riches which Heaven had given her effac'd all those of the Earth. The Queen therefore, observing how much her presence was contrary to her designs, and that with one look she overthrew all her Counsels; resolv'd at last to separate them, and to carry Zelide farther off: hoping that Absence might blot out those impressions which Love had stamp'd in their minds, as yet young and tender; and that those she had plac'd about Alci­dalis to gain him, might find him more capable of being perswaded, when he should no longer see the object of this growing passion. She feign'd then, that for the health of her Daughter she would go and pass two or three Months at a House she had in Catalogua. And having communicated it to the King, she com­manded every thing should be made ready for her de­parture, and said, she would not be accompanied by [Page 154]any but her Women. The astonishment of our Lovers, when they heard this news, is not a thing that can be represented. Hitherto they had not felt any of the bitter­nesses of Love, and had only had his Sweets and Roses. They had quietly enjoy'd each others presence: and except some apprehensions for the future, which could not be strong in minds so young and full of confidence, their Joy had been without trouble and without a cloud. Alcidalis was most sensibly touch'd with this displeasure; or at least he could worst dissemble it. There was not any thing which he did not attempt to break this design: and all things, even the most ex­tream, past through his imagination. But seeing that this Evil was without remedy; and that at last the time approach'd that Zelide must be carried from him: he resolv'd at least, not to let it pass without openly declaring his affection, and letting her know of what quality it was. To this time he had liv'd with her without saying any thing of his Passion: and all his actions spake to her daily, though his words witness'd nothing of it. Whether it was, that shame, which is ordinary to this Age, had hinder'd him; or that being intirely fill'd and satisfy'd with the pleasure of seeing her, he did not think of any thing else. In fine, the last Evening before her departure he went to the Queens Lodgings; where, after some time, he finds the way to meet Zelide apart. This was the first time that Alcidalis had felt what Fear was. Twice or thrice he try'd to say what he had resolv'd upon: and having open'd his mouth he said something else, not ha­ving resolution enough for that. Whereas at other times, at the sight of Zelide he was all fire, he felt himself now all Ice. But at last, after some indifferent discourse, with a palpitation of heart, and a voice low and trembling he told her; I doubt not, Zelide, but you know I love you: but I am sure you do not [Page 155]know how much. And because this absence of some days ought to be to me for so many years; and that I cannot tell whether I shall live so long: I will let you know my affection, to the end, that if you find me not at your return, you may know at least how much you ought to pity me. If you consider your self, Zelide, and consider me too; you will easily con­clude, that you cannot breed ordinary affections; and you will believe of me, that I cannot receive mean ones; and if there is any thing extraordinary in my person, you must conclude 'tis chiefly this affection I bear you. By the knowledge you have of your self and of me, you may imagine how sincere it is, how faithful and how respectful; but how great it is you cannot know. That is a thing beyond all imagination: and I who feel it cannot express it, and oftentimes I cannot comprehend it. From the moment I saw you, the passion I have for you was at a point to which after much time the greatest are wont to arrive: and from that time there hath not past one moment in which it hath not receiv'd growth and augmentation. Whilst I was a Child, I was not able to tell it you; and since, I durst not. Even at this time I tremble in saying, I adore you: and if you do not re-assure me by a favourable regard, I shall not have force to finish what remains for me to say. Here she, who had hitherto kept her eyes upon the ground, sweetly cast a glance upon him. It seem'd to Alcidalis, that he had seen the Heavens open'd in the eyes of Zelide, and taking courage he continued thus; It is true, Zelide, that I know the passion I have for you, is the great­est and most perfect that ever was. But how do I know that it is permitted to Men to have a passion for you? I will tell you freely, Humility is a Vertue that you only have made me understand. I ever believed, that all the Earth was too little for me. But I now [Page 156]believe, that I my self am too little for you: and as much as I esteem all things below my self, I hold my self below your merits. I know well, that my Fortune is the last thing which you consider in my per­son: and I am not To unhappy, but you may find in me some qualities, which you will esteem more than that which my Birth has given me. But if there be any thing worthy of you, 'tis this Soul which I pre­sent to you; and which I can say is great enough, and noble enough to be receiv'd by yours. I would not praise it thus boldly, if it were still mine: and I speak advantagiously of it, as of all things that belong to you. Since it hath had any knowledge, it hath had but two designs: the first, and which entertain'd its Infancy, was the conquest of the World; and since it hath been more bold and more reasonable, it hath de­sir'd Zelide. If this adorable Zelide does not oppose me, 'twill be easie to bring about the other: and the Crown of Aragon, which I promise her now, and which all our Enemies cannot hinder me from giving her, shall be but a small part of that which I will one day lay at her feet. Alcidalis was silent, expecting Zelides answer; who, in the trouble wherein she was, had scarce strength enough to pronounce these few words. Sir, I am so astonish'd to hear you speak so seriously in a matter of this nature, and to see how every body considers our discourse, that I know not what to say at present, and pray you permit me to defer the Answer till our return. In the mean time you may believe, I shall be glad they do not give me much time for it. During this discourse, there was no body who did not fasten their eyes upon Alcidalis and Zelide, and who did not take notice, that he spake to her with more earnestness than usual. The Queen, who above all others had minded it, and to whom this converse gave much disquiet, rose up, and approaching [Page 157]them said pleasantly to Alcidalis. Sir, you speak to Zelide with so much action, and such a serious coun­tenance, that it seems you have some quarrel with her. If it be so, complain to me. For I will be on your side; and before she parts, she shall do you right. Alcidalis having born the first brunt, and taken the boldness to speak of his affection to Zelide, was con­fident enough; and being desirous to continue the con­versation, was in despair seeing it interrupted: and, scarce looking upon the Queen, answer'd fiercely; Madam, I hold Zelide for so just a person, that if she had done me wrong, I would have no other Judge but her self. There is no occasion, that any should mingle themselves in our differences: and whatever quarrel we have, I cannot be pleas'd with those that think it their duty to part us. Every body took notice of this Answer; and the Queen, who was most sensible of it, seem'd least to understand it, and presently chang'd the discourse. In the Morning Zelide departed, and left the Prince in a mortal heaviness; but she was in this more unhappy than he; for besides that she felt the like, she had moreover the pain of concealing it, and to be obliged to laugh before the World, when her Soul wept tears of blood.

Amongst all the displeasures which Love draws a­long with it, Absence is one of the most sensible. There are some sharp griefs, as Jealousie, which pierce and wound more: but there is none so weighty and so hard to support, and which overwhelms all sort of vigour as this. The first thing which Alcidalis did was to retire alone to his Chamber: there he cast himself upon his Bed, and melting into Tears aad Sighs, suffer'd the same regrets as if Zelide had been dead, and not absent. Why do you complain, Alcidalis? you have all your life peaceably enjoy'd the fight of Zelide, and do you not know how to endure a few days absence? Love is [Page 158]wont to lend all his Joys at gross usury. He makes his Subjects pay for all at last. And it is not his ordinary course to leave those that owe him any thing so long at repose. You are one of those he hath treated most favourably. Reserve then these Tears to another oc­casion, wherein they shall be better employ'd. The time will shortly come when you shall have more reason to lament: and the day approaches that Zelide and you shall be more cruelly parted, without hopes of ever meeting again. He pass'd all that day without seeing any body, and the following without speaking, except when he went to see the King, and could not avoid to answer him. At last, having past eight days in all the sadness and impatience imaginable: he thought he was at the end of his life, and that it was a thousand years since he had seen Zelide. So that one Evening being a­lone in his Chamber to entertain his thoughts; with­out taking Counsel of any, but his desires and inquie­tudes, he resolv'd to go where Zelide was. And see­ing that in this absence he foresaw an infallible death, he concluded there could not worse happen to him from his attempting to see her.

After that the Heber, which is one of the most cele­brated Rivers of Spain, hath pass'd along the Walls of Saragosa: as if there were nothing more worthy of him in Aragon, he takes the way of Catalogna; where having receiv'd in his passage many small Rivolets to enter more magnificently into the Sea, at last he ren­ders himself to it half a League from Tortosa. All the ground which he waters is extreamly fertile, and co­ver'd with Trees; and by so much the more pleasant as the rest of the Countrey consists in dry and naked Plains, or in Mountains black and scorch'd with a fer­vent Sun. Fifteen Leagues from its mouth, it passes by a Valley of two Leagues in length, and two in breadth; and which is incompass'd on one side and on [Page 159]the other with Mountains. In this place the River glides very peaceably by the incounter of certain Rocks, which four Leagues further oppose its course, and makes many doublings in the Plain, as doubtful of the way it ought to take through those Mountains. Its Banks are extreamly shady and flowry. And its Wa­ters so clear and neat, that there is not a Tree near it, nor scarce a Flower which is not seen twice; and which does not appear in the Water as fair and distinct, as upon the ground. The ordinary Plants of this Coun­trey are Oaks, Olives, and Pines: and besides that it is not cold, there are none of these Trees that fear it. The Mountains of Catalogna defend the Valley from the North-wind, so that at all times 'tis cover'd with green; and the Winter, which they always see on the Neighbour Mountains, is not felt there. 'Twas in this Paradise that Zelide made her Hell, and where the House to which the Queen had carried her stood. One would have said, that the River, Flowers, and Plants were imbellish'd by her presence. She only was sad amidst so many objects of Pleasure, and lost daily that lustre and beauty, which she seem'd to impart to all things. The absence of Alcidalis afflicted her ex­treamly. But above all, the designs of the Queen cast her into perplexities: and her imagination so well represented to her all those Evils which were to befal her; that often the fear of what was to come, took from her the feeling of the present. She saw that her Goods, her Fortune, and her self were in the power of the Queen; and, that which she dreaded most, that Alcidalis was so too: he that was more dear to her than her self, than her Goods, or than her Fortunes. She consider'd that the Princes Affection was not ordinary, that his Courage was extraordinary; but that his power was as yet but weak. That he would never be suffer'd to despise the City of Barcelona, which For­tune [Page 160]offer'd him so happily with the Queens Daughter; to take an Orphan and a Stranger who had no Riches, Friends, or support, but beyond the Seas. That he alone could not resist the King and Kingdom. That the Queen absolutely govern'd both. That whilst they were Children, all men lik'd their affection, but that no body would approve of their Marriage. And, that some already look'd upon it as the Enemy of the State, and the Torch which should one day fire the Royal House. These thoughts, and others like them, fill'd her mind with a thousand Troubles. And as far as she carried her sight into suturities, she saw no day for her Hopes: and without knowing, in this Labyrinth, what end her Adventures might take, she easily judg'd it could not be a happy one. One day amongst the rest, accompanying the Queen, who walk'd in a Wood ex­treamly shaded, whose Alleys led to the Meadow, which serv'd as a border to the River, she sound op­portunity to leave the Company, follow'd only by one of her Maids. And it was not a small consolation to her, that she sound her self at liberty to be sad, and to appear so. Representing to her self the Fortunes of her life; running over the past Misfortunes, the pre­sent, and those which threatned her; her thoughts had entertain'd her so well, that not thinking of the way she had made, she found her self upon the Banks of Heber, and in a place so pleasant as might have di­verted any other Grief, but hers. The Sun, which in this Countrey lies down in the Ocean, and appears fairer than in any place of the World; was now ready to hide it self in those clouds of Gold and Azure, wherewith 'tis invelop'd when it goes to visit the Nymphs of the Sea. But having seen nothing from its rising so fair as Zelide; it seemed, that to behold her longer, he made no haste to descend into the Floods: and cast so much Gold upon all the Leaves of the [Page 161]Trees, and Waves of the River, that he seem'd to re­kindle his Rays to continue a day in favour of this Princess; invironing her in such a manner, and ac­cording so well with the rest of her Beauties, that it was doubtful whether those Rays were the Suns or Zelides. The charms of this delicious place the sweet­ness of the Air, and the pleasure she took in being a­lone, intic'd her to continue her walk in the Meadow. After some time, taking the Path that led to the Queen, the sound of a Horn, which seemed not to come far off, made her turn her head toward the neighbouring Mountain; where, having arrested her sight, she saw as she thought, two men strugling toge­ther, who roll'd down from the height of a Rock: But afterwards she perceiv'd that what she took for two men, was a man and a Bear which wrestled to­gether; but with that disadvantage, which we may imagine in a combat so unequal. At the same time she saw, near that part of the Mountain from whence they fell, a young Cavalier advantagiously mounted, carrying a Horn hanging in a Ribband, and a Lance in his hand. Who stopping a little, and seeing the dan­ger in which the man was, who seem'd to be of his company; put on his Horse, or, to say better, preci­pitated him to the bottom of the Mountain. But such was the strength of the Horse, the skill of the Cavalier, or the fortune of both, that, as if he had run in a plain field, without receiving any hurt, he found himself near the Bear, and thrust the Lance he had in his hand so far into his entrails, that at the same time he lost his life and his prey: All this too, to thunder down the Mountain, kill the Bear, and deliver his Friend, was done so in an instant, that one might say, Lightning does not fall more swift, nor more readily work its effects. It displeased Zelide, that any but Alcidalis had given this blow: and she was vext to have seen in [Page 162]any other but him something that might please her. But the Cavalier making towards her, and wading over the River, she began to doubt if it was not he: and as he drew nearer, having finish'd to know him, but not daring to remain certain, she turn'd back to her Maid and ask'd her, if she knew that Cavalier. Ma­dam, replies she, when he was further off, we ought to have known him by what he did, but now we see that it is the Prince. He was now twenty paces from them. Wonder, fear and joy, at once seiz'd upon Ze­lide; so that she could not find words for the first Complements. The Prince, who was prepar'd for this encounter, though with much difficulty on his side, was more assur'd than she; and said to her, If I had not known, Madam, that this was the place where you were, by the Pleasures of it 'twas easie to divine, that Zelide was not far off. None but you could cause the birth of so many Flowers in so desert a Soil, or could have wrought this Miracle in the Mountains of Catalogna. Sir, says Zelide to him, who now had leasure ro recollect her Spirits, you are ingrateful to the Heber, on whose Banks you are, and which seem'd to stoop under you to favour your passage over, to give me a glory which is due to the fertility of its Waves: which water and imbrace this Valley with so much care, that when you shall have well consider'd the beauty of this Meadow, these Woods and this Park which we are entring, you may confess, that the Pa­laces of Saragosa, and the Magnificences of the Moorish Kings, may be left for this solitude. But, after all this, I assure you Sir, saith she smiling, we have seen nothing in this Valley so handsom, as what you shew'd upon the Mountain. And I, says the Prince, who was minded to change this discourse, that when from the Mountain we had the prospect of all about us, nothing appear'd so fair, as what you let us see in this [Page 163]Valley. Now they had taken the path which led to the Queen, and the Maid that follow'd them, staying a little behind, Zelide with a low voice said to him; Sir, you have perform'd two things of a great deal of boldness; one, to precipitate your self from the Rock to combat such a savage Animal; the other, to give the Queen a visit in a time she so little expected it. Madam, answer'd Alcidalis, it had been a greater boldness for me to have staid in Saragosa. For that had been with a firm foot to attend that death I could not shun, if I had remain'd longer without seeing you. So that what seems to you a rashness, is rather want of Courage: seeing I am come hither to avoid a greater peril, than either of those you say I have engag'd in. I could not have imagin'd that, says she to him. And for my part, I vow to you, I durst not have fought the Bear, and I durst as little have dis­pleas'd the Queen. But I think I have courage e­nough to suffer an Absence. To know what an ab­sence is, replies Alcidalis, we must know what affe­ction is: and you cannot suffer here, you Madam, who ought to love none but your self; and who carry al­ways with you whatever is amiable in the World. Alcidalis, answer'd Zelide, you do not believe what you say: and if you thought me so ungrateful and so vain as not to love any but my self, you would not have so much impatience to see me. But to the end that you may be better inform'd, give me the hearing and leasure to make that answer I promis'd you at our parting. And because in saying this, she felt she blush'd extreamly, and saw that he took notice of it, she began thus; The colour which mounts up to my Cheeks, proceeds rather from my being about to speak something which I am not wont to speak, than from an apprehension of doing any thing in it contrary to my duty. I know not, if it be always a shame for a Vir­gin [Page 164]to confess she Loves; but I know, if any may be excus'd, 'tis I more than another. I will not say, that the Stars have done me violence, or that your qualities have obliged me to it: 'tis a cloak and pre­tence under which all others may shrow'd themselves. I will only alledge what is particular for my defence. Before I knew that 'twas not lawful to love, I knew you to be amiable: and I received your affection in a time, when I did not know those Laws which forbid our Sex to entertain any. I cannot be blam'd for in­dulging a passion, which I may say, I found in my Soul rather than let it in; and which hath been so long its Guest, that I can no more remember its birth than my own. The first Sentiment I had in the World was, that which concern'd me for you: and Self-love, which we feel betimes, and which is so natural to all the World, enter'd my mind later than that Friend­ship I bear you. My Reason, which appear'd long after, found it so well establish'd, that it took it for a part of my self: Besides, it seem'd so innocent and so just, that she hath rather strove to fortifie, than to de­stroy it. I say all this, to excuse me with you and with my self; and to let you see, that a mind the most strong and most just in the World, had been taken as mine. If you are glad then, that I love you, do not thank me for it; but thank the gods that will'd it. And if you are oblig'd to me in any thing, 'tis for that I have been willing to confess it. For if I had not strength enough to extinguish the affection I bore you, I had enough to hide it: and it was in my power to dissemble it all my life; or as some do, to drop out a confession after you had long attended it. But if it be unreasonable and unworthy of you and me, it would never be time to discover it: and if on the contrary, 'tis such as I ought to have to be worthy of Alcidalis and Zelide; why should I not give you now [Page 165]the content of knowing and being assur'd of it? I tell you then Alcidalis, I love you; and though I speak it with a blush, yet I speak it without shame; I ac­cept of that heart which you say you give me. For what concerns the Crown you promise me with it, For­tune shall dispose thereof. I esteem more what you have given me, than any thing she can offer; and I prize your heart more than your Kingdom. I am glad to see there is not a quality in you which is not Royal. But I wish your Birth were not. This Crown which you promise me as the Crown of my selicity, will be the cause of all my misfortune: and to get from me that which I least esteem in you, they will use all ways to ravish from me the rest. I see, at this hour, but with an assured Brow, all the evils that threaten me. I know your Love will procure me all mens hatred; and because you wish me well, I shall suffer much ill. But she, who with the heart of Zelide has also that of Alcidalis, ought to fear nothing. I will resist all with a resolution shall astonish you: and seeing the Heavens will have me bear an affection; I will accompany it with so much Constancy, Courage, and Vertue, that what is ordinarily blam'd in our Sex, shall be in me a subject of esteem and praise. Alcidalis, who at the beginning was dead with fear, as a man who was to hear the Sentence of his life or death; perceiving after what manner she spake, and that it was much more favourable than he durst wish, could scarce believe his ears. But at last, seeing he was not deceiv'd, he found himself in such a ravishment, that he was a long time without saying any thing, and could not find words to thank her. Indeed, there were none to be found; and his seeking for them was an effect of the present perplexity. He answer'd better by Silence and tears of Joy. But having turn'd into ano­ther Alley, and seeing himself out of the sight of her [Page 166]which followed them, he put one knee to the ground, and as he began to speak, he spied the Queen at the o­ther end; who knowing of Alcidalis arrival came to receive him. The Alley was not so long, but what was done in it might be seen distinctly from one end to the other. Alcidalis rose up as speedily as he could. and Zelide, extreamly troubled at this encounter, told him, Sir, your undue humility will cost you dear, and see a beginning of my Prophesies. Madam, answer'd Alcidalis, I can fear nothing seeing you are for me: and we shall be too strong for all the rest of the World, so long as we are of a side. Therefore, replies she, they will soon find ways to part us. They said all this with an action wherewith we speak things indifferent, still having an eye upon the Troop which came towards them. The Queen was now advanc'd, and Alcidalis being near her, she receiv'd him with a face so open and pleasant, that Zelide could not have done more. When the first Complements were finish'd, and that the Prince had told her, his Sport having led him with­in six or seven Leagues off the house, he believ'd him­self bound to come and kiss her hands; the Queen said, she was beholding to Fortune for conducting him thi­ther. But Sir, says she, I believe you are well paid for the trouble. For 'tis to be imagin'd, that the fa­vour Zelide hath granted you is not ordinary, seeing you were oblig'd to thank her on your knee. And truly at first I could not know you, but thought it was one of your Servants. However, I am glad no other than your self receiv'd this satisfaction. Tell us, I pray, what is the matter, and what she hath promis'd or given you, that I may share in it, or joyn with you to thank her. Zelide did not blush, for, from the time she began her discourse with Alcidalis, she had not put off that Colour. And fearing he could not come off in this discourse; as indeed Womens wits are more [Page 167]at hand, and serve a surprize best; she advanc'd to an­swer for him, and said, Madam, I ask'd Alcidalis news of Saragosa, he who doubtless thought of his Hunting did not reply; I reproaching his heedlessness and si­lence, he put his knee to the ground to satisfie me; be­lieving by an irregular and immeasurable civility to repair the small care he had of answering me. That is to be very civil, says the Queen coldly. And because you think the Prince dreams still, you step up to answer for him. Zelide began to faulter, seeing the Queen press upon her in this manner, and believ'd, she would not be able to suppress the evil-will she bore her, but that now 'twould break out before all the World. But Alcidalis perceiving her perplexity came in to her suc­cour, as she had done to his, and broke off the dis­course with that of his Hunting. He was so possest with Joy for what Zelide had said, that he entertain'd the Queen all that day with a marvellous complacency, and was more careful to discourse with her Daughter than ever before. But these two young persons were not crafty enough to deceive her. She soon took no­tice of this change. By the pleasantness of Alcidalis, and the extraordinary assiduities which he render'd to her Daughter, she thought he must be well content and assur'd of Zelide. She saw by this, that there was no time to lose, and from that day took up the resolution, which afterwards cost our Lovers so many tears and dangers. Prepare your self Alcidalis for the misfor­tunes which threaten you: and take the contentment you have this day receiv'd, as the last kindness of For­tune. Expect no more Friendship from her, and con­tent your self with that of Zelide. The next day the Prince went for Saragosa, and the Queen eight days after. Alcidalis suffer'd this Absence with more pati­ence than the former; his thoughts being now so sweet and satisfactory, that with them he could not but be [Page 168]happy. But as a fair day is always more fair than the fairest night, and as there is no perfect contentment in darkness: it seem'd, that the presence of Zelide brought a new Joy to his Soul, and gave new force to those pleasures which without her he could not intirely re­lish. He pass'd some Months with an extream con­tent, and so perfect a one, that from thence only 'twas easie to guess it could not last, and that this great calm would be follow'd by a violent tempest. The satis­faction and assurance which he had, made him live with more discretion than formerly, and with more fear of displeasing the Queen. He serv'd her Daughter with more care, and entertain'd Zelide but seldom, and contented himself with the liberty of seeing her. She also, who was serious from her Infancy, began to be more so; to speak to the Prince with more respect; to give him fewer occasions of approaching her, and to sear more, lest they should imagine any thing of her affection. But this discretion, as for the most part that of Lovers, came too late. The Queen would not be abus'd by it: and with much care, secrecy and diligence took order for the execution of those designs she had projected. As those who are in a Cittadel which is secretly undermin'd, have ordinarily more fear of any other peril than that which threatens them, and are quiet whilst their Grave is digging, and whilst that ruine is preparing that must in a moment overwhelm them: so these two Lovers suspected nothing of the Treason which was hatching against them, but were in a profound tranquillity; and if the ill-will of the Queen made them apprehend some misfortune, they did not imagine it so great, so present, nor of such a nature as that which was to happen to them. Here be­gin those Misfortunes which seem to be endless; and adventures so strange and involv'd, that if it be scarce credible that they did really happen, it is no less hard [Page 169]to believe, that they could be invented, or be the effects of the strongest imagination.

It seem'd to Fortune, that Aragon and Catalogna were too narrow Theaters, to represent the fairest piece she had ever acted in the World: she would take one more spacious; and changing the face of that we have hitherto seen, instead of Saragosa and Barcelona, Mea­dows and Walks; she will let us see the Sea and Africa, persons unknown, people scarce heard of, Ships taken and burnt, Duels and Battels. And what is more strange, at the same time and in the same Subject, Chains and Crowns.

Four Months after the Queen had left Catalogna, she took occasion to return; but did not declare her mind till the day before. Alcidalis and Zelide were so sur­priz'd, that they had scarce leasure to bid adieu. But when the Prince declar'd his grief for her departure, she told him, Sir remember what you said in Cata­logna, That there was nothing in the World you could sear so long as I was of your side. We have other manner of Evils to suffer. But in all your misfortunes remember, that you cannot be unhappy, being assur'd I love you. You cannot doubt of that, seeing I say it. If that be not enough receive this Ring, which in the presence of the Gods I give you together with my heart. Alcidalis took it, and having given her another with the same words, they parted. The Queen the next day pretended she had receiv'd News from Barcelona, which oblig'd her to go thither; so she left her Daughter with part of her Train, and carried Zelide along with her. They came to that fair City, which no less for its scituation, than for the fertility of its Territory, is one of the most famous in Spain. Zelide wonder'd, that the Queen having left her Daugh­ter, did not leave her too. And having well consider'd the Novelty, she judg'd it was not done without some [Page 170]reason. But on what side soever she cast her eye, she could not imagine any thing; and seeing nothing which she could particularly fear, she fear'd every thing. The Queen having imploy'd the rest of that day in behold­ing the Magnificences of her reception, gave the next to those affairs which 'twas thought led her thi­ther.

The day after 'twas told her, a Ship which bore her Name enter'd the Port. She said, she would presently go and see it. In their way they beheld all that pomp of the Sea, which is so pleasant to see when we are on the Shore. But nothing could be a divertisement to Zelide; her heart told her, that the Evils she had fore­seen began to tread upon her heels, and on all sides she fear'd Ambushes. The Queen put her self into a Boat, and bid Zelide follow her. She found the Captain a­board and his Wife, and after she had taken a view of the Vessel, she shut her self up with them in the Cabin. This augmented the Suspicions of Zelide: and with tears in her eyes she cast a look upon the Land, and be­gan to doubt, if she should ever return thither. An hour after the Captain and his Wife came out and told Zelide, the Queen call'd for her. All her Blood at this instant froze in her Veins. The Queen bid her shut the door, and thus deliver'd her self.

'Tis long since, Zelide, that we lost together, you the best Mother in the World, and I the best Friend. The affection I had for her will never be lost in me, nor the memory of her last words, wherewith she pray'd me to have a care of you. If this considera­tion had not ingag'd me, yet your Beauty, Parts and Virtue would have oblig'd me to it. And having nou­rish'd you thus long, and found in you with advantage all those qualities which endear'd her to me, I should not be reasonable, if I had not a kindness for you too. And I may say, that in this I have done more than [Page 171]she desir'd. She pray'd me to love you as her Daughter, and I have always lov'd you as mine. She, whom the Heavens only gave me in the World, lost the name of only, from the day I took charge of you. I have had the same affection, and the same tenderness for you, as for her: and I have consider'd the one and the o­ther, as if you were equally mine. It being so, and not one of your actions, or any thing that concern'd you having been indifferent to me, you may believe it hard, that I should not have some knowledge of that passion which your Beauty, without your consent, hath bred in the mind of Alcidalis; and that, as well as you, I have been often troubled about the wrong it might do you. You know what trust is to be given to persons of his age and condition, who have equally the priviledge to deceive and to deny. And I make you Judge, if it be possible the affection he hath for you can ever be advantagious to you. You see, as well as I, all the reasons that will not permit it. You are too wise ever to have hop'd it: and though it should be in his power and yours, you are Just enough, and grateful enough not to desire it. I know your Vertue, Zelide; and I know there is nothing in the World which can endanger it. But, as great as it is, you cannot take from the Prince occasions of visiting you, nor from others of speaking of you. All that your Vertue can do in this is to hinder the evil, but it can­not hinder the fame: and I know of what prejudice this report is to persons of your Sex; and particularly, what displeasure it causes to persons of your wisdom and honour. I thought therefore, 'twas my part to come in to your assistance: and that 'twas time to per­form the Promises I made your Mother. The Duke of Tarant is a Prince wise and vertuous; considerable in Italy, and esteem'd of all his Neighbours: He, by his Letters and Messengers, hath long since declar'd to [Page 172]me a great passion for you: I would not tell you of it till the matter was certain and fully ripe. This day I understand he expects you, Zelide, to give you posses­sion of his Estate and Person. He that Commands this Vessel left him but fifteen days since, and promis'd him, on my part, to carry you thither in as many more. Diligence and Secresie, for reasons I cannot now ac­quaint you with, are so important, that 'tis needful you depart this minute. I doubt not but your good nature will cause in you some regret to leave us. But though we are separated by the Sea, our affections shall not be less united. In fine, you ought to be glad of returning into a Countrey, where you will find your Estate, your Kindred, and the place of your Birth. But though this should not be your will, 'tis enough to let you know that 'tis mine. Besides the power that my quality gives me over you, I have that of a Mother which lends me more authority. Consent then, and willingly agree to a thing, which besides that it is just, is also necessary: and by a ready obedience to what I counsel and command you at once, make appear that modesty you owe to your self, and that respect you owe to me. This you may easily resolve to do, for he you think so faithful to you, and who ought most to oppose it, is the first that consented to it. With these words she imbrac'd her; and pretending she would not take a long adue for fear of afflicting her too much, left the Cabin.

Grief, despite, shame, rage and the excess of the Mis­fortune, did so oppress the Spirits of Zelide, that not being able to speak a word or stir a foot, she remain'd in the condition wherein the Queen left her: and doubt­less, 'twas the best wherein she found her self for a long time after, seeing that at this first brunt she felt no­thing. All our powers are so weak and so limited, that we are not capable of any thing extraordinary: and, [Page 173]as a great light blinds us, and a great noise deasens us; great Griefs are not felt, no more than great Joys are. She had remain'd thus without motion a quarter of an hour: when at last her Spirits, buried under this sudden ruine of all things, beginning to return, she thought there would be no remedy to this evil, if she did not find one in this instant; so she runs out of the Cabin, intending to cast her self at the Queens feet, and to try if she could change her mind. But when they told her she was gone, and that she saw they were got out to Sea, she cast her eyes upon the shore, and her thoughts upon what she had left there, and on a sudden took up a resolution which seem'd to quiet her. Then, with a serene countenance, turning towards those a­bout her, she spake some few words, and seeming to receive the Consolations they tender'd, she went to her Bed, and pray'd them to leave her to her rest. Mise­rable Alcidalis, thou art now counting the moments as they pass: and when thou thinkest of the eight days in which thou shalt not see Zelide, this term appears infinite. Whilst she is remov'd from thee for many years. In a few days the Sea shall be between thee and her. The Wind hurries away all thy Joys and all thy Hopes; and is about to put into the power of another the only good thou desirest in the World, and the only one that is worthy of thee in it. Fear and Hope are the two Winds of our Soul, which never cease, and there are no Tempests in it which are not made by one of them. The present, being only a point, would not be considerable to us, if one of these two passions did not make us feel the future. Zelide believ'd, that For­tune had put her in a condition, wherein it was not in her power to hurt or succour her. So that she was in that fatal tranquillity in which those are who neither fear nor hope, and who only expect the end of their miseries in the end of their life. And amidst so many [Page 174]miseries, at least she had not that of seeking remedies, which is one of the greatest torments to wretched per­sons. Being well resolv'd of what she had to do; and knowing, within a little, how long her Misfortunes could last, she past the night in thinking of Alcidalis, and flatter'd her self with some content, when she con­fider'd that signal proof she was about to give him of her affection and courage. Though the Queens last words, whereby she would have made her believe, that the Prince betray'd her, caus'd in her some violent transports.

When the Captain and his Wife thought she was awake, they enter'd the Cabin, and asking her, if she would not eat; she reply'd, that not only she would not eat now, but that she would eat no more. They were startled at the Answer, and thought she was re­laps'd to her first sadness, and that it requir'd more time to digest it. But, some hours after, seeing she did not call, they return'd and us'd all Arguments to perswade her to eat: To all which she did not answer, but by an obstinate silence, and by so cold and resolv'd a look, that she did not seem to hear them. They went out the second time extraordinarily troubled, and be­gan to fear some tragick end of this strange resolution. At night they return'd, and with a Neece they had of the age of Zelide they kneel'd about the Bed, conju­ring her by all things, to have a care of her life. They could not for all this obtain an Answer, but withdrew at last, that they might not rob her of her repose, which seem'd to be the only benefit left her. Three days past in which they were not able to change her mind by prayers, tears and remonstrances, or draw one word from her. The fourth day they came again to try their utmost, and getting about her upon their knees, melt­ing into tears, offering her every thing, conjur'd her to have pity of her self and of them. When Zelide had [Page 175]hearkned to them, setching a sigh, with much pain she sate up in her Bed. Then they knew the extremity to which she was reduc'd. In the fairest face of the World they saw an affrighting image of despair, and ap­proaching death; and something which struck them with fear and pity at once. When they had look'd upon one another for some time, at last she broke that Silence which she had so long kept, and spake to them after this manner:

My Friends, you ask me a thing which none but you can give me. You pray me to live. I pray you, that I may. And 'tis in your power, not in mine. I have resolv'd I will not be carried alive to the shore of I­taly: and I swear it again by the gods above, by the Fire and by the Light; by those below, and by the shades of my Parents. It is not then in me to dispose otherwise of my self. And seeing you can carry me, or not carry me thither; you must pronounce the sen­tence of my life or death. Can you now refuse me that, which you have beg'd of me with so many tears? And will you be my Murtherers, that were chosen for my Conducters? The Duke of Tarant expects me; but hath never seen me. Here's your Neece, of my age, my stature, and not much unlike me. You may put her in my place; and procure her this good For­tune, and deliver me from the greatest misfortune in the World. 'Tis true, you will deceive the Duke by another person than he expects: but if you could con­duct me in the condition wherein I am, would it be Zelide? And is not this Maid more like to what I was, than I am to my self? Will not the Duke be more happy to have a Wife that will be content, and who wishes for him, than one that long consider'd, whether she should choose death or him? and which at last prefer'd death to his person? But 'tis not mine he loves, seeing it is unknown to him; 'tis my Fortunes, [Page 176]which I now make over to your Neece, with the name of Zelide: and call the gods to witness, that for me no person alive shall know of it, and that I will never repent of it. 'Tis true, the Queen hath commanded you to convey me where I am expected; but are not you bound to follow her will rather than her words? And don't you think that if she were now present, and saw the danger in which I am, she would not rather provide for my safety in any place, than send me dead for Italy? Did she bid you put me into the hands of the Duke, alive or dead? Don't you think she in­tends this Marriage for my good and advance­ment? and that she, who hath had a care of my Fortune, would have a care of my life? When all the World shall reproach her with this cruel­ty, will she not discharge her self upon you? But who can oblige you, except you will, to return to Bar­celona and give her account of what you have done? With this Ship you may go any where, where the Winds go, and you have all the World before you. Then drawing out a small Cabinet the Queen had left her, containing her Mothers Jewels, she told them; These Jewels are of infinite value. The Queen would not give you more if she presented you Barcelona. I pre­sent them all to you, for the ransom of my life and liberty: and as these two surpass in value what I pre­sent; and that Liberty alone is worth all the Riches in the World, you may give me more than I give you, and I shall still be your Debtor. With these you will find Friends, Kindred and Countrey any where. Many would be tempted to take away my life, with what I offer you to save it: and I incite you to a good action, by a reward capable of purchasing others for a bad one. If you are touch'd with a scruple of obeying the Queen; are you not more afraid of murthering an Innocent? Can you more easily resolve to kill one of [Page 177]her Friends, than to break one of her commands? Are you not more afraid of provoking the gods, than of offending men in the person of a Woman? And if a dread of her hatred or revenge restrains you, ought you not to consider, that there are some in Aragon, as powerful as she, who will seek you throughout the World, and make you give account of my person and life? But after all, if these Reasons should not ap­pear so; I adjure you by that compassion you seem'd to have of me, and by the tears you lately shed, to deliver me out of this misery: and by a ready complying shew, that it is for the love of me, rather than for your own consideration, that you do it. But if my Reasons, my prayers, and my offers cannot prevail; and if I cannot perswade you to an action which is just, safe and profi­table: I shut my mouth never to open it again; and in despite of you, death shall one day give me the liberty you have refus'd. Ending this discourse she open'd the Cabinet and let the Stones sparkle in their eyes. Which indeed was not one of the weakest means whereof she serv'd her self to perswade them. They were mov'd with what they heard; but more by what they saw; and 'twas hard for them to resist so many violences at once.

The Captain was much a Souldier, and of great Cou­rage: who had past the half of his life upon the Sea; and who had run many Fortunes, but made none. He thought that now she would pay him all at once: and was astonish'd to see in so small a space, more riches than he had ever beheld in the Indies. He presently began to think how many Ships he would build and Man out with a part of it. All Zelides Arguments appear'd good ones. He thought that generosity oblig'd him to succour a Princess so amiable, and so unjustly afflicted: and thought besides, that if he could bestow her in some place, whence he might afterwards render [Page 178]her to Alcidalis, he might return to Spain with more favour than ever; and had ground to hope as great Re­ward hereafter, as that which he saw before him. When he had attentively hearkned to Zelide, he remain'd si­lent a long time: and resolv'd upon what he would do, he only studied what he should say. She believing he doubted what resolution he should take, added so many prayers and promises to what she had said, and knew how to press him in such a manner, that at last seeming to render himself up to her Reasons and to pity, he swore by solemn Oaths to do what she desir'd. Zelide, who hitherto in the height of her misfortunes and de­spair had never dropt a tear, felt her self now stirr'd with joy, and a pity she had of her self, reflecting on her condition, and began to weep abundantly, as mi­serable persons are wont to do, when in their griefs some glimpse of hope darts in upon them. She did not think so much of her being snatch'd from the arms of Alcidalis, as of her being deliver'd from falling into the Dukes. With the help of this Joy she soon re­cover'd her strength; and re-establish'd her health in as few days as she had lost it. They agreed then, she should not shew her self: and Erminia their Neece was shut up in a Cabin, and receiv'd Lessons to act well the part of Zelide. At last they came near the Shore, and they suffer'd her, being well instructed, to be seen by the principal Officers of the Gallies, and she rehears'd before them the part she was to play upon a more noble Theater. Though Zelide saw things well dispos'd, and the extream passion her Guardians had to bring about their design, her heart fail'd her when she saw the Land. In the mean time, that they might not expose the false Zelide to the eyes of the Croud, which co­ver'd the Shore, as soon as she was Landed they put her into a close Chair, pretending her indisposition, and so convey'd her to the Palace: and they advis'd her, [Page 179]with the same pretext to shun the sight of People, and to keep her Bed till she had fortified her action and countenance, and was well accustom'd to be a Dutchess. So that she was seen of none but the Duke; who, though he did not find in her that great Beauty which had made so much noise; was content, and attributed something to her sickness and a Sea Voyage: or at least to the deceitfulness of Fame. The Captain and his Wife, laden with Presents, took leave and went to Sea. When they were return'd, and that Zelide saw the Ship was under Sail, and she at distance from this fatal Shore, which she had so much fear'd; she was fill'd with such a Joy, that it wanted little but the pleasure of leaving Italy made amends for the grief she felt in leaving Spain. But what serves it for an unfortunate person to scape one Misfortune? And what safety for those that Fortune pursues? All the Earth, without doubt, is of her Empire. But the Sea seems to be her proper Inhe­ritance. 'Tis there she is most to be fear'd; and there are wrought her greatest miracles and greatest perfidies. In the mean time, as if there were nothing to be fear'd, Zelide thankt the gods: and being upon the most un­faithful Element of all, in a weak Vessel, and amongst people from whom she could expect nothing, having no more to give them, she is in the same assurance as if she were upon the Land, in a Palace, and amongst her Friends. They made for Sardinia, to which place the Captain design'd to carry the young Princess, and commit her to the care of a Sister of his, till he could find means to put her into the power of Alcidalis. After a few days sail with a favourable Wind, one Evening they descry'd three Sail.

There is no place where men live with so much di­strust, as upon this Element. The Water, Air, Earth and Fire are enemies to Voyagers. But men are more so, and amidst so many dangers there is nothing a Vessel [Page 180]fears more, than the encounter of another. This News rouz'd them all, they made all fail possible, and the Night came on, but in the Morning they found them by their side. Then astonishment seiz'd upon them; the most fearful betook themselves to Cries and Tears, and the most resolute to their Arms. And the wisest judg'd the one and the other were equally in vain. Though the Captain had experience enough to judge that he could not defend himself, nevertheless a regret to loose so much Riches, and to see that Fortune would snatch out of his hands what she but now gave him, put him in despair, and made him resolve to die rather than yield. In this general alarm and confusion Zelide only was unaffrighted: and whilst others fear'd for their Goods, Lives and Liberty; she, to whom all these things were indifferent, thought of preserving that she esteem'd most. After she had fac'd the danger with a firm and resolv'd mind, she shut her self up in the Ca­bin with the Captains Wise. The first thing she did was to throw the Cabinet of Jewels into the Sea, lest she should be discover'd by them. After that she pray'd her to cut her Hair: and then with Tears in her eyes, seeing what Fortune constrain'd her to, made her bring a Sute of her Husbands Clothes, which she put on. In the mean time the Ships, now known to be of Africa, were within Canon-shot, and finding that our Ship pretended to defend her self, discharg'd a Broad-side; ours did the same, but with different success; for having done no hurt to the Enemy it lost Mast and Sails. At this noise Zelide came out, and put her self amongst the most resolute, and where there was most danger: believing by this means she should find her death, or better disguise her self. The Combat was so unequal it could not last long. The Corsairs quickly boarded the Ship; where having kill'd ten or twelve of the stoutest, and amongst them the Captain, the rest ask their lives. The Commander of [Page 181]these Vessels was of of the Kingdom of Bareba, a part of Africa which confines on one side with Egypt, on the other with Nubia. These people, extreamly Savage, know not what-Commerce is; and have no other way of communicating with Strangers, but by vanquishing of them, and carrying away Merchants and Mer­chandize: What we call Stealing, they say is to gain upon the Enemy; and call that Valour, which we style Piracy. What they can have at the price of their Blood, they would be asham'd to get otherwise: and to take a thing by force and with danger, is amongst them the most honest sort of acquisition. This man being of the noblest and most powerful of his Nation, had been for a long time the terrour of the Grecian and Italian Coasts, able and extreamly valiant; pitiful and humane, more than his Countrey or Trade permitted; good and generous, without knowing what goodness or generosity was. As in the coldest parts of the North there are found some veins of Gold as fine as that of the Indies, though not in so great quantity: so in all sorts of Climates, Nature is pleas'd sometimes to produce rich dispositions, which she instructs and dresses up her self; and bestows upon them, without their study, all necessary lights. When Orchant, which was the name of the Corsaire, view'd his Captives and the prey he had made; the Beauty and Majesty which sparkled in the face of Zelide struck his sight: and asking who she was; she said, she was a Spaniard by Nation, and nam'd her self Zelidan, Cousin to the Captain of the Ship he had taken; that she was sorry she could not follow him; and that she esteem'd him happy to have lost his life rather than his liberty. She said this with a Countenance that held nothing of the Captive; with­out tears, without prayers, without submissions. But in spite of her self her face and good grace pleaded for her; and her Constancy and Courage were recommen­dation [Page 182]enough. So that Orchant esteem'd her Pride; and what would have invited the anger of another, bred admiration in him. He exhorted him to be of good courage; that his Servitude should not be harsh; that he should taste more liberty than before; that he might hope 'twould not last, seeing he had a Master who kept no Slaves, but those who deserv'd to be so: that for his part, he did not practise the Sea as a Mer­chant; that he rather sought Fame than Gain; that he took more pleasure in making Free-men, than in making Slaves: that for his part of the Booty, he would content himself with Zelidan, and leave the rest to his Souldiers: that he might ransom himself when he would; that one gallant Action would be enough to do it; that if the rest of him answer'd to his face, he might believe he should be longer his Friend than his Slave. Zelide, who expected nothing like this from a Barbarian and a Pirate, was glad, and wonder'd at his discourse, esteeming her Captivity much more supportable. And now having shun'd an odious Mar­riage, see her the Slave of a Pirate: and she thought this Accident less afflicting than the other, because it had more remedies. There was no good fortune for her, but to be Alcidalis's; nor ill, but to be anothers. Besides this, she knew no good nor evil in the World; and all things were indifferent to her. Thus she who deserv'd to command the Universe, resolves to serve: and that heart which was so vast and elevate, that the Heavens are not more, stoops to the lowest of Mis­fortunes, with more patience than the meanest Mari­ner taken with her. But it was impossible for Zelide to serve long. This disorder and violence could not last in nature. It had been easier to submit the sphere of Fire to the other Elements: and it was impossible but those divine qualities which were in her, should be known and admir'd. Besides that the Heavens had [Page 183]bestow'd on her all Beauties in perfection; and the charms of body and mind, together with all the graces which breed love and respect: she was born under such a strong Constellation of Empire and Command, that she would have been obey'd by the most Savage Ani­mals, and easily gain'd Authority over reasonable Souls. So that Zelidan, for we must accustome our selves to call her so, became the Master of his Master. Slaves, Mariners, Souldiers equally lov'd her, and he absolutely Commanded in the Vessel where he was Pri­soner. Considering the passion Orchant had for him, he guest how easily this Friendship would convert into Love, if he were known; and that in this case, that affection which might be some way a succour to him, would be the inevitable cause of his loss. He took care then to conceal himself: and the better to do it, resolv'd to oppose his Courage to all sorts of dangers, and to inure himself to those things wereof this Sex does not seem capable.

They past that Summer without making any Port, except for Water; often changing course and design; following the Winds, and the way they thought they might furnish prize. In which time Zelidan signaliz'd her self in all occasions that offer'd; running where danger was most apparent without Armour, and the most rash remain'd behind her. There are no inchanted Arms like those of good Fortune, not Buckler which covers like hers. Those she defends may run naked upon Swords points; but for those she bears ill-will to, Armour of proof will be faulty. Now, the hopes Or­chant had conceiv'd of her became a confirm'd opinion, and an esteem solidly establish'd.

'Twas necessary we should leave Alcidalis, and ne­cessary we leave him no longer. For his first grief could not be describ'd; and at first 'twas impossible to represent all his sighs, tears, rages and suries. Having [Page 184]seen the Queen return without Zelide; and having been eight days without being able to discover what was be­come of her; he past that time in a mortal sadness and inquietude. But when he came to know the history of her Misfortune, and knew the Evil was without remedy; when he consider'd her in the arms of ano­ther, and that his Imagination had presented to him whatever might torment him: Then his tears ceas'd, and despair seiz'd him; then he lost all sorts of re­spects and fears; he lowdly threatned the Queen; and testify'd all those resentments, which highest wrongs can breed in the greatest heart in the World. He was two days deliberating, if he ought first to revenge himself on the Queen, or go and ravish Zelide from the hands of him that possest her, or rather rid him­self of his miseries by a voluntary death. But at last his body, which for some time had as 'twere nourish'd it self with poyson, sunk under so many evils, and put an end to the transports of his mind. A Feaver seiz'd him, which at first was accompanied with such furious fits as gave fear to all the World: and those who knew the cause of his disease, believed this would be the end of it. In few days he became forceless; and, which was well for him, without knowledge, without sense. So all those thoughts, which his different passions croud­ed into his mind, were dampt; and he that would pass the Seas and run through the World, was detain'd in his bed for four Months. A Feaver, Love and Jealou­sie, that is, the greatest Evils of body and mind e­qually consum'd him: and each of them were in him to such a height, and with such circumstances, that there was no probability any one of them was capable of remedy. But Nature would not lose the fairest piece that ever pass'd her hands: and she had in him so much force and vigour, that against all reason and against his own mind she return'd him to health. And [Page 185]now having less of Sickness he had more of Sorrow: and not being able to stay till he had recover'd his strength, he left Saragosa, and imbarking at the first Port went for Italy with some shadow of Joy, in think­ing he scap'd the hands of his Enemies and follow'd the footsteps of Zelide.

The false Zelide had Fortune more favourable than the other; and her designs prosper'd better. She had a midling Beauty, and that sort of Wit which is proper for Craft. Seeing the danger of her attempt, she en­deavour'd by all ways to gain the heart of her Hus­band, and to fortifie her self against all Accidents that might happen. He was in that season of his life where­in the approaches of Age begin to give men distrust of themselves, and wherein they ought not to hope for love from any Women, but those who are by duty oblig'd to it: so that the Beauty, behaviour, and kindness of his Wife easily gain'd him. As Flowers are never so acceptable to us, as at the beginning of the Spring or end of Autumn; those for their novelty, and these because we think we shall quickly lose them: the pleasures of Love do not in any Season touch us so sen­sibly as in the first youth, or decline of our Age. 'Tis so great a satisfaction and rare a pleasure for an Old man to be belov'd, that there are none which upon this opinion do not become young, and kindle their ashes again. But likewise, as the Sun shining far off us makes the longest shadows: when Love shines in this Age, from which 'tis naturally distant, it causes largest Shadows. As soon as the Duke felt himself amorous, he became Jealous. This passion, which is elsewhere a fortuitous effect of Love, is an inseparable Accident in all men of this Climate. They do not believe a great desire can subsist without a great fear: and Love and Jealousie are the two Twins, which are always here born together. Whether then the excess of his affe­ction [Page 186]wrought the effect, or the Air of the Countrey, or the suspicious humour which years brought along with them; or whether he had notice of Alcidalis passion: his distrust arriv'd to that point, that he was not safe but when the Dutchess was in his sight. And besides, 'twas with impatience, that he suffer'd her to be seen by any eyes but his own. She, who for another reason fear'd nothing more than to be seen, easily met his humour: and pretending to please him, said, she equally loy'd all the effects of his passion; that his fear for her pleas'd her, seeing 'twas a proof of his Love; however, she would try all ways to satis­fie him, and that he needed not take care for any thing but his own quiet. For her part, she would be always content if he were: and seeing that he was to her instead of all things, she would believe she possest all, when she possest him. He received these offers with much content: and used the liberty she gave him in taking away hers. So that daily paring away some­thing, from a great Palace and an infinite number of Servants, she is reduc'd to a few Chambers, a Gallery, and five or six Women. As the Duke gave her proofs of his Jealousie, he would also give her some of his Love: and satisfying himself, he strove likewise to content her. There was nothing rare either in Europe or the Indies, which he did not cause to be bought for her. Whatever was precious in the World, the richest workmanship of Nature, the most accomplish'd Master­pieces of Art adorn'd her Cabinets. She had, in fine, the fairest Prison we can imagine, if any Prison can be said to be fair: and she saw whatever she could de­sire, except men. But because the most pleasing Soli­tude has always somewhat of Melancholy, he would remedy that too. With great care and expence he sought out the handsomest and strongest Slaves. And having got a great number, he caus'd them to be in­structed [Page 187]by the best Masters of Italy, in all exercises wherein the Nobility are wont to excel. These were call'd the Dutchess Slaves, and wore her Livery: they had no other mark of Servitude but a Ring of Gold about their necks, with a Chain fasten'd to it, and a Medal of their Mistresses Arms. Three times a week they enter'd a spacious Court, which answer'd to the Windows of her Gallery: and there they exercis'd. The Duke invented this for two ends; one to enter­tain the Dutchess, who was extreamly belov'd by him; the other, to make her despise all men by letting her fee in Slaves, that is, in the vilest persons among them, the same qualities which are found in those most No­bly descended, and which render them considera­ble.

Alcidalis coming to Italy understood all this; and having consider'd some time, he thought no quality could become him better than to be Zelides Slave; and that the greatness of his Fortune having caus'd all his Misfortunes, he could not cure them better than by putting himself into the lowest state. He imparted his design to him that accompanied him. Who seigning himself to be a Merchant, went to those who govern'd this Troop. They seeing in Alcidalis all the qualities they sought, quickly set a price upon a Person inva­luable, and with a small sum of Money bought for a Slave the Son of a King, and the most accomplish'd person on Earth. At first he was a Scholar to them to whom he might have been Master; and suffer'd himself to be taught what he knew better than they, or any body else. Thus pretending every day to learn something of them, he made such a progress in a short time, that he was admir'd by all. Whether he did Ride, Wrestle, or Jump; he shew'd every where so much address, strength and disposition, that it pro­ceeded to a prodigy. Horses seem'd naturally to obey [Page 188]him; and that without any motion he made them un­derstand his mind. If he were chaleng'd at Wrestling, or at the Course; he so easily cast one on the ground, and got ground of the other, that it seem'd he was born to be their Master, and that they ought always to be at his feet or much behind him. When he run on foot, Horses had not such speed, and when he was on their backs, they were swifter than Birds. In fine, no prize was proposed which was not his: and there was no way to make an equal match, if he were in, except he were on one side; and yet so, he did not fail to vanquish. In the mean time, amidst all these Praises, he felt some shame in himself to contend with Slaves. He had a heart to ask Kings for his Rivals. But this was necessary for his design. Though he per­form'd every thing with a marvellous grace, yet it was with so little attention, and in so careless a manner, that 'twas easie to perceive he thought of higher Vi­ctories. As oft as he enter'd the Course, and could be seen by the Dutchess, he came first and went away last. In all his Exercises his eyes were still fixt upon the Grates, whence he believ'd she beheld him, and what­ever himself did or others did, could not divert them. To what blindnesses are Men subject? The most faith­ful of Lovers Idolizes a Beauty he never saw. He sighs for her, he sends her his heart by his eyes: and having a Mistress he loves a hundred times more than himself, he voluntarily sells himself to another. Alcidalis, who would have been remarkable amongst the most accom­plish'd Princes in the World, was easily so among Slaves. The first day he enter'd his Beauty and Beha­viour drew the Dutchesses eyes upon him. Soon after he gain'd her esteem, and admiration: and having con­sider'd him better, she thought she beheld in the gal­lantness of his port, something extraordinary, and which was not of his present condition. She minded [Page 189]the attention with which he look'd toward her. She mark'd his sighs, the paleness and grief which dwelt in his face: and how amidst general applauses, nothing could affect him. All this begot in her first Curiosity, then Pity, and at last Love.

One Evening, as this Slave left the Palace, he felt him­self pull'd aside into a dark Entry by a Woman he did not know; who told him, Sir, if you are the gallant Man you seem, go to morrow two hours in the Night to the foot of the Greek Tower: where, if you serve your self of the occasion that will present, you shall be happier than ever you hoped to be. She said this in haste, and left him without expecting an Answer.

Since Alcidalis began to be unfortunate, he had never seen the least glimmering of Joy but at this instant. He presently thought this Message came from Zelide, and with tears in his eyes thank'd Heaven, which seem'd to begin to take compassion on him. However, whe­ther the Souls of great men see something in the dark­nesses of the future; or whether the miserable dare not trust the Promises of hope, wherewith they have been often abus'd: he durst not be confident of his good Fortune; and beginning to hope he began to fear too.

The Day, or rather the Night of the assignation came at last. And before she had well thickned her shadows, he was at the foot of the Tower. 'Twas an Old build­ing joyn'd to the Palace. Its foot was wash'd by the waves of the Sea. The Prince had provided himself of a Fishing-Boat; which he fastned to some Rings in the Wall, and attended that success which Fortune would give to this Adventure, in the darkness and si­lence of the Night, which was not interrupted but by the waves of the Sea. He staid an hour without seeing any thing: diversly agitated with hopes and fears; which being two contrary passions are, for all that, often found together.

At last, when he began to despair, and had thoughts as black and dreadful as the Night and Sea, which in­viron'd him, a noise he heard from above restor'd him his lost hopes. He thought he heard some words, which he could not understand; to which having answer'd by a noise he made below, he heard something fall into the Sea, and perceived it white upon the Water: which having reach'd to him, he knew 'twas a Ladder of Cord, to which a piece of Linnen was ty'd that he might the better see it. Now Alcidalis suffer'd him­self to be deceiv'd by the apparences of his good For­tune, and believed she would give him back something of Zelide. Presently, without considering the danger, and in spite of the Darkness, and Winds which blew horribly, he undertook by this dangerous way to mount to an extream height; without knowing whi­ther he went, of whom, nor how he should be re­ceiv'd. He at last finds a Window, where he perceiv'd a person who gave him her hand, and by many turnings and windings conducted him to a Chamber, enlightned by three Lamps of Gold, and richly adorn'd. The Woman bid him sit down a while, and left him. Now considering what had past, and what he saw, he con­firmed himself in the opinion he had, that he was sent for by Zelide. And in the midst of so many perils which he might imagine to himself, by a secret pre­sentiment of his Misfortune, he fear'd nothing so much as not to see her. I cannot tell you the divers thoughts he had; his impatiences, desires, fears, distrusts, su­spicions, surprizes, alarms. All which cannot be re­presented upon Paper: and nothing but humane mind is capable of this confusion. He remain'd thus an hour. At last the same person enter'd; You will par­don me by and by Sir, saith she to him, for making you stay; the Honour you are going to receive, deserves to be staid for. The Prince having thank'd her, and [Page 192]pray'd her to let him know what that Honour was; after some pause she told him. If it were not easie to conclude the greatness and force of your mind by what we have seen of you, it would not be fit to tell you your good Fortune all at once, but give you time to use your self to it, and to try how you could bear it. But it is to be believ'd of you, that you will not be sur­priz'd, and that your thoughts are no less high and noble than your actions. Know then that you are in Zelides Lodgings, and in a moment you shall be in her Chamber. The Dutchess hath taken notice of all those qualities which render you esteemable: and seeing that there is nothing low in you but your Fortune, she will take care of that her self and make it better: and to this purpose she would know who you are. Hereafter shew as much discretion and conduct, as you have hi­therto shewn art and valour. With this she led him to her Mistresses Chamber.

The weakness of our minds is very strange. Alcida­lis, whom death and all that is horrible could not affright; who in spite of the Wind, the Night and the Sea, by a weak Ladder of Cord was got so high; and who durst at Noon-day have ventur'd to deliver the Dutchess from the hands and power of the Duke; trembled here, where he knew there were none but Women. That heart which would fearlesly have confronted a World of Enemies, is fill'd with fear approaching the on­ly person he loves, and by whom he knows he is be­lov'd. The Chamber was inlightned only by a Torch, and the Dutchess was in her bed, with that little light which such enterprizes, the shame and astonishment of a young unexperienc'd person demands. So that if the Prince had been more himself and less surpriz'd, scarce could he have known his errour, and the cheat which Fortune put upon him. At first he put himself upon his knee; and having begun to say some words, which [Page 193]were ill pronounc'd and worse follow'd, he stopt in the middle of his discourse. The trouble of his mind and a troop of passions press'd him so, that he could not proceed: and half beside himself, he fell with his head upon the Princes Bed. Who putting out her hand to remove it, he took it, and coming to himself, he said, At last, Zelide, the Heavens have had pity of Alcidalis; and however they have oppos'd me, I must thank them for permitting me to see you before I die. Here his Sighs broke off his discourse. And as he was begin­ning again, he heard a great noise in the Palace, and she that led him in, enters amaz'd, saying it was the Duke, and that he was now in the Dutchesses Lodgings. The good Man, little imagining what pass'd in the Palace, had left it with design to stay three days abroad a Hunt­ing. But whether his Love or Jealousie call'd him back; or whether he thought it a piece of Courtship to shew his impatience and his affection to the Dutchess, he re­turns the same day, and presently hastens to see her.

The Dutchess was so affrighted, she could not speak one word. The Lady that brought the Prince in, taking him again by the hand and conducting him by the same way he enter'd, carried him to the Window; whence, seeing the treasons of Fortune, he had a mind to preci­pitate himself, rather than descend.

THe War raging in Italy between the Emperour Charles the Fifth and Francis the First, King of France, Andrea Doria an expe­rienc'd Commander in Sea Af­fairs, follow'd the Banner of the French. With his Valour and Counsels he sustain'd the reputa­tion, and notably promoted the Interests of that Crown; satisfying at once the Faith due to his King, and the fierce hatred he bore the Spaniards for the cruel Acci­dents hapned in the Sack of Genoua. But as it is the fatal infelicity of Princes, not to esteem eminent per­sons whilst they are ingaged in their Service, the King [Page 196]by ways little discreet exasperated the mind of Andrea, a Minister so necessary to him at this time. He did not pay him his assign'd Stipend; and after he had taken from him the Prince of Orange, his Prisoner of War, and set him at liberty, thereby defrauding him of his due Ransom, he demanded with importunity and inso­lent threatnings the Marquess Vasto, and Ascanio Colon­na, taken in fight by Philippino Dorea, Lieutenant to Andrea. But that which most pierc'd the Soul of the good Old man, was the small faith of the King in complying with his Promise, touching the Interest and Reputation of the Genoueses. The City of Savona had withdrawn it self from the obedience of the Common­wealth; expecting, under the protection of France, to meliorate its condition by the commodiousness of the Port, which furnish'd them with extraordinary emo­luments, to the irreparable damage of the City of Ge­noua.

Andrea had often complain'd of this to the King, praying him, that in recompence of his Services, he would restore to his Countrey what by all right was due to it. The King overcome by the honesty of the Re­quest, had promis'd Doria to satisfie him; but his re­gard to Justice being combated by the hopes of In­terest, he at last inclines to the worst choice, and re­solves to detain that City. He had seen by experience how inconstant the Genoueses were, and how little he could depend upon that Commonwealth for his War in Italy. For tyranniz'd by factions it easily chang'd its form of Government, according to the different prevailing humours: therefore esteeming it necessary for his designs to have a Port at his devotion commo­dious for the Affairs of Lombardy, he chose Savona, and gave the charge of it to Momorancy. Conceiving, that with this determination he had at once bridled the inconstancy of the Genoueses, and greatly advantag'd [Page 197]the course of his Enterprize; because the City of Sa­vona being near to Piemont, Montferrat and Lombardy, it became an opportune Scale, no less for Merchandize than for War. Hence 'twas fear'd, that in a few years growing in Reputation and Riches, it might not only divert the Trade from the Port of Genoua, but rival it with them for the principality of that Sea. Of this Doria, as a singular lover of his Countrey, sharply complain'd. But at last seeing it was in vain, he turns his mind to other Counsels. In the mean while grow­ing cold in his devotions to the King, he by degrees slackned his wonted diligence in serving him: and di­rected Philippino how to comport himself in the fu­ture. The French, who besieg'd Naples under Lau­trech, quickly found the damage they receiv'd by the voluntary negligence of Philippino: for he who but little before had with incredible Valour worsted the Imperial Navy, now could not hinder a few Barks from entring into Naples with Provisions: And this was the begin­ning of the ruine of that design. Pope Clement the Seventh understanding how Doria was alienated from the Crown of France, seriously admonish'd the King by his Legat, to provide speedy remedy for this Evil, by giving satisfaction to a Captain of so much reputa­tion and so powerful at Sea, lest being provok'd to pass over to the Service of Caesar, he should carry with him all hopes of the approaching Victory. He sent like­wise to Doria his Secretary Sanga, to mitigate his re­sentments. They now deliberated in the Kings Coun­cil on this important affair. Some amongst them pain­ted Doria as a man too proud in the use of his Autho­rity, and esteeming it impossible to gain him counsel'd, that he should be cut off; preventing by a sudden vio­lence those designs, which by gentler ways could hard­ly be impeded, so depriving Caesar of that Aid, which in the present conjuncture would be of much avail to [Page 198]him. Accordingly necessary Orders were given to Bar­bigios, who pass'd into Italy with the charge of Admi­ral. Doria in the mean time having notice hereof, and detesting that ingratitude and perfidiousness with which the French Ministers would have recompenc'd his Ser­vices, treated with the Marquess Vasto, his Prisoner, about serving the Emperour; by whom being gladly receiv'd, he openly renounc'd the Friendship of the French King, and return'd him the Collar and Order of St. Michael. The first Conditions he made with Caesar, were such as might be hoped for from a Citizen, who dearly lov'd his Countrey; to wit, the liberty of Genoua under the Imperial protection, and the redu­cing Savona: the rest respected principally his own profit and reputation. The resolution of Doria did in such a manner startle the drowsie King, that willing to correct his past neglects with present sollicitousness, he begins to study how he might bring him back on Honourable terms. But his Repentance came too late. For Doria altogether intent upon the freeing of his Countrey from the yoak of Strangers, would admit of no Conditions that might retard the execution of his designs. The King notwithstanding as impatient to recover, as he had been careless in keeping him, with diminution of Decorum and Majesty, descended of his own accord to offer him all that satisfaction which he had formerly deny'd; and, which was worse, without first secretly trying by means of Friends how Doria stood inclin'd, he prostituted the Royal dignity to the ignominy of a Repulse. Which being return'd most precise and resolute, it is not to be imagin'd, how it fill'd the Kings mind with vexation and shame.

Doria now in the Service of Caesar, with twelve Gallies apply'd himself to procure the liberty of his Countrey, which had ever been the sole Object of his thoughts. The Commonwealth at this time was be­come [Page 199]a prey to the will of the Common people; who putting no difference between private License and pub­lick Liberty, under the name of the Common good fo­mented with continual tumults the passions of particu­lars. And when one Faction found it self weak in its own Forces, having recourse to Strangers, they intro­duc'd a new form of Government. Thus one while the Adorni drave out the Fregosi, and anon were driven out by them: Governours from Millan were call'd, and sent away again: the French yoke accepted, and shaken off. So that the wounds in the body of the Common­wealth were still kept open by change of Plaisters, which had need of being well clos'd by Concord. All which Doria considering came before Genoua with his Gallies, to give heat to the good will of those, who together with himself desir'd the Common good: nor was he deceiv'd in his thoughts. For divers Citizens tir'd with the calamities of past Discord, apply'd themselves to more wholsom Counsels, desiring a good and firm Union. The City was now govern'd in the name of the French King by Triultio, who having be­fore acquir'd the reputation of a valiant and prudent Captain, it begot the more wonder in all mens minds, when they consider'd how little this action of his cor­responded to that praise which was due to the rest. For though he understood that the discourses and designs of the Genoueses did tend to Peace, he took no care to disturb them: either because he esteem'd it a meer re­conciliation of private Enmities between the Nobility and People; or because he rely'd too much upon the Kings Forces and his own Valour: not considering, that Genoua put into his hands by civil Discord, might be snatch'd from him only by Union. Doria thus valuing himself, both upon the good disposition of the Citizens, and the opportunity presented him by Triultio, at­tempted to conduct his Enterprize to its end: which he [Page 200]did so happily, that without bloodshed he got the City, driving thence the French Garrison. Being receiv'd by the Genoueses with incredible demonstrations of Joy, and perswaded by several to open his bosom to the fa­vours of Fortune, which offer'd him the Dominion of Liguria, with a mind superiour to Worldly happiness, he refus'd it. Afterwards by a weighty Speech, and worthy the Father of his Countrey, he exhorted the Citizens at last to know themselves, and for the future to maintain that Liberty which he freely bestow'd upon them. The City of Genoua oblig'd by so many benefits desir'd to shew efficacious signs of a true gra­titude; wherefore, granting to him and his posterity large Priviledges, they erected a Marble Statue, and by certain words ingrav'd in the Base thereof, declar'd him the Author of the publick Liberty. He now grown Old retires himself, and enjoys in the bosom of his Coutrey the fruit of that Victory and quiet which himself had procur'd. He had with him Giannettino his Cousin, a young Man of great Spirit and known Vertue; and who had merited by his Valour to be his Adopted Son and destin'd Successour in his Charge at Sea, with the consent of Caesar. Thus, by reason of the quality of this Excellent person, esteem'd by all Princes, rich, no less in Fame than in Fortune; and for the Reverence the Ganoueses bore him as the publick Benefactor, his House was frequented, not as that of a simple Citizen, but as of some great Prince. These things thus summarily describ'd, were the true causes of Fieschi's Conspiracy. With a memorable Example to all Free Cities of the incredible dammage which the Greatness of an eminent Citizen, though never so Ver­tuous and discreet, is to the Publick; and of that ne­cessity, which moved the Athenians to publish their Law of Ostracism.

Pope Paul the Third and the King of France were they which envy'd Genona's publick, and Doria's pri­vate happiness; because by that, Cities being with­drawn from the Service of the French, and put under the protection of Caesar, sprung up extraordinary ob­stacles to the Affairs of Millan, which the Pope would gladly have seen favourable to the King; as well to curb in some measure the power of Caesar, now formi­dable to all; as to vindicate himself for the impedi­ment he receiv'd, in advancing one of his Family to that Dukedom. Nor could they endure, that Doria the only Author and promoter hereof should remain in an Honourable repose a Spectatour of others Mis­fortunes.

They now expected some Accident which might minister an occasion to their designs. But that oppor­tunity which they could not find, was put into their hands by Fortune, not yet intirely reconcil'd to the Genoueses. Gio Luigi de Fieschi, a young man of great Spirit and turbulent humour, was at this time compas­sing how he might better his Reputation and Degree. He was descended of Noble Parentage; rich no less in Adherence and Followers, than in Vassals and Estate. Not contented for all this with that Honourable condi­tion which descended to him from his Ancestors, he suffer'd himself to be hurried by the heats of his Age and by Ambition, the ordinary disease of the Nobility, to dangerous hopes. From a Boy he gave manifest signs of an immature fierceness, from which wife men collected, that he grew up for the disturbance of his Countreys Peace. To these pernicious Incentives of his Nature was added a bad Education, the incurable pest of Youth; for though his Master, Paolo Pansa, was both Learn'd and Vertuous, those with whom he most freely convers'd were dangerous persons, who employ'd their skill by Flatteries to nourish in his mind perverse [Page 202]and novel designs, styling them Noble and Generous. Nor (as 'twas said) was his Mother wanting to add Fuel to this growing flame. For, more ambitious than considerate, she often wounded the mind of her Son with bitter Reproaches, as if he poorly contenting himself with a private Fortune did degenerate from his Ancestours, who in their Countrey and out of it, were wont to sustain the greatest Dignities. And to make all sure, he (by the Advice of his Friends) gave himself to read and study the Life of Nero, Catilines Conspiracy, and Machiavels Prince. From which Books he did suck in priciples of Cruelty, Perfidiousness, and love of Private Interest, above divine or humane Rea­son. So much force hath good or ill to change even the will of the Reader, when convey'd by a powerful Pen, and apt to perswade.

Those who watch'd over Advantages to ruine Ge­noua, had penetrated the Qualities of Gio. Luigi, and believ'd him a fitting Instrument for their important design. They endeavour'd by all ways to put him upon the action, setting before him the Profit and Ho­nour of it. Amongst others, Caesare Fregoso attempted him in the name of the French King, whereof Doria had notice, but the Advice did not find belief with the Old man, who was preoccupied with an affection to Gio. Luigi, and with his own opinion, founded upon the incertainty of vain Conjectures. Nor was the Pope wanting to invite him to it, and he being then in the Popes state caused four Gallies to be sold him by the Duke of Piacenza. Where likewise Cardinal Tri­ultio, Protector of France, gave him a Visit, and know­ing him a man greedy of Fame, spake to him after this manner:

If Fortune were propitious to your Vertue, Noble Youth, I might be happy to see you in a condition far above that of a private Citizen. But seeing through [Page 203]the Iniquity of the Times your rewards do not go e­qual with your merits, take in good part that I pity your condition, and joyn with all good men to wish you better Fortune. Your Birth and Parts have made your Advancement the subject of all their Vows, who desire the Common good: and I, who by the height of my place have a fair prospect into the Affairs of the World, cannot but wish you had a larger Theater o­pen'd for so much Valour. You are born in Times so calamitous, that in your own City 'tis not lawful to aim at Eminency: because it being reduc'd to a Civil equality, will not endure you other than a meer Citizen. Besides, that Andrea and Giannettin Doria have, under pretence of publick Liberty, so firmly rooted their Power, that the greatest publick Concord consists in serving their Wills. Thus the Genoueses have chastis'd themselves for that blind resolution, which withdrew them from the dominion of a Potent Prince, by their so tamely subjecting themselves to the tyranny of two private Men. They, upheld by Caesar, and formidable by a good number of Ships, will not suffer a noble and generous Spirit; but will look upon the Vertue of an eminent Citizen, as dangerous to the growing For­tunes of their Family. They will value themselves upon the specious names of Fathers of their Countrey, and Restorers of its lost Liberty, to oppress the bravest Men under pretence of the Common good. So that under their Empire you shall be more sure of Injuries than of Life: and if all this hath not hapned hitherto, impute it to the unripe Greatness of Doria, and the moderation of Andrea, who gives check to the rash­ness of Giannettin. He being of a proud and impo­tent nature, when he shall see himself girt about with his own Forces, and for the importance of his Charge reverenc'd by all the Nobility, what is it which he will not make lawful for his Power? Do you think that [Page 204]his thirst of Rule, provok'd by his approaching hopes, will be extinguish'd by any thing but the Blood of the Innocent? Do you believe, that content with the Greatness which his over partial Fortune and Folly of the Citizens hath invested him with, he will die with the bare name of Giann. Doria? I for my part cannot think so. He is not of that moderation, that either he should know how, or be willing to stop the course of his extream felicity. He expects, I imagine, the death of Andrea, and then by a wicked Invasion staining all his famous Actions, done in behalf of his Countrey, he will usurp the Command of it. But let us suppose the Divine goodness prevents these designs, can his present height be endur'd by a well-born Citizen? If you have not hitherto tasted of his Insolencies, you are oblig'd to the tenderness of your years, not to his good Manners: but hereafter you will find yourself involv'd in the Common misery. You, you I say, amongst the rest shall be seen to visit, accompany and serve him; Giannettin shall be able to number amongst the Tro­phies of his intolerable Insolence, that Gio. Luigi de Fieschi, Earl of Lavagna, and Lord of so many Vassals, courted him, reverenc'd him, and bow'd to him. How much better were it, that awaking your mind to Reso­lutions worthy of your Countrey, Family, and Vertue, you should deliver all others and your self from this Servitude? And can you want Forces, when you please to use them? Before you leave Rome, you shall be furnish'd with all necessary Aids. I can promise you the assistance of the King of France. In Genoua the Common people ever at variance with the Nobility, shall be to you a Sword and Shield. Giannettin sleeping in the arms of his good Fortune, will fall an easie prey into your Nets; your own Subjects, and those of the Duke of Piacenza, will be able to defend you against any Force that can be rais'd. In short, all things invite [Page 205]you to Victory: only wants your own determination, not to fight, but to triumph. Consider, 'tis necessary you command or serve; either render your self formidable to others, or live in perpetual fear.

Triultio could not have touch'd his mind in a part more sensible: for having long envied the Greatness of Doria, he look'd upon Giannettin as a reproach to his own tameness: So that having his Will well prepared, he soon took fire from this spark the Cardinal administred. When he had greedily hearkned to the Conditions pro­pounded in the name of the King, he did not think them despisable; and they were the following, That he should presently receive money for the maintaining six Gallies; That he should be secur'd of Pay for two hun­dred men, to be put into his Castle of Montobby; That he should receive twelve thousand Crowns per annum for his provision. Which Conditions were soon after confirm'd to him by the Kings Order. He gave now good hopes of himself; not only by that alteration which Triultio quickly spy'd in him, but by words; yet reserv­ing his last Resolution to his return for Genoua. Where being arriv'd, he began more diligently to observe the proceedings of Giannettin: for though the splendour of the Family deriv'd it self chiefly from the person of Andrea; yet because most worship the rising Sun, the eyes of all were turn'd upon Giannettin. He having in­creas'd his natural pride by a Military education, and be­ing reverenc'd for the Command he had of 20 Gallies, and for the succession in the Admiralship design'd him by Caesar, heightned also by several Proofs he had gi­ven of his personal Valour, had drank in Conceits far beyond the condition of a private Citizen: whence, not caring to acquire by Courtesie those men, which he be­liev'd were oblig'd to him by Interest, he studied more the ostentation of his own power, than others good will. [Page 206]For all this, he was much hated by the popular Faction: and the young Nobility which follow'd him, were drawn by the profit they hop'd to reap from him, and not invited by his manner of treating them. He also us'd Fieschi but coursly, which provok'd him in such a manner, that he was so far from seeking his Friend­ship by the ordinary servilities, that he rather indis­creetly betray'd some signs of his evil-will: and to shew that he stood in no need of him in that very par­ticular which made him so Famous, he bought the four Gallies of the Duke of Piacenza to the infinite vexa­tion of Giannettin. In the mean while Triultio would not by omitting his diligences corrupt the hopes he had conceiv'd of gaining Gio. Luigi; and knowing that in important Resolutions the nature of Youth must be taken warm, that the heat of his past Negotiation might not cool, he sent Nicolo Foderato, a Kinsman of the Earls, to Genoua. He, by renewing the Treaty and inlarging the Cardinals Promises, drew Gio. Luigi at last to an express declaration of his readiness to assist the French Army in reducing Genoua to the Kings Obedience, upon some Conditions favourable to his own greatness. The Earl now puts his design to Con­sultation; and three Persons there were which he call'd to it; Vincenza Calcagno, an old and faithful Servant of his; Raphael Sacco, his Lawyer; and Gio. Battista Verrina, a Citizen of Genoua. This last be­ing a near Neighbour of Fieschi's easily obtaind his acquaintance, and by the Earls Liberality sustain'd his declining Fortunes: and had insinuated himself into a participation of his greatest Secrets. He was of a vast Spirit, and bent to the greatest Exploits: an implacable enemy of the Nobility, as well through Faction as for particular Injuries. Nor could he be content with the present Government, which being in [Page 207]the hands of the Nobility, excluded him from all hopes of sharing in it. Add to this his slender For­tunes clog'd with Debts, a powerful spur to Sensitive minds, which puts them upon a desperate imbracing any strange design, as well by consideration of their present wants, as the memory of their past abun­dance. Verrina then perceiving he could no longer conceal his broken Fortunes in the serenity of a publick Peace, desired to hide them in the universal confusion of his Countrey. For if the designed wickedness were accompanied with Fortune, he should marvel­lously better his condition: and if it were fatal, he should miscarry, be ruin'd in the common ruine, and expire in the heat of a great Enterprize, he com­forted himself with the famous infamy of having pro­vided for his Name. So mad a thing is Ambition, which makes no difference in Fame, whether good or evil, so it be Great. On the other side Calcagno, one of a ripe Judgment, but a timorous nature, being us'd to the delights and ease of a plentiful House, hated to think of those dangers into which he saw Gio. Luigi about to precipitate himself: Besides, that sincerely loving the Person rather than the Fortunes of the Earl, in whose Service he had grown up from a Child, he had no Interest of his own which he desir'd should flourish at the expence of his Master. Sacco seeing the matter every way dangerous stood Neuter, not de­claring his Sentiments, that he might accommodate himself opportunely to that Resolution which should be imbraced by the Earl. Gio. Luigi now lays open his mind, with a short, but vehement Speech, decla­ring, That he was absolutely resolv'd to attempt some great matter, and that he ask'd their Advice only a­bout the manner. Notwithstanding which, Calcagno bearing himself upon the tender love he bore to his [Page 208]Master, and long Familiarity, with singular liberty spake to this purpose:

If in your Resolutions of attempting this design you are as obstinate as your words seem to declare, I may rather weep over the Common misery, than hope to effect any thing by contradicting you. But if prudence and your better Fortune have left place for Second thoughts, which are wont to be most matur'd, you shall this day have proof of my fidelity in freely speaking to you, as you have hitherto had in my faith­ful acting for you. You have hitherto liv'd in a con­stant tenour of happiness, and have not seen the threatning face of Fortune: so that according to the manner of the Fortunate, you dream of nothing but Victory, increase of State and Lordships. But I fear much, that these gay Figures which revel in your Ima­gination, will be defac'd by some disastrous event; which will be so much the more intolerable, by how much the less 'tis fear'd. To introduce a change in the Government of this Commonwealth is a work of so much difficulty, and expos'd to such evident danger, that I cannot do so much violence to my own thoughts, as to fancy it secure and easie. For you either design to value your self upon the Forces of Strangers, or you hold Intelligence with the Citizens. I see no Forein Forces ready; and if they were, they can nei­ther be so speedy or so secret, but it may come to the notice of the City, Doria and Caesar. Italy, for our Misfortune, is at present the Stage of such important Actions as keep open all mens eyes: and Genoua be­ing the only Frontier of this Province, is the more jealously look'd to. The State of Millan (both the Field of Battel, and the destin'd prey to the Fortune of the Imperial or French Arms) causes Caesar to watch over Genoua as the Bulwark of his Power in [Page 209] Italy. Doria assists him with twenty Gallies; and the Citizens hating the tyranny of the Duke of Millan and King of France, loath the name of Foreiners. You may indeed with a small Force discover your in­tention, but not bring it to effect; and whence you should hope great I cannot imagine. The King of France hath enough to do to secure his own Frontiers; or if he should assist you, will not Caesar oppose him with Superiour, or not unequal Force? In such a case at least the uncertainty of the event will take place, which depends on the doubtful success of a Battel. After which you will be forc'd to accommodate your self to that Fortune which shall be prescrib'd you by the Conquerour; and nothing remain with you but the infamy of having ungratefully depriv'd your Coun­trey of its liberty, and put it under the yoke of Strangers. If you expect assistance within the Town, either I do not know the nature and condition of the Genoueses, or you have a slippery foundation for your hopes. Tell me, from what order of Citizens you attend Succours; perhaps from the Nobility: But they are the Creatures of Doria, and bound to him by notable Intcrest. They live in an honourable Peace, and possess the Command of the Commonwealth: so that if the least mutation will endammage their con­dition, how can you expect they consent to a turbu­lent Revolution, which must cast them into worse Calamities than the past? Will they, think you, to please your will, put in oblivion their Countrey, Li­berty, Fortunes, Wives and Children? Will they, for your Friendship, slight the Protection of Doria, now reverenc'd as their Father by so many particular and common Titles? Nor can you make better Judgment of the Common peoples inclination towards you. For, the greater the hatred is they profess to [Page 210]the name of the Nobility, the less can they hope that you, one of the chief in that Order, will without any appearance of reason endeavour to extinguish it. But if you design to compass to your self the Com­mand of the Commonwealth, what Action less po­pular than this, or more unlike to gain the People? But perhaps you pretend to restore the first Form of Government chang'd by the violence of Doria, in which flourish'd the popular Power, and by declaring so much you think to stir up the People in your favour: nor am I obstinate in believing the contrary, but rather imagine those who are at present ill-satisfied, will greedily imbrace an occasion of renewing the past Tra­gedies. To which they will be more easily mov'd, whilst they shall reap the profit, and you the infamy of the Action: unless you can perswade your self, that the Adorni and Fregosi will yield to you that prehemi­nence in the popular administration, which they have so long and so often sought for themselves. They will praise your rashness, and call it Valour: they will fol­low your Ensigns as their Deliverer: they will be glad to see the Nobility crush'd by a Noble man; the bowels of the Commonwealth wounded by your Arms; the Common Peace overwhelm'd by your Fury; their Tyranny restor'd by your Folly; and keeping aloof from the wickedness you set on foot, (let every thing be call'd by its right name) they will take their time to enter upon the harvest of your Labours; to share in the honour of your Attempts, in the triumph of your Combats. In what condition shall you then find your self? odious to the Nobility you have betray'd; scorn'd by the Commonalty, who enjoy the fruits of your Artifices; hated by your Countrey, which through your means hath lost its Liberty; an Enemy to Caesar, under whose protection we are; not trusted by the [Page 211]King of France, who aim'd at the absolute Command of Genoua; abhorr'd by the whole World, which justly detests all Treasons. And further I must tell you, and 'tis necessary you hear it; for the fidelity I owe to your Service, and the love I bear your Per­son, makes me thus bold: I fear (and God grant my Fears be vain) I fear I say, that these unquiet and tumultuous Thoughts are the instigations of your e­vil Fortune, which hath destin'd you to the loss of Reputation, Life and Estate. You know that Doria looks upon you with an envious Eye; and you have complain'd to me, that you dread his Malice; Why then will you put Arms into his hand, wherewith he may justly oppress you? With how much eagerness will he incounter an occasion to satisfie his Hatred to you, under pretence of Love to his Countrey? He will secretly be glad of that resolution which thrusts you forward; and openly taking Arms, with what reasons may he not justifie to the World his opposing you? You shall be the Enemy of the publick Peace, the Tyrant of publick Liberty, the Betrayer of your Countrey, a Rebel to the Commonwealth, the Cati­line of Genoua. With these magnificent and plausible words, who amongst the Commonalty, Nobility, Ci­tizens; what Stanger, what Private man, what Prince will not Arm himself against you? I am astonish'd to think, much more to speak of it. At last, you shall remain opprest by a Common force conspiring your destruction. Your Lands confiscate, as those of a Traytor; your memory stain'd and dishonour'd in the Annals of Genoua; and Giannettin acknowledg'd the Second Deliverer of his Countrey and Restorer of Liberty, will build his Glories upon your ruines. The gratitude of the Genoueses will raise up a Statue to him, to accompay that of Andrea, in whose Inscri­ption [Page 212]shall be inserted the Name of Gio. Luigi Fieschi the publick Enemy, o'rethrown by Giannettin Doria the publick Benefactour. Do not then suffer your self to be hurried by the impetuousness of your Youth, or resentments to such dangerous Attempts. Be content to be restrain'd by a pity to your Self, Family, and Subjects. Compassionate the infelicity of your Mother and Wife. Deliver those that love you from so just and necessary Fears. This your Youth accompanied with so much worth, does not deserve to be prodigally cast into the hands of Fortune: Enjoy, enjoy those Riches, which in such abundance your Father left you; for you are plac'd in a degree every way so eminent, that you may live envy'd by Giannettin.

These words were not heard by Fieschi without some trouble of mind; for having receiv'd other proofs of the tender affection of Calcagno, he saw it now accompanied with so many and so powerful Rea­sons, that he remain'd not a little alter'd; which Verrina observing, and considering, that if he let his Thoughts gather force, all was in danger; handsomly, but with a detestable Impiety, he thus oppos'd Calcag­no's Arguments:

I would to God that the Affairs of the Common­wealth were reduc'd to such terms, that the Citizens might quietly enjoy their own; you could not then wish your self in a better condition: for as Calcagno hath well consider'd, for largeness of Territory, No­bility of Birth, and for Riches you have not your equal in Genoua: nor ought a Wise man in the height of his felicity to provoke his Fortune, which cannot suffer change but for the worse. But Destiny, the Enemy of your welfare, hath so intangled matters, that you must attempt great things, or perish. Giannettin Doria, who for so many years hath destin'd to his Covetousness [Page 213]the Command of Genoua, will never endure you. If you do not plainly read in his Forehead the implacable Hatred he bears you; if in his Behaviour you do not discover his Pride, the Gallies bought by you speak loud enough, that you are a Thorn in his side. That Insolent man does ambition the free and absolute Do­minion of these Seas, nor will he endure that any body should dare to disturb or divide it with him. How can you imagine he will long suffer you to share with him in that Power, when the Jealousie of Rule does not spare the Blood of Brothers, Sons, or Pa­rents? Either you must then by a shameful flight re­tire to your Castles, and leaving your Gallies leave the Field; or else you must awaken that Courage which shall be sufficient to oppose him. If you resolve to redeem your self from the approaching danger with your Infamy, and lead your life as receiv'd in gift from him, go, I will not stop you: a more wretched condition the hate of Giannettin could not wish you. But your Vertue bids me hope something more generous, and that I shall see the vain Pride of that rash man broken by your Valour. You are then to embrace such an En­terprize as Giannettin himself shall envy. Fortune hath plac'd between you two the Empire of Liguria, nor can one of you attain it without making way for the wheels of his Triumph over the breast of the other. He can best secure himself of Victory, that knows how by prevention to cut off his Enemies way. the necessity of securing your own safety is common to both; he will appear wisest, who by the celerity of a resolute execution shall be beforehand with tardy and immature Counsels. Either assault, or expect to be assaulted. Either prevent him, or fall into his Nets; or kill, or die. Perhaps my words may ap­pear too sharp; but Necessity, which in desperate [Page 214]cases is the Whetstone of Fortitude, is likewise the Shield of Innocence. Let the folly of Giannettiu be accus'd; the Cowardice of your Countrey and the iniquity of Fortune, which have reduc'd you to such inevitable straits. You are not injurious to any, whilst to defend your self you follow the order of Nature. It is part of prudence to divert that Tempest upon the head of our Enemy, which threatens our own; and if this cannot be done without appearance of evil, it is not your fault, but Destiny's, which left no way to maintain your life but anothers death; and grants no other defence for your Vertue, than Vice. But why do I say Vice? this is your word Calcagno, and you have learn'd it in the School of the Vulgar, Strangers to the doctrine of Rule. The Actions of Private persons are styl'd by this name, not the Enter­prizes of Princes. If your Rule were right, all Em­pire should be wicked: for it all proceeds from the force of the stronger over the weaker. Nature pro­duc'd Mankind in a perfect equality, and left it to Vertue to attain Supremacy. Whence those are call'd Princes, who by their Wit and Force knew how to compass a Command over others. I deny not but some will joyn with Calcagno to chide your Resolu­tion before it be conducted to its end: for dangerous and bold Actions are not celebrated till they have at­tain'd their effect; but when the Fortune of the exe­cution shall have authenticated the nobleness of the Attempt, that blaming shall be converted into won­der, and what was first call'd Rashness shall be ho­nour'd with the Title of Valour. Whilst Caesar him­self had his Arms in his hand, and fought for the Empire of Rome, not only Pompey, but the greatest part of the Nobility obstinately oppos'd him; but when he had overthrown his Enemy in the Pharsalian [Page 215]Field, and master'd the Commonwealth, Civil hatred ceas'd, and he was so sincerely belov'd by the Romans, that they severely reveng'd his death. Let the Ge­noueses for a time call you Tyrant, and don't think that Name injurious, but imagine only that dying Liberty talks idly. They will by degrees be brought to ac­knowledge you a legitimate Prince. You see how I confide in your Fortunes, designing you Empire before you are prepar'd to fight for it. But such is the dis­position of Affairs, that you may rather be wanting to your self, than Empire to you. For if the difficul­ties are great in the opinion of Calcagno, you have Force enough to master greater. And grant that 'tis a hard and knotty Enterprize; what Famous Action do you meet with in Ancient or Modern story, that was conducted by smooth and flowry ways? Great Enter­prizes were ever accompanied with great Dangers, and the greatest heights confine upon Precipices. A man of elevated thoughts will not for all that let an un­certain fear of eminent Calamity deliver him a prey to certain Misery. In a Private condition 'tis prudent Counsel to stick to Mediocrities, but in occurrences of State middle ways are most pernicious; especially when the business must begin at execution: For not being able to put bounds to things that are once a foot, and out of our hands, we must reach our proposed ends, or fall into ruine. But let us not give to our Affairs such unhappy Auguries. Let us take a view of Misfor­tunes by a necessary foresight, not to torment our selves in the expectation, but to prevent their bad effects by prudence; let us walk warily, but let not too much Caution render us fearful and irresolute. Let something be left to the disposal of your Fortune; and Fate, who having chosen you for Genoua's Deliverer, and Restorer of the Ancient Italian Valour, will find [Page 216]ways to unravel all difficulties; only consent to be Ab­solute, and imbrace with largeness of heart those Fa­vours which Fortune freely pours into your bosom, without dividing them. To what end should you call the French to share in your Fortunes, who having lost what they possest on this side the Mountains, together with their Reputation, are not secure of Caesar in their own Territories? Besides, you ought to consider the natural Hatred that Nation bears to the Italian Name. That King, 'tis true, is indu'd with Qualities truly Royal, but for all that he hath his weaknesses, insepa­rable from great Princes. And what Recompence can the French give you worthy of your pains and dan­gers? perhaps leave you in the Government of Ge­noua, with dependance upon them? But this were to make your self mercenary in that Countrey, where Nature hath invested you with part of the Principa­lity: 'tis better you value your self on your own Sub­jects, Friends, and Confederates; and not let that Crown be put on your Head by others hands, which is so worthy of you, and you of it. When you shall have establish'd your Power in Genoua, and thereby keep even the Key of Italy, the best Princes of Chri­stendom will ambitiously court your Friendship. Then, when you shall have overcome the envy of Competi­tours, your Family shall be plac'd in a height to which none of Genoua hath attain'd. Giannettin shall fall at your feet, reverence you as his Lord, and fear you as his Prince; with a beck you shall regulate his Actions, and your will shall give Law to his desires. Let the French alone then in their Countrey, and there let them hear the sound of your Victories. To you it be­longs now vigorously to incounter what stands in the way of your design. Do it with a Resolution worthy of your Birth and Courage. Deserve that Triumph [Page 217]which the Heavens have destin'd you. Let the World see you know how to build your own Fortunes. Let my mighty Hopes be surmounted by your Vertue. Se­cure a Kingdom to your Family, and eternity to your Name.

Gio. Luigi had never apply'd his mind to get Genoua for himself, but for the Crown of France; contented to lessen the excessive Power of Doria, and to better his own condition under the Kings protection: but being covetous of Fame, and in his nature inclin'd to vast Pretences, 'twas easie for Verrina to take him off from the French, and put him upon his own Ad­vancement. So that no longer weighing the Reasons of Calcagno, he was as it were fatally carried to the execution of the most dangerous, and least honest Ad­vice. But for all this he was much perplexed with an apprehension of the difficulties wanting the French assistance. In which doubt Raphael Sacco confirm'd him, who being of the French Faction prais'd the Conditions offer'd by Triultio, as fit to be imbrac'd. But Verrina detesting all mixtures as dangerous in a business which call'd for extream Resolutions, endea­vour'd by all ways to remove this obstacle which cool'd the fervency of Gio. Luigi. So he replies with much vehemency, That 'twas a meanness unworthy a Noble mind to be frighted off a design with Phantasms. That in the Garrison of Genoua were no more than two hundred Souldiers; Doria's Gallies though many in number remain'd useless, for by reason of the Season improper for Navigation they were disarm'd; Andrea and Giannettin far from all suspicion of Violence, liv'd abandon'd without Guard publick or private; Gio. Lu­igi might in an instant bring in a good number of Soul­diers from the neighbouring Castles, which should sur­prize the Doria's in their House; at the same time [Page 218]'twould be easie to master the Gallies: the rest would happily fall in of it self, through the inveterate hatred the Common people bore the Nobility: He offer'd himself to stir up the Commonalty in favour of the Enterprize, whose minds he had by his endeavours already well dispos'd. These, and other particulars urg'd by Verrina with great subtlety, especially a supe­riority of Genius which he had over Gio. Luigi, gave the last shock to his wavering mind. So now sully descending into the opinion of Verrina, he began to consider how he might proceed to carry the design prosperously. The first and joynt Resolution of them all was, that seeing the safety of the Doria's was in­separably link'd to the present Government, to change this 'twas necessary to take those out of the way: and, to be secure in their Revenge, to kill likewise Adamo Conturione, Father in Law to Giannettin, and some others of the Nobility.

From the first day that Gio. Luigi gave way to these thoughts, after he had bought the Gallies he retir'd to his Castles, where he was wont to exercise the Militia of the Countrey, pretending to fear the Duke of Pia­cenza his Neighbour; but really with intention of fitting his Subjects, that they might become propor­tionable Instruments to his designs. Returning to the City at the beginning of Autumn, he us'd great Art to purchase the Friendship of those among the Nobi­lity, which were styl'd Popular. He insinuates him­self into their Conversation with wondrous facility: to some he gave; others he assisted in their occurring Interests; to every one he offer'd himself with great demonstrations of Courtesie. And being of a lively Wit and a bending Nature, 'tis scarce credible how fortunately he gain'd their confidence. When he saw that he had master'd their wills, he began as occasion [Page 219]offer'd, to mock at the Tyranny of the Nobility, as he call'd it; at another time he would seem, by abrupt discourses, to pity the condition of the Common people, sometimes he would hint, that there was a way to suppress the Arrogance of the Nobility, if they were not wanting to themselves; sometimes exhort­ing them by a bitter Irony to patience, and ever with perplexed words leaving some sting in their minds. But above all, exaggerating the iniquity of the Govern­ment, if by chance any thing fell out displeasing to the Common people. Nor did he omit his diligences e­ven with the dregs of the Commonalty; ready in his Salutations; pleasant in encounter; splendid in his Ha­bit; Courteous to all. In this Nature helped him not a little, being of exquisite Form, in the flower of his Youth, and of a Jovial complexion; whence by a sweetness of air in his Face, and an elegant Behavi­our, he was belov'd even at first sight, and verified in himself what was said of Absalon. Besides, he fre­quently exercis'd Horsemanship, and did it with infi­nite grace and becomingness. But because an opinion of Liberality is the strongest Chain to bind the Mul­titude, 'tis said, that he one day call'd to him the Consul of the Silk-weavers, of which Trade there are a great number in Genoua, familiarly asking him the condition of his Company; and understanding that they liv'd in great misery by reason of the badness of Trade, he shew'd signs of a most tender Compassion toward the Poor men, and said, they were not to be abandon'd in a time of so much need; he therefore orders him to send secretly to his House such whose necessity was most manifest and urgent. The next day comes a great number of them one by one, and he as one of singular Charity, divides amongst them a certain quantity of Corn; telling them withal, that it being [Page 220]the Ancient Custome of his Family to relieve necessi­tous and afflicted Persons, he could not degenerate from his Ancestours, therefore when they wanted Means to sustain their Families, they might confidently value themselves on his Substance, which they should always find expos'd to their Relief, provided they were silent; Secresie being a main circumstance in Alms. They departed no less comforted by the Relief, than amaz'd at the Liberality, reputing their Benefactour worthy of all good Fortune. He in the mean time would not in such a manner cast himself into the arms of the Commonalty as to fall into Jealousies of the Nobility; but studied to use such a temperament, that the confidence of the one should not destroy the Friend­ship of the other. Wherefore he betook himself to a profound Simulation, and began to frequent Doria's Palace more than before: and dissembling well the mortal hatred he bore Giannettin, behav'd himself with all Familiarity, craving his Advice and assistance in all his Affairs. In the mean while he corresponded with the Duke of Piacenza, who promis'd him two thousand Foot to joyn with what Force he could raise in his own State. He likewise causes one of his Gal­lies to come to Genoua, pretending to send it for the Barbary shore. Nor was Verrina idle all this while, but cunningly gain'd divers persons to promise him their aid in a certain occasion. With these Preparati­ons they thought a sufficient foundation was laid for the building up of their design, and met once more to consult of the execution. The first opinion was, that they should intimate a new Mass in the Church of St. Andrea, to which Andrea, Giannettin, and some of the principal Nobility, whose lives they design'd upon, should be invited. But this seem'd no less wioked than unsafe; for Andrea would have excus'd himself [Page 221]by his Age: Besides, it seem'd too horrid to give be­ginning to their design with the Sacrilegious pro­phaning of a Temple and Sacrifice. But because the Reins once let loose we are hurried precipitously to all sorts of wickedness, though shame gave check to the last determination, it broke out afterwards in a most detestable Impiety. For upon occasion of a Marriage to be celebrated between a Sister of Giannettins and Guilio Gabo, Marquess of Massa, and Kinsman of Gio. Luigi, they resolv'd that the Earl should invite the Doria's, and those of the Nobility which they thought stood most in the way, to Supper with the Brides Com­pany; and that all of them (violating the right of Hospitality) should be murther'd by certain Men con­ceal'd in the House for that purpose; and that the Earl should immediately issue out with his Followers, and call the people to Liberty; and that at the Palace Verrina, by a plausible Speech shewing the necessity of reforming the Government, should prepare the Com­mons to accept of Gio. Luigi for their Prince. Here­upon order was given, that from Gio. Luigi's Castle should enter into the City one by one the best of his Souldiers, and the Duke of Piacenza was solicited to send his promis'd Succours. These diligences, especi­ally of listing Souldiers, could not pass so secretly but the Governour of Millan had some notice of it, and sent to Genoua to give it Doria and the Emperours Embassadour. Andrea notwithstanding, deceiv'd by those flattering demonstrations of affection, and that serenity of Countenance which he continually found in Gio. Luigi, was a second time incredulous to those pregnant Circumstances which lay against him. Nor did he change opinion, when the same Government of Millan having a confirmation of it from the Court of France, advis'd him once more seriously to take it [Page 222]into consideration. And certainly, if we did not read of several Great persons, who have been hardly in­duc'd to give credit to what they heard was plotting against their safety, the simplicity of Andrea were sharply to be blam'd; who in a matter that concern'd his life, and the safety of the Commonwealth, lent more belief to the dissembling looks of Gio. Luigi, than to the thing it self; as if it were an unusual thing to put on a Face to serve the Scene; or as if for the safe­guard of our Countrey and Life any kind of Vigilance were superfluous. But seeing the Stories of all times do furnish a hundred Examples of prudent men, who have suffer'd themselves to be bewitch'd by this fatal Incredulity in things of the greatest importance, we must needs say, that the Accidents order'd or inevitably permitted by the Providence that governs them, re­quire to bring them to effect this momentany Folly in the brightest Intellects, as the assault of a violent fit in the most healthful Bodies, to mortifie Worldly wis­dom, which in Affairs of greatest weight appears light­est. More quick-sighted was Paolo Pansa, who with a loving as well as a prudent Eye, studying the Actions of Gio. Luigi from the time that he bought the Gal­lies, did much suspect some important Action depend­ing, and by the Authority which his condition gave him, reprov'd him. After that, weighing exactly what he heard and saw, he found occasion to augment his conceiv'd suspicion. For Gio. Luigi, who was wont before to impart to him his most secret Affairs was now silent, and withdrew often to private Consultations with others. And though riding about the City, or in conversation with his Friends, he marvellously con­ceal'd his inward thoughts; yet when he came home he was chang'd into another man, full of profound thoughtfulness, and little less than astonish'd. Nor [Page 223]did he hide his designs from Pansa for any other reason, but because knowing him a Man of singular integrity, he concluded that he would by all means endeavour to divert him: or at least, as one that was a Stranger to Military noises, and educated in the pleasing idleness of the Muses, examining every Circumstance with too much Caution, he would measure the Enterprize by terms of security, impossible to be had in such cases. One day Gio. Luigi coming home more than ordinarily Melancholy, by an unquiet motion and un­certain countenance gave signs of some great altera­tion; so that Pansa resolv'd to speak to him, lest by deferring it, the Remedy might come when the Disease was past cure; and withdrawing into a Chamber with him, he thus began:

To pry into anothers Secrets is as unworthy a gal­lant man, as the faithful keeping of them, when de­posited, is laudable; and I, who would have pro­mis'd this, if it were not known to you by so many proofs, have abstain'd from that, not to do a thing that might displease you. Your unwonted Silence speaks to me notwithstanding loud enough, and signi­fies Matters of so much the more weight, as they are deeply conceal'd. I read in your disturb'd Face the necessity of my Cares, and I learn from your Fears to fear. I fear Gio. Luigi, I fear, nor do I know what: I know well, that this is the fervency of the Love I bear you, and one of the Raptures of my Fidelity. And how can I perswade my self that your mind is bent upon a fitting Subject, when it hath the power to disturb its serenity? The execu­tion of your design cannot be peaceable, when the bare thought of it works such a change in you: and you give too unhappy augury of that Enterprize, which you commence with inquietudes. To what end do [Page 224]those Counsels tend, which leave you floating in a thousand perplexing Cares? These secret Assemblings of men Violent and Crafty, I fear much, will lead you astray from the path of Honesty, (Suffer me to han­dle the Wound in order to its cure,) they are not of so Innocent life, or such sincere Piety, that I dare pro­mise my self from them an honest and religious Ad­vice. Perhaps they abuse your Years, and finding you generous, propound Actions in appearance Magnifi­cent, but indeed rash. Open your eyes Gio. Luigi, for one fool may thrust you down that Precipice, from which the arts of a thousand Wise men shall not re­cover you. 'Tis easie to set a House on fire, but with how much sweat, and after how much dammage is it extinguish'd? Look to it, that they do not use you as the way to their end, or that your loss does not profit those that deceive you. Those Counsellors are too rarely found, which aim at what is right separate from Interest; and yet by this Touchstone you ought to try them. I cannot believe, that he who leads his life amidst a thousand Debaucheries, will invite ano­ther to Vertue: for though what he saith contradicts what he does, yet the principal part of perswasion lies in the Example, not in the Tongue; at least the Mouth and Hand must go together. What do they desire of you? what Novelty would they have you attempt? Your condition hath no need of motion to change it. That Fortune, so propitious to your House, may be easily provok'd. The least alteration which can succeed must be worse than your present state. Envy hath long sought to enter amidst your happiness, and will soon get in, if you put it in disorder: for many of those which are Inferiour to you for Birth and Place, go in quest of occasions to traduce you. Youth hath not a sweeter food than [Page 225]Hope, 'tis true; but 'tis as true there is nothing more slippery than Prosperity: Look to it then, that by reaching at what you hope for, you do not lose what you have in your hands. Those who are of your Counsel have nothing to lose. Tumults, Seditions and Ruines, by which bad Men rise, make for them: he does not fear to fall that is not plac'd on high. You ought to walk warily, for you are oblig'd to furnish Fame with matter worthy of your Birth.

This Discourse was heard by Gio. Luigi with impa­tience, for his mind was elsewhere: He answer'd him notwithstanding confusedly, That he intended nothing but what was Noble and worthy of his Birth, which at convenient time he should understand from him. Whilst the day appointed for the Feast, being the fourth of January, was expected by the Conspiratours, there happen'd an Accident which put them on a necessity of hastning the design; to their infinite vexation, seeing their hopes of seizing on a good part of the Nobility at the Creation of a new Duke frustrate. For Andrea taken with unwonted and excessive pains of the Gout could not come according to his Promise, and Giannet­tin was to leave Genoua upon some urgent Affair; so that considering a Conspiracy hath not a greater ob­stacle than Delay, they resolv'd to execute it the night of the second of January. And now Gio. Luigi gives out, that he will send abroad one of his Gallies against the Pirates. And under this colour he brought in the Souldiers sent him from Piacenza, and some of his own Vassals, pretending an Election out of them. And to the end that the Number of them which came from his own State, beyond the occasions of one Gal­ley, might not give suspicion, he caused some of them to be brought in fetter'd, as Criminals destin'd to the Ore: others enter'd singly at several Gates, and [Page 226]Arms were provided for them all. Afterwards, the better to deceive Giannettin, under pretext of Confi­dence he imparts his design, praying him to interpose with Andrea, that it might not be impeded; seeming to be fearful, that because a Truce was made between the Grand Signior and Caesar, he might stop the Gal­ley. The first of January, which preceded the Night fatal to Genoua, Gio. Luigi call'd home to him certain Souldiers of the City Garrison, whereof some were his own Vassals, others had obtain'd their Places by his means; then he goes to Andrea's House, where he staid late, shewing signs of a most tender love and respect: and meeting with the Children of Giannettin, which were playing in the Hall, with a tender and curious flattery, in the sight of their Father he kisses them several times, and takes them in his arms: At parting he renews his instance with Giannettin, to take care his Galley, which that Night was to set sail, was not hindred by his Men. And further, he advises him not to be surpriz'd, if by chance he heard Guns shot off, or other noise; for a business of this nature could not be effected without some disturbance. When it began to be dark, he brings into his House those Souldiers he had need of, and set such as he esteem'd most Faithful and Valiant at the Gates to admit all that came, but not to suffer any go out. He dwelt in the highest part of the City, in a place as it were divided from the rest, which was opportune for his design. When the Centinels were to be set, he who commanded the Garrison miss'd some of his Souldiers, and found they were gone to Gio. Luigi's House; so that suspecting some pernicious design, he advis'd the Senatours who were at the Palace. And now began to appear the fruit of Gio. Luigi's Dissimulation and Caution: for Giannettin possest with what he had heard concerning [Page 227]the Galley, stifled their growing Fears by telling them, That those Souldiers, or Vassals, or Servants of the Earl, were employ'd by him about the Voyage for the Lieutenant. So short sighted is Humane understanding, that then men build up their own Misfortunes, when they think they have put all in security. Gio. Luigi, after he had given necessary Orders at home, went a­broad to visit the Vegli's which the Nobility are wont to keep at their Houses in Winter Evenings. About four hours in the Night he came to the House of Toma­so Asereto, where Verrina had cunningly drawn toge­ther three and twenty of the young Nobility of the Popular Order. He treats them with much kindness, and invites them home with him to Supper; praising the stilness of the Evening, enlightned by a pure ray of the Moon. When he was come home, he carries them into a certain remote Chamber, and orders Pansa to entertain his Wife Leonora in another Room till he return'd. In the mean while Verrina goes up and down to the Palace, to Doria's House, and other parts of the City, to see if there were any Rumour. The young Gentlemen were not a little astonish'd to see the House full of Arms and Armed men, and look'd up­on one another, when Gio. Luigi his Countenance al­together chang'd (whether with horrour of the ap­proaching Parricide, or with rage against Giannettin, which hitherto violently smother'd in his breast, now began to attempt a passage through his eyes and mouth) leaning upon a Table, and striking upon it with his hand, he thus deliver'd himself:

So it is gallant Gentlemen. He that hath but one drop of ingenuous Blood cannot suffer it. The constancy of my Thoughts receives too great a vio­lence from the unworthiness of those who go about to ruine me. Too sad a Spectacle is drawn in my mind [Page 228]by the fear of my falling Countrey, and oppress'd Countreymen. If the Evils which mortally afflict the Commonwealth could hope a remedy from Time, I would willingly submit to any delay that might be useful to the Common good: but seeing our Affairs are arriv'd at their last Precipice; 'tis necessary we go meet our misery to sustain it. Dangers generously en­counter'd, lose their force; patiently expected, gather strength. Giannettin Doria fatiated with the idle Fe­licity that pursues him, wearies himself in following that Ambition which torments him; and now ready to gather the fruits of his bad designs, threatens you with loss of Liberty, and me of Life. Not content to see the People of Genoua, who were lately abso­lute Moderators of all Liguria, now stript of their Dignity, and a scorn to the Pride of the Nobility, he dare subject it to a Tyrannous Principality, which he is erecting for himself. To this effect, not enduring a Private Fortune, become in a Free Countrey more barbarous than Strangers, he arms his heart with such a contumacious Pride as cannot be overcome by Mo­desty, nor scap'd by Humility. He keeps, as you see, your Sea besieg'd with twenty Gallies; he passes up and down the City surrounded with the Nobility, who by Andrea's favour, possess'd of those Dignities which were yours, render to Giannettin a Servile respect, as a Reward for his crushing the Common People: and that which more afflicts me, I have invincible Proofs, that by the assistance of a Great Prince he prepares a cruel Yoke for the Publick Liberty. And because I alone being partial, not so much to your Order as to Right, have never consented with the rest of the No­bility to the oppression of the People, my life is aim'd at. Why then do we lie buried in Sloth, my Countrey­men? why do we remain fearful Spectitours of our [Page 229]own Miseries? For what Enterprize do we reserve our Courage, if in the utmost desolation of our Coun­trey we unhappily abandon our selves? It is no longer time to complain of them, but to be reveng'd upon them; let us leave the Tongue-War to Women, and he that is a Man let him use his hands. We have too long born their Insolence, who call our Modesty Cow­ardize. The impunity of past Crimes is pregnant of new, and too much dissimulation of the Oppressed provokes the minds of Oppressours to greater Inju­ries. And what do we expect further from them? Having lost the Government, and all place of Com­mand in the Commonwealth, can you be content to see your Goods snatch'd from you by Giannettins Officers, your Families destroy'd, your Lives betray'd, your Wives and Children dishonour'd, and all those Vil­lanies committed, which may justly be fear'd in a Ty­ranny bred out of the ruine of your Countrey, nou­rish'd with the Publick hatred, grown up with the Injuries of the Citizens, establish'd by the death of Good men? Are our minds so low, and our Bloods so Spiritless? Are our Arms so blunt, that we cannot by a Revenging hand cut of their infamous Lives, who honour themselves with our Disgraces, triumph in our Misfortunes, and feed on our Miseries? Shall we not tear from the Breast of Giannettin his wretched Bow­els? Shall we not rend that Heart from its fibres, which is the nest of such enormous Treasons? Shall we suffer a Citizen with an Insolent foot to trample on us, and to have over us, as over Slaves born to serve, the arbitrement of lise and death? I for my part esteem a Liberty bought with great Danger more glo­rious, than a Servitude flatter'd with Idleness: and as I count it my Honour, that the Common Enemy de­signs to joyn my death with the destruction of the [Page 230]Commonwealth, so I willingly consecrate my life to the conservation of its Liberty; and I should be un­worthy of it, did I prize it above my Countrey. Only I would discover in you such a freeness of Soul as is, if not worthy of your Vertue, at least correspon­dent to your danger. Wherefore either Captain or Souldier, which you will for my part; if you lead, I'le follow; follow me, if I lead. I consign you my Mind fearless in all Accidents, my Body shall be al­ways in your hands. But you, whether Honour be dear to you, or whether you desire to be safe, 'tis necessary you be Couragious, and betake you to your Arms: for such a Resolution which as to Valiant men is glorious, as to Cowards is profitable, and every way necessary. Nor do I call you to an indi­gested and rash design; for several Months since I have not only foreseen, but provided for this hour, by assembling sufficient Forces, which distributed in fitting places invite you rather to a Spectacle of certain Vi­ctory, than to the danger of a doubtful Combat. When you shall reduce to your memory the Abuses of the Nobility, and the Pride of Giannettin, I am confi­dent, that awakening in your selves the desire of an honourable Revenge, it will make you so bold in the manage of your Arms, that our Enemies to their loss shall be forc'd to admire Valour in those whom they despis'd; whilst you on the contrary shall make experience, whether they have so much force in feats of War, as softness in the encounters of Peace. A­long then my Companions, this shall be the end of my Speech, and the beginning of your Conquest. Let us go out into the City, where we are expected, to put a speedy end to an Enterprize so well begun. The Gates are in the power of Souldiers by me corrupted: the Gallies, at a sign given, will fall into the hands of [Page 231]such as are bold and able to keep them: In the City fifteen hundred Artizans ready Arm'd expect us: In the Suburbs by this time are arriv'd two thousand Foot from Piacenza, and as many more of my own Souldiers. Let us call the People to Liberty: Let us return to the sweetness of the Ancient Government, and root out the Tyranny of Giannettin and the No­bility. Generously, my Companions, in one sole Night, more bright than a thousand Days, let us re­store to the obscur'd Name of the Populace its Anci­ent splendour, and cancel all memory of past Cow­ardice. But if any of you shall be so stubborn as to think of opposing so Noble and Pious an Action, let him behold this horrible Scene of Arms and Armed men, and think the point of every Sword is levell'd at his breast. I vow, Companions, 'tis necessary to fight, or die: That Blood which ungratefully is de­ny'd to the succour of the suffering Commonwealth, shall be spilt in this very place to wash off the stain of so much perfidiousness; and he as the first Victim to be consecrated this Night to the love of our Coun­trey, shall fall here by my hand, if any dare oppose me.

Those who were present startled at this terrible Speech, and frighted to see themselves encompass'd on all sides with Arm'd men, were silent awhile; but at last, sway'd more by the fear of the present dan­ger, than by the horrour of the future wickedness, appear'd willing to apply themselves to the will of Gio. Luigi. In the mean while rather a short Colla­tion than a Supper is brought in; which while they were eating Gio. Luigi goes into the Chamber where his Wife Leonora was with Pansa, and discovers to them in a few words what he was about to do. The Lady wonderfully astonish'd at the wickedness of [Page 232]the Fact joyn'd with the extream peril of her Hus­band, all in Tears fell at his feet; By what is most dear to you in the World (saith she to him) and by that tender Love I bear you, let me beseech you Gio. Luigi, to have a care of your own Life, and do not stain the Honour of your Family by so unworthy an Acti­on. By these my Tears I conjure you, not to forget your self, me, your Countrey, and God. To what Precipice are you hastning? and me, where do you leave me? Must I stay here with a trembling heart, expecting the cruel News of your death, and remain a disconsolate Widow, pointed at by all for having been the Wife of a Traytour? Can you find in your heart to abandon me a prey to the Licence of Souldi­ers, and of the Common people, who flocking hither to sack this House, as the nest of a Rebel, shall satiate their Cruelty, and perhaps their Lust in this my Bo­dy? Stay Gio. Luigi— She could not pro­ceed, hindred by her Tears, and interrupted by the Earl, who seeing Pansa prepar'd to second her, cut off all in saying, Do not, my Dear Wife; lend so bad Omens to my Enterprize, but sustain your mind with better hopes. I go whither I am call'd by my Fate. Prepare your mind for all Events. My Affairs are reduc'd to that point, that I am not at liberty to retire. A few hours will let you know my Death, or your Happiness: Rest in peace. And now comes in Verrina, and tells them no opposition could be su­spected in any part of the Town, and that the Galley stust with stout Souldiers was ready to stop the mouth of the Darsena, and as it were to besiege those of Do­ria.

Now Gio. Luigi, Arming those he had assembled, goes out at Ten of the Clock at Night, sending before him an hundred and fifty of his best Men. He fol­lows [Page 233]accompany'd with the Nobility, taking great care that none of them slipt away. Being come to the Town, he sent Cornelio his Natural Brother with a Squadron of Souldiers to possess themselves of the Gate del Arco; which they did, the Guard consisting but of a few, being easily oppress'd. Heartned by this favourable success he goes on, and sends Girolamo and Ottabruno his Brothers with Calcagno to seize on the Gate of St. Tomaso: but himself hearing the sign from the Galleys, hastens to the Bridge de Catani, and finds his way made for him by Borgognini, who had by Water got into the Darsena. And now 'twas not difficult for him to enter Doria's Galley. The Ma­riners and Slaves awakened by the unexpected Vio­lence of Arm'd men in the Port, did wound the Air with a confus'd and horrible noise of Chains and Voices, crying Liberty. The Slaves all striving to break their odious Fetters. But Gio. Luigi, whose intentions and occasions could not be serv'd by naked Galleys, to hinder the dammage which might result from their escape, ran hastily toward the Captain, and getting upon a Plank which was laid to pass from the Poop to the shore, the Galley having some small mo­tion, he fell together with the Plank into the Water; being Arm'd at all points, he could not help himself by Swimming; and by reason of the noise of the Tumult, and the darkness of the Night, he was not seen nor heard of any body, but miserably perish'd rather in a puddle of Muddy water, than in the Sea, oppress'd by those very Arms to which he had trusted the safety of his life. Thus the unerring Providence of God sports with the foolish prudence of unhappy Mortals, and by a light and casual motion, like the Stone cut out of the Mountain in an instant, destroy'd the proud Machine of a Conspiracy, which had been [Page 234]long building with a great deal of Artifice, and secur'd by so much Force: driving back upon the heads of the guilty those Thunderbolts, which they barba­rously darted at the bosom of their miserable Coun­trey, and so many innocent Citizens. For all this the Galley was taken and secur'd by the Conspiratours. Nor was Girolamo and Ottabruno wanting to their charge; for hearing the Gun shot off, as was agreed, they affaulted the Gate St. Tomaso with sixty Souldiers, not only to reduce it into their hands, but to pass by it to the Palace of Doria, which stood a little without the City. Here they found some resistance, but in a short time became Masters of the Gate. The noise in the Darsena was heard to Doria's Palace. And Giannettin rising from his Bed, thinking some quarrel might have hapned aboard the Galley at Play, or by some other Accident, rapt by his Destiny to encounter death, ac­company'd with one Servant and a Page, goes to­ward the Gate, which he believ'd was kept by the wonted Guard, and with his usual fierceness increas'd then by his anger, he calls to have it open'd. The Voice being known by the Conspiratours they readily open'd it; but he was scarce step'd in, when with a tempest of Blows he was cruelly murther'd. At the very same point of time (as some observ'd) that Gio. Luigi, the sole Author of his death, perish'd unfor­tunately in the Water: The Revenge issuing from the hand of God at the same instant the Crime was per­petrated by the order of the Earl. It was a thing that did beget wonder, that the Murtherers did not go presently to Andrea's House, conform to their first re­solution, to secure themselves at the same time of his life, who might once more give life to the Publick Liberty, and from whose wrath they might justly expect a signal Revenge, not only for his private In­juries, [Page 235]but their publick Rebellion. But they abstain'd perhaps by reason of the Confusion, which a wicked Action is wont to cause in the minds of Bad men; or perhaps hindred by Girolamo the Brother of Gio. Luigi, who having thus dispatch'd Giannettin, a young Gen­tleman, fierce and of resolute Counsels, and his Com­panions having, as he believ'd, seized the Galleys and subdued the City, did not much fear Andrea, a man of Eighty years, infirm of Body and stript of his Forces; nor perhaps, on the other side, was he willing the Souldiers greedy of Rapine, and altogether intent upon the prey, should dissipate and spoil those preci­ous Moveables, which he would reserve intire for the needs and covetousness of his Brother. In the mean time the Rumour increasing more and more, and An­drea not knowing whence it might arise, enquir'd often for Giannettin. At last he was told by a Servant, that the City was fallen into the Power of Gio. Luigi de Fieschi; that the Commonwealth was in extream dan­ger, the Galleys in the Power of the Conspiratours, the People seditiously crying out Liberty, and calling upon the name of Fieschi; nothing any where to be seen, but Slaughter, or heard, but threatnings of the Nobility, and his own life. Andrea not astonish'd, but overcome by a pity to his falling Countrey, re­solv'd to remain a voluntary prey to those Furies; say­ing, It was not fit he should live after the ruine of his Countrey, but readily sacrifice the poor Remains of his years to the last gaspings of Genoua's Liberty. But his Wife with vehement Prayers accompanied with Tears, and with the loving violence of his Domesticks hastned his flight, telling him, 'Twas necessary he should withdraw; that he ought to reserve the last act of his Honour'd life for the Common Service; that he should therefore be content to live, to get new [Page 236]Glory by renewing his Service to the Commonwealth, which again might be delivered by him: That now 'twas a time to authenticate his past Valour by Con­stancy, and to take Counsel of his own Vertue: That he ought to consider, that upon the safety of his Per­son did depend the Hopes of his Countrey; which oppress'd for a while by the Fury of Bad men, could not despair of rising again, as long as their Deliverer was free: That he should go elsewhere to prepare Re­medies for the Publick wounds, which he could not hope to do now in Genoua: And that it was not a flight, but a charge his afflicted Countrey laid upon him for i [...]s own Relief: So much was said and done, that he at last was carried to Massoni, a Castle fifteen miles from Genoua.

Amidst these many and fortunate Atchievments of the Conspiratours, Gio. Luigi being missing every one call'd upon him; but through the obstinate Silence of every body in giving Tidings of him, there enter'd into their minds a necessary suspicion of the fatal Ac­cident. But for all this they did not abandon the course of their Victory; for leaving a good Guard at the Gates and upon the Galleys, two hundred of the stoutest among them joyn'd with Girolamo, and went up and down the City, stirring up the People to take Arms: but with little fruit; for though at the first the name of Gio. Luigi did invite a great number of the Meanest sort to follow, yet those of any Account did not stir. Whether it were, that desirous of the Com­mon quiet they abhorr'd that disorderly Insurrection; or whether they did not like, that a Nobleman backt by the Common people should promote his own par­ticular ends; or, that they held themselves ill treated by Gio. Luigi, who without their participation had put his hand to such an important Enterprize; or [Page 237]lastly, remembring the continued and grievous Excesses lately committed, they hated that manner of Plebeian Government, which casting the Supream Dignities upon the Vilest of the People, the Publick business was manag'd with small Decorum; and the most diffi­cult matters falling into the hands of persons rough and uncapable, Resolutions were form'd upon them always violent and precipitous.

The City in the mean time was all in disorder; e­very one madly running about, not knowing whither: enquiring mutually what might be the occasion of such a terrible uproar, without finding any body to answer: The Women at the Windows with Cries and Tears calling back their Husbands, Brothers and Sons: The amaz'd Nobility would have run to the Palace, but fear'd the plundring of their own Houses: Caesars Embassadour would have left Genoua, lest he should in his own person expose the Dignity of his Prince to some outrage; but being perswaded to stay and assist the Commonwealth so devoted to Caesar with his ut­most Forces, he went presently to the Palace, where he found divers of the Senatours, and concluded, with them to send fifty Souldiers to secure the Gate St. To­maso, which they valiantly attempted, but were beat­en back. All this while G. Luigi could not be heard of; and Verrina, who saw the plot (hitherto well con­ducted) was in danger without him, betook himself to the Galley, resolving, if he saw things miscarry, as 'twas to be fear'd, to withdraw himself from the danger by flying to Marseille. The rest of the Con­spiratours seeing neither him nor G. Luigi, one the Head, the other the Heart of the Conspiracy, were not entirely satisfied of Girolamo, who unexperienc'd and foolishly heady, guided the matter rather with Impetu­ousness than by sound Advice. Nor did they find in themselves that motive to Reverence, which is ordi­narily [Page 238]born to persons of great Valour, and who for long time have been in possession of a good opinion; whence they began not only to cool in their first fer­vencies, but to look out for an opportunity to flie. Of so much moment is that good conceit which a Captain acquires amongst his Souldiers. But an Ac­cident, which in reason ought to have mortified the rashness of Girolamo, extreamly heightned it; though not long after having inspir'd him with an inconside­rate Ambition, it serv'd t ruine him. The certain News of Gio. Luigi's death was spread amongst the Conspiratours, and Girolamo considering he was left the absolute Head of that Faction, would be likewise Heir to the Earls projects, and devouring in his ima­gination that Principality for himself, for which hi­therto he had sought in the behalf of Gio. Luigi; with so much the more vehemency he attended to mature the fruits of his Victory, by how much he was flatter'd at hand with unexpected hopes; and by how much sharper the Spur is that puts us upon acting for our own profit, than for anothers benefit. The Senatours and other Citizens assembled in the Palace, were not wanting to assist in this extream necessity of their Countrey: but not having Forces, nor knowing the designs of Gio. Luigi they could not betake themselves to any determinate resolution. However, they would have sent Cardinal Doria, Kinsman of Gio. Luigi, to speak with him, and to try if the eminency of his Dignity, sometimes more prevalent than ties of Blood, or force of Eloquence, were enough to withdraw him from his rash Attempts: but being advis'd by divers prudent persons, not to cast the Respect due to his place into the hands (always indiscreet, but now tu­multuous) of the P'ebeians, but to reserve the use of his Authority for a p [...]ivate Conference with Gio. Luigi, when it might be [...]ad; he resus'd to go. So that [Page 239]they now made election of other Gentlemen, who met with Girolamo and enquir'd for the Earl, that they might deliver to him what they had in Commissi­on. To which Girolamo answer'd, they were to ex­pect no other Earl than himself, but should presently deliver up the Palace to him. From which impru­dent and unseasonable Answer they collected the Earl was dead, and the Genoueses began to take heart: for they returning to the Senate with the News of Fies­chi's death, and the contumacy of Girolamo, twelve of the Nobility were order'd to assemble as many of the Common People and of the Guard as they could, to drive the remainder of the Conspiratours out of the City, or to suppress them in it. But there was no need of fighting, for the Common people, which at name of Liberty were call'd forth, desirous to plunder the Houses of the Nobility, seeing the vanity of their hopes, and repenting the Sedition, did dissipate them­selves by degrees; and the Morning approaching none would be known for a Complice in the Conspiracy; and others now sainting, turn'd their thoughts rather upon that safety which they might owe to their own flight, than to the gain of others Victory. Girolamo now seeing the weakness of his own, and the strength of those Forces which were pick'd up to oppose him, knew not which way to turn himself; but as the best, bent his course toward the Gate del Arco. But in the Palace every one took heart, and some advis'd that they should set upon the Squadron of Fieschi already put into disorder, and not vilifie the Majesty of the Senate, by introducing Capitulations of Accord with Armed Rebels. But others more mature, opposing profitable to specious Arguments, would not consent: as well to spare the Blood of Citizens (of which a Prince or Captain is laudably covetous) as not to leave room for some unforeseen event, which might over­whelm [Page 240]the Affairs of the Commonwealth, now as it were in harbour. For by Publick Authority to put Arms into the hands of Citizens now in motion, and in the Night, whilst many of them were ill satisfied of the present Government, and many now declared Rebels, was to disturb by motion the humours of an infirm Body, which had need of being settled by repose. To Paolo Pansa then the honour fell, to heal by pru­dent Advice that Evil, which he could not hinder by the preservatives of his Exhortation. Brought there­fore into the Senate, and having briefly given a satis­faction not necessary concerning his own Actions, he was sent in the Name of the Senate to command Giro­lamo depart the City, leaving his People behind him, on which condition the Senate would grant a General Pardon. Girolamo by the industry of Pansa was brought to condescend, and left Genoua, going with his Servants to Montobbio. Verrina, Calcagno and Sacco, seeing the Affairs of their Companions totally ruin'd, set Sail for Marseillia. The Body of Gio. Luigi not being sound for four days, it wrought in the minds of the Common People a firm opinion of his flight for Marseille: So that many thought the War rather deferr'd than extinct; which they be­lieved would in its time be so much the more cruel, by how much Gio. Luigi would be more resolute in moving and conducting it, after he had by so enor­mous an action put off the Mask of a Citizen, and openly implor'd help of the French. But this su­spicion did not last long; for the Body being found, after some time was again cast into the Sea, which put an end to the Common Fears.

THe History this.

At the same time that Hannibal wasted Italy with his Army, and threatned the fall of the Roman Empire; Scipio, the Pillar of the declining Commonwealth, by a memorable Victory ruin'd the Africans in Spain: and recovering by his Arms the lost Province, open'd his way to the Con­quest of Africa, and the desolation of the Carthaginian Empire.

The Historian, having recounted the Successes of Hannibal, is to pass over to the Actions of Scipio.

(1) In the mean while, Scipio, who knew how to fight Hannibal even in Spain, left no way untry'd, by which he might forceably draw him out of the bowels of Italy. So that, &c. (2). The Carthaginians, who [Page 242]for so many years had been us'd to hear good News from their Armies, were the more astonish'd at the tidings which came from Spain. For Scipio, &c. (3) But the confidence which the Carthaginians drew from their continual Successes, lessen'd every day by reason of News which came from Spain. Seeing that Scipio, &c. (4) But the Reports of Scipio's Victories abated the force, and drown'd the noise of Hannibals applause in Carthage. (5) In the mean while, the Ad­vice which came from Spain to Carthage did not only terrifie the City, but divided the minds of the Sena­tours: for, some of them, considering the marvellous progress of Scipio so near to the bowels of their Em­pire, &c. (6) All Hannibals Victories could not give perfect consolation to the Commonwealth of Carthage, seeing a powerful Army of Romans hovering over them, commanded by Scipio, a valiant Captain. Who in Spain, &c. (7) But the Commonwealth of Rome, amidst so many calamities did not lose their hopes of rising: For the Conquests of Scipio in Spain weighed down the losses they sustain'd in Italy. (8) Never was there a time wherein the power of Fortune more clearly appear'd in matters of War: for when the Affairs of Carthage over the Romans appear'd best establish'd, then they began to totter by the Vertue of Scipio. Who in Spain, &c. (9) The Commonwealth, taking their eyes off the losses they had received by the sury of Han­nibal; and considering the Actions and Vertue of Sci­pio, assum'd new Courage. For the valiant Consul, &c. (10) Fortune at length reconcil'd to the Romans, on a sudden return'd to favour their Empire, which hitherto she had wounded with such mortal strokes. For Scipio, &c. (11) In the mean time, Scipio, knowing that the burthen of the falling Empire lay upon his Shoulders, did in Spain, &c. (12) But the calamities of the Ro­mans in Italy were as so many sharp spurs to the mind [Page 243]of Scipio; who, resolv'd to sustain his Countrey by his Valour, did, &c. (13) In the mean-time, the felicity of Hannibal being arriv'd to its highest point, threatned (according to the course of humane things) a sudden fall. For Scipio, &c. (14) Amidst so many and satal losses of Armies and Territories in Italy, the Romans were succour'd by the Conquests of Scipio in Spain. Who, &c. (15) Scipio, in the mean time, resolv'd to snatch out of Hannibals hands the rich prey of the Roman Empire, did in Spain, &c. (16) The Roman generosity never appear'd more manifestly in any occa­sion: for, not discourag'd with so many losses sustain'd at home, they design'd the destruction of their Ene­mies even in the utmost parts of Spain. Where Scipio, &c. (17) The fall of the Roman Empire seem'd in­evitable through so many dreadful and repeated strokes, if the Valour of Scipio had not come in to its relief. Who in Spain did, &c. (18) But because Worldly accidents have not perpetuity and constancy in their nature, the glory of the Carthaginians in the happy progress of Hannibal was interrupted by the Vertue of Scipio. Who in Spain, &c. (19) In this miserable state of Affairs, the oppressed City comforted it self with the News brought them from Spain concerning the proceedings of Scipio. Who, &c. (20.) The fierce­ness of Hannibal could not have been restrain'd by a more potent Bridle than that of the notable progress of Scipio. Who in Spain, &c. (21) In the mean time Hannibal, us'd to the sweet sound of Victory, had his ear wounded, but much more his Soul, with the bitter News of the loss of Spain; where Scipio, &c. (22) Hannibal could not so perfectly rejoyce over his Acquists in Italy, but that he found a greater occasion of displeasure in the loss of Spain. Where Scipio, &c. (23) But Spain, which had been to Han­nibal and all his Family a large Theatre of Fame, [Page 244]became now to them a necessary occasion of grief and infamy. For Scipio, &c. (24) But it was fatal to Hannibal, that the same Provinces, which serv'd him as a Ladder to climb up to the possession of the Roman Empire, were the occasions of his precipice by with­drawing him from Italy. Seeing that Scipio, &c. (25) In the mean time, Spain, which was to Han­nibal the beginning of his Reputation, being possess'd now by Scipio, was consider'd by him as the begin­ning of his ruine. (26) But Hannibal could not now hope his felicity should be lasting, whilst Scipio with a fortunate current of Affairs victoriously over­ran Spain. (27) Amidst these fortunate events of Hannibal in Italy, Scipio couragiously reveng'd the publick Injuries, as well as his own private Losses in Spain. (28) But if Italy wept under the yoke of the African Arms; Spain in the mean time had no cause to rejoyce, being conquer'd by the Valour of Scipio. Who, &c. (29) In the mean while Scipio, who design'd to vanquish Hannibal in Africa, pro­ceeded in his Conquest of Spain, thereby to smooth his way to an intire Victory. (30) The People of Rome now understood effectually the worth of a ge­nerous and prudent Commander. For Scipio by his Valour in Spain serv'd to beat down the Pride, and afterwards the Reputation of Hannibal, gain'd by the slaughter of so many Consuls, and defeat of so many Armies. (31) Experience now taught the Romans, that in accidents of War there is no condition so de­sperate, which the Vertue of a good Captain cannot mend. For in the extream peril of the Common­wealth, Scipio carrying his Victories through Spain, was the occasion of, &c. (32) But in fine, so long as the War lasts, the Conquerour cannot be so secure, as not to fear a Revolution, which of [...] comes from whence we least dream of it, as it hapned to Hannibal, [Page 245]who securely reposing upon his Conquests in Italy, saw his Fortune equall'd and overcome by the Valour of Scipio. Who in Spain, &c. (33) At this time Han­nibal thought he had secur'd his Affairs, keeping a victorious Army in the very heart of Italy; and did not foresee, that in Spain (as in the parts most remote from the vital) the body of the Commonwealth should receive vigour and breath from the Valour of Scipio to contend with him. For that Valiant, &c. (34) But Hannibal, bewitch'd with his own good Fortune, foolishly measur'd things by his late Prospe­rities; and could not foresee by prudence those Mise­ries, to which he was destin'd by the Valour of Scipio Warring in Spain, &c.

IF your Misfortunes were more supportable, or your heart less generous, I would not prompt you to those Remedies which, being extream, are due only to extream Evils. Nor would I coun­sel you to forego your life, if you had not lost all that which made it dear to you, and were now to encounter all that which will render it hateful. Things are come to that pass, a little delay will deprive you, as of the liberty of living, so of the liberty of dying. Nay, your evil Destiny hath not left you free to thought: 'tis not for Cleopatra to consult whether she ought to die, when 'tis resolv'd she must no longer Reign. They who can outlive Empire, never deserv'd it. And what motives are wanting to determine you? You have hitherto own'd a Fortune more fruitful than your Nile; your Genius invok'd more than the gods of E­gypt; your height of happiness more astonishing than [Page 247]that of your Pyramides; and for you Africa hath been monstrous only in Pleasures. If you have fought, you have been victorious: when you have fled you have been follow'd; as if your flight were more worthy to be attended than others Triumphs. You have reign'd, and Caesars have got Trophies only for you, whilst your Antony hath thrown into your bosom the hopes of the Universe. What can you wish, but to have died then? What can you fear, but to lose the opportunity of dy­ing now? Perhaps you would have expir'd Com­manding, and so abandon'd Fortune, rather than now leave the World when Fortune hath left you: some have chosen to put a period to their life, rather than see the end of their happiness. But what we do that we may not become miserable, we ought to do that we may cease to be so. The best of Fortune is not to tast of miseries, next to that is to know how to end them. If you be not follow'd to your Sepulchre with the pompous train of your Subjects, at least you shall not make one of that ignominious troop, which must sacri­fice to the pride of your Enemies. Though you do not triumph in death by a Royal Funeral, at least your self shall not make up a part of the Roman Triumph; and though you do not die Queen in Egypt, you shall not live a slave in Italy. And though you could dismiss that fear, and entertain a hope from the generousness of your Conquerour to be re-instated in your Throne, would you accept from his hand that which before you ow'd only to the bounty of Heaven, and so become twice a slave, to your Enemies force, and to his courtesie? Would you re-ascend, to fall again from that height whence you have already faln? What can you enjoy, which you have not enjoy'd? Can the wit of Fortune or Nature present you any new happiness? Would it not pose your most exquisite desires to fancy more? Hath not the Sea produc'd new Treasures, not only for [Page 248]your ornament, but for your luxury? Is not Nature weary in distilling strange pleasures for you? What kind of honour is there, that hath not paid Tribute to your Scepter? and are you not cloy'd? How many have kill'd themselves, being wearied in a tedious re­petition of the same happiness? He hath liv'd enough, that hath perfectly enjoy'd. What should we do, when we can meet nothing new but Mischiefs? You live not now to live, but because you have not cou­rage to die. And suppose a return of your first good Fortune, shall your Antony return again? But I flatter you, O Queen. Nor Antony, nor Kingdom, or ought of your first estate remains for you: only rests those miseries, which are not to be allay'd with thoughts of not deserving them; for who would not accompany, or will not follow Antony, merits worse. Perhaps you relie on the kind offers of Augustus: But reflect upon the vast Treasures you have hid, and con­sider, that those feed with hopes who desire possession. Perhaps his courteous Visit in your sickness comforts you, but the veyl with which he would have sha­dow'd his Pride was too transparent: he was content you should fall at his feet with the tremblings of a sick, as well as of an unfortunate person: he suffer'd you to imbrace his knees with those hands, whose beck once commanded the same petitionary posture in a Kingdom. He was slow to raise you up, and under a feign'd sweetness cloaking an imperious gravity, with scant speech he bid you to hope well. But he that would have you hope for what is in his power to give, would obtain somewhat himself; but means not, you should ever obtain what he bid you hope for. Consider what cunning that man is master of, that could resist your powerful charms: and since you could not draw him into the snares of your beauty, take heed you fall not into those of his ambition. Consider, that life cannot [Page 249]be good for you; since your Enemy desires it: and he bids you live, that gives you nothing but hope, and could give you what he would.

You are too fair a Spoil for a Triumph. Nor can Augustus better repair his loss (seeing Antony hath scap'd his hands by death) than by leading you in triumph, who have triumphed over Antony. Pre­pare then to grace the Tiber with a new spectacle: To shew your selt, not as once your Antony design'd to present you, but in Servile habit, a slave amidst a throng of Slaves; your Hair dishevel'd, perhaps shav'd; Bare-foot, going before or following the Cha­riot of your proud Lord; pointed at by Children, mock'd by the Licentious Souldier, thus scost at by the Roman Matrons, There goes the great Queen, not of Egypt, but of Whores; There's the mighty Amazon, who overthrew Emperours—upon a Feather-bed; See, how with down cast eye she is come to teach our Virgins modesty. And is all this supportable? Have you the heart to expose your self to the outrages of the wrong'd Octavia? No breast more true to hatred than a Womans, no Woman more cruel than a Ri­val. How often hath she preserr'd her Vows to Hea­ven, that she might with her own hands tear out those eyes of yours, whose wounding influence mur­ther'd affection in the heart of her Husband? How often hath she covenanted with the gods at the price of her own life, to rip up that bosom which hath so long usurp'd possession of her Antony? And will she not now use her good Fortune? will not her fond Brother Augustus bestow you upon her, that she might share in his Victory? Unhappy Queen! methinks I see those base Services she designs you. Those taunts with which she will wound your Soul: upbraiding you with dissolv'd Pearl, when she appoints you a draught of Wormwood: commanding you to put her [Page 250]into that dress which catch'd the heart of Antony. In fine, I see, and with horrour consider the Scorns, the Abuses, with which a great, a provok'd Lady and a Mistress will take revenge of past wrongs. Call to mind then, what becomes you as a Queen. Behold the magnanimous Dido opening her bosom with a generous blow. She might by living have reveng'd her self on him that betray'd her; you in not dying, betray him that lov'd you. She remain'd a Queen, you have lost your Crown. Or if you would take a lesson of freedom out of that Rome, whither you are a destin'd Slave; consider Lucrece, and see if the loss of a Kingdom requires as much as the loss of an opinion. If that publick shame which attends you weighs with her secret disgrace. But why do I muster Examples, when you have before you that of your dead Antony? If his memory be not enough to steel you with resolution, what Argument is sufficient? If this be not enough, unhappy Antony! thou art deceiv'd. Thou didst never believe, that the Lady thou esteem'dst worthy to receive Kingdoms in gift from thee; whom to follow when she fled, thou thought'st no less glory than to pursue a flying Enemy; in whose bosom to recover thy self, seem'd a sufficient recompence for the loss of half the World; thou never thought'st, I say, that she had a heart capable of Servitude. Thou hast not scap'd by death, but art still subjected to thy proud Rival, who triumphs over thee in Cleopatra. See, a noble testimony of a grateful heart! Cleopatra considers not which is best, to live or to die; but whether in Chains by the violences of the inrag'd Octavia, or whe­ther she should now snatch an Antidote from Death against the malice of her Fortune, and unite her self for ever to thy blessed Shade. Call to mind your An­tony, when stain'd with the blood of those Veins his own bold hand had open'd; when he threw himself [Page 251]into your imbraces, and seem'd to live no other life than what you breath'd into him by your last kisses; when with an undaunted courage he fronted his Fate, and taught you those steps which the unfortunately Magna­nimous ought to tread. You then fill'd his breast with mighty hopes, imprecated the worst of Roman Slavery, if you did not follow him, whilst he imbrac'd you as if he had hugg'd Victory in his arms, and with an inviting smile bid you hasten alter him, and expir'd. And will you deceive the honour'd Ashes of that mighty Hero, which from their Urne seem thus to summon you? There advances but a few minutes, O Cleopatra; you may die when you will, but you cannot die free when you will. If you kill your self now, you do it to bestow your self on me; if afterwards, 'tis to steal your self from others. Give that life up to your Love, which shortly will be usurp'd by your impatience. But if thou wilt live, withal remember when thou shalt be in Rome, that the Body of thy Antony is in Egypt. Now what remains, but that I conjure you by these private walks, the Se­cretaries of both your Fortunes, where you have liv'd free, and may die free; by your Houshould gods, and more by the genius of Antony, your Sovereign Jove, (which without doubt hovers in the Air about us) that you will not by your weakness make Egypt blush, where you have been Queen, and may by your Courage be number'd amongst her Deities?