DIALOGUE I. Between Alexander and Phryne.

ALL the The bans of my time can tell you, I offered at my own Expence to Re-build the Walls of [Page 2] Thebes, which you had Demolish't, provided onely they would set up this Inscription on 'em, Alexander the Great Raz'd these Walls, but Phryne the Curtizan Rear'd them up again.

It seems then you were ex­tremely afraid, lest succeeding Ages might be ignorant, how well you thriv'd in your Vocation.

I have been Eminent, and all extraordinary persons, of what Profession soever, are guilty of so much vanity, as to covet to Eter­nize their Names by Monuments and Inscriptions.

'Tis true, Rhodope did the same before you, and heap't toge­ther so much Money by the same profession, as serv'd to Erect one of the stateliest Pyramids of Egypt. And I remember, being in company to'ther day with some Modern La­dies (who had, like you, no mean opinion of their Beauty) to whom [Page 3]she making a Relation of her Victo­ries, and the Monument she had Rear'd to perpetuate their Memory. These discontented Shades began to lament the Age wherein they liv'd, when the most Charming were un­able to raise such Trophies to their Conquests.

But still you must acknow­ledge, I have this advantage over Rhodope, That in Re-building the Walls of Thebes, I am plac'd in Com­petition with you, the great Con­querour of the Universe; That the World might know my Beauty had Repair'd those Ruines which your Valour made.

So, you have drawn a pa­rallel between two things which was ne'er thought on before: It seems then you were very well pleas'd with your self, for knowing how to manage so many Intrigues so much to your own advantage.

And you were no less satis­fied to have lain the better part of the World in Heaps of Rubbish. But how had you been deceived, if there had been a Phryne in every Town you Conquered, when you could have left no marks of your fury behind you?

Were I to live my life once over again, I would be the same Alexander, and the same great Conquerour.

And I would be the same Little Conquerour again. Beauty by right of Nature presides o'er men, whereas Valour is indebted to Force and Power for all its Empire. The Fair are Victors every where, which Kings and Emperors cannot pretend to: But more clearly to convince you, I grant your Father Philip was a Valiant man, and so were you; yet neither of you were able to stop the mouth of the Orator Demosthe­nes from declaiming against you all [Page 5]his life. Yet there was another Phryne besides my self (I think the very name is happy) who being ready to lose her Cause, which was of no small consequence, and her Advocate having showr'd down all his Elo­quence in vain, she bethought her self of a more powerfull Argument, and more suitable to the present ex­tremity of her Affairs: She onely unvail'd her Face, at whose Lustre the Court was so surpriz'd, that whereas before they were just rea­dy to give sentence against her, all of a sudden they chang'd their opi­nions. From whence you may ob­serve, that though the Terrour of your Arms, for many years, could not make one Orator hold his peace, yet the Charms of one handsome Face in one moment silenc'd the loudest Advocates, and corrupted a whole Areopagite.

What? though you have call'd another Phryne to your Aid, [Page 6]I don't think that the Cause of Alex­ander is so weak; 'twere strange in­deed if—

I know well enough what you are going to say, that Greece, Asia, Persia, and the Indies, were mighty Conquests. Nevertheless, if I should devest you of that Glory, which by Right belongs not to you; If I should give to all your Souldi­ers and Captains, and even to Chance it self what properly is their due, can you imagine but you will be a loser? But a handsome Woman lets no one partake in the Honour of her Conquests, and is therefore behold­ing to no one but her self: Believe me, a fair Woman has no reason to complain of Nature for having made her so.

It seems then you are very positive in your opinion: But can you think to stretch the number of yours beyond the Glory of my Con­quests?

Yes, without vanity I do; yet I must needs declare, that I have as far surpass'd the bare Character and ordinary pretensions of a hand­some Woman, as you have done that of a prudent General; for you and I have gain'd too many Victories e'er to take such measures; had I entertain'd but two or three A­mours, It had been no more than what's customary, and merits not to be regarded: But to be able to re-build the Walls of Thebes, by the Number and Riches of my Gallants, is Transcendant, and surpasses all the Rules and Measures of my Sex. So, on the other side, if you had onely Conquered Greece, with some of the Neighbouring Islands, and perhaps some small part of the Lesser Asia, so as to be able to reduce 'em within the compass of one Monar­chy, it had been onely rational and discreet: But to be always on the March, and yet not knowing whi­ther; [Page 8]To be always Taking Towns, without knowing wherefore; and to be still Enterprizing without de­sign: This is what the most think­ing sort of men call Rash and Extra­vagant.

Let these thinking men say what they please; had I confin'd my Valour and Fortune within the compass of their Politicks, my Name and Memory would have been quite forgotten by succeeding Ages.

And so had mine, had I us'd the same wise Conduct in the di­stribution of my Favours. For who­ever designs to become Eminent, may be satisfy'd, that the most ra­tional methods are not always the most proper.

DIALOGUE II. Between Milo & Smindarides.

YOu think you have gain'd a great deal of Honour, because at the Olympick Games you were able to carry an Oxe upon your shoulders.

'Twas certainly a very gal­lant Action, and had the Applauses of all Greece; the Fame on't reach't even the Remote Crotonia, my own Native Countrey, which has been so Eminent for Wrestlers; but your Town of Sybaris has been derided by every body, because of the Effe­minacy of its Inhabitants, who Ba­nish't all their Cocks, because their Crowing disturb'd their Rest; and invited their Guests to Feasts, a year before they made 'em, that they [Page 10]might have time to provide every thing which was delicate and grate­full to the palate.

You make your self very merry with the Sybarites: But thou dull Crotonian art not sensible, that when thou boastest thou art able to carry an Oxe, thou own'st that thou art not unlike one?

And can you believe your self a man, when you have com­plained to have past whole nights without Repose, onely because one of the Rose-leaves of which your bed was made, was doubled?

'Tis true, I acknowledge my self a man of that delicacy. But wherefore does it seem so strange to you?

Pray, how is it possible it should seem otherwise?

What? have you never seen a Lover, who has receiv'd ma­ny Favours from his Mistress, and to whom he has been no less Assidu­ous [Page 11]in his Services? yet how con­cern'd he is in the very possession of his happiness, lest Gratuity should have the Ascendant in the heart of his Mistress above her Inclinati­ons?

No truly, I ne'er knew any such Lover; yet granting, I had—

Or have you never heard of some Renowned Conquerour, who on his return home from some glorious Expedition, yet did not find that satisfaction in the Triumph the World imagin'd, because he thought himself indebted more to Fortune, than either his Valour or good Conduct, and all his designs succeeded upon false and ill taken measures?

No, no; I never heard of any such Warriour: But once again, what would you conclude from hence?

That this Lover, and this Conquerour, and almost all Man­kind, [Page 12]though they lye on Beds of Roses, yet the folding but of one Leaf might be enough to disturb their rest. A very small uneasiness is sufficient to destroy our pleasures; and these are our Beds of Roses, where 'twill be a matter of some difficulty to make all the Leaves lye smooth and easie.

I must confess, I am not very knowing in these matters; but in my opinion, you, your Ima­ginary Lover, and your Conque­rour, and every body else of this temper, doe your selves a great deal of wrong by being so over-nice and delicate.

Ah Milo! Men of wit are no Crotonians, as thou art, but Syba­rites like me.

Now I guess what you would be at; That nature having made 'em of a more delicate frame than ordinary, they would enjoy too many pleasures, if the fineness [Page 13]and subtilty of their Reason did not devest 'em of those that were super­fluous.

You're mistaken in your Guesses; men of wit have no plea­sures that are superfluous.

Then they are fools to take so much pains to destroy their own happiness.

Behold the misery of the whole Creation; Mankind onely does enjoy this fineness of temper, which is produc'd by the brisk and and lively motion of the blood and spirits: Every body is satisfy'd with himself, when he has it; and he that has it not, is still in pursuit after it; yet it diminishes our plea­sures, and makes 'em flat and dull, which of their own natures are in­sipid enough. How miserable there­fore is the condition of humane na­ture, that's furnish't but with so few delights, and yet our subtile reason marrs 'em all in the enjoyment.

DIALOGUE III. Between Dido and Stratonice.

ALas! my Stratonice, how unfortunate am I? you must needs have heard how I liv'd the mirrour of Chastity, and prov'd so constant to my first Vows, that I chose rather to burn alive, and sa­crifice my self to the shade of my first Husband, than endure a second. Yet I could not secure my self from the Censure of evil Tongues as to my very death, which was the Crown and Ornament of my life. It has pleas'd a certain Poet, called Virgil, to change me (who always had the reputation of a wise and prudent Matron) into a young Co­quet, who let her self be Charm'd with the good Meen of a stranger, [Page 15]the first day she saw him; and in fine, he has turn'd the whole Histo­ry of my Life into a Romance. Yet he would not rob me of my last Funeral Pyle: But can you guess the Reason he gives, why I cast my self into it? not to avoid a second Marriage, but despair of seeing my self forsaken by the handsome stranger.

On my word such fain'd Relations may prove of very ill consequence to the World, and we shall have but few Women die Mar­tyrs to Conjugal Fidelity, if every Capricious Poet may take the li­berty of saying what he pleases of 'em, after they are dead; perhaps Virgil has not done you so much in­jury, though as you imagine, and has onely disoblig'd you by disco­vering some Intrigue which you hop't would be concealed.

Had there been any proba­bility in the Amour, which the [Page 16]Poet would make me entertain, I should not so much complain of him. But he gives me Aeneas for my Lover, a man that left the World Three hundred years before I came into it.

I must confess, that what you say is something; yet there is so great a Resemblance in the seve­ral Stories of your Lives, that you seem very much to be made the one for the other; you were both con­strain'd to forsake your native Lands, and try your Fortunes in Foreign Kingdoms. He was a Widower, and you a Widow; so that the A­greement of your Loves might well Answer that of your Fates. 'Tis true, you were born Three hundred years after him; yet the Poet had so much Reason to make you meet and Love, that he might very well dispence with Three hundred years, and thought it not of consequence enough to spoil so plausible an A­mour.

What sort of Reasoning is this? are not Three hundred years always Three hundred years? and how can two persons living at this distance meet and love?

'Twas in this very point that Virgil hath most shew'd his wit; he was a man that understood the world, and well knew that in such Amorous Entertainments, men judge not of the truth of the Rela­tion by the speciousness of its ap­pearance, but sometimes by the ve­ry improbability of the Story.

I am not well satisfy'd that he has fix't his handsome Mysteries, and plausible Romances, on me.

Why? has he Ridicul'd you, and made you speak imperti­nently any where?

Neither; 'Tis my Charac­ter which gives his Poem all its beauty; and though he has bely'd me, yet there is something Divine in his very Fiction; and had he [Page 18]been oblig'd to have drawn me with my native Honesty, his Aeneids would have lost very much of their Lustre.

Wherefore then do you complain so much? Though he has sully'd your Vertue which you so much rely'd on, yet in return he has given you Wit and Beauty, which perhaps you never could pre­tend to.

What then? is that a suffi­cient recompence?

I know not what temper you were of; but I'm sure most women would rather have their Vertue sully'd, than either their Wit or Beauty; and I do ingenuously acknowledge to you, it was my temper. There came a Painter to the Court of the King of Syria, my Husband, who on some occasion I had disoblig'd; and to revenge him­self on me, Painted me in the Em­braces of a Common Souldier; and [Page 19]having expos'd the Picture, fled; my Subjects, zealous for my Honour, would publickly have burnt it; but because he had drawn me so admi­rably well (though the motions he gave it were more to the advantage of my Beauty than Vertue) I pre­serv'd it from the flames, and sent kindly for the Painter, and pardon'd him: Now if you had been of my mind, you should have dealt with Virgil after the same manner.

If Wit and Beauty were the most considerable Qualifications of a Lady, it were not then amiss.

I can't decide to which the precedency is due; but in Com­mon Conversation, if the discourse be of a Woman, who is a stranger to any of the company; the first que­stion is, whether she be handsome; the second, if she have Wit; and it rarely happens that any body gives himself the trouble to ask a third.

DIALOGUE IV. Between Anacreon & Aristotle.

I Could not have believ'd that a Sonnet-maker should have the confidence to compare him­self with a Philosopher, and one of my Reputation too.

You would make the name of a Philosopher sound very great; I can assure you my Songs have pur­chas'd me the title of the wise Ana­creon; and I'm sure there's no Phi­sopher can pretend to a better Epi­thete.

Those that gave it you, ei­ther did it onely out of Ceremony and Complement, or else they knew not what they said: For what have you e'er done to merit that Cha­racter?

Why? I have drank, and sang, and been very amorous, and so I gain'd the title of Wise for my reward; whereas you, for all those infinite pains you have taken, have got no other than that of the Phi­losopher. How many nights have you watch't to no other purpose, than to amuse the world with thorny Questions in your Dialecticks? how many huge Volumes have you com­pos'd on such obscure and intricate Subjects, that I question very much whether you your self could under­stand your own Writings?

Indeed you have found out a very commodious and easie way to be thought wise, and purchase more honour by your Lute and your Bottle, than the greatest men in the World could do by all their labour and industry.

You pretend, I think, to Rally; but I'll maintain, 'tis more difficult to drink and sing, as I have, [Page 22]than to play the Philosopher, like you; for to drink and sing aright, one ought to have his mind calm and quiet, and free from all the Gusts of Passion, not to aim at that which is out of ones reach, and to lay hold on Time always when 'tis in ones possession; and in a word, there are so many disorders to be regulated e'er a man can arrive to this pitch and good humour, (though there be no great need of Logick) yet 'twill cost him some pains be­fore he can attain it. But 'tis possi­ble for a man to be a Philosopher with much less trouble and difficul­ty; he need not despoil himself nei­ther of his Ambition, nor his Ava­rice; he may make his appearance at the Court of Alexander the Great, and receive Presents to the value of Five hundred thousand Crowns, on pretence of making Philosophical Experiments; yet contrary to the Intention of the Donor, reserve the [Page 23]greatest part to his own private use; but true Philosophy is very opposite to such practices.

Certainly you have had a very ill Character given of me by some body, that you are so much prejudic'd; but I'll still maintain, a man's no longer so without his rea­son; and there can be nothing more glorious, than to instruct Mankind in the search of Nature, and to un­vail all those Riddles and Difficul­ties which can be propos'd.

Do but observe how those men put their false Glosses on things, and turn all up-side-down. Philo­sophy is in it self a very admirable thing, and may be of great advan­tage to Mankind, if rightly made use of; yet because 'tis a little un­easie to their humour, in that they are oblig'd to apply it to themselves, in subduing of their passions; they have therefore mounted it up unto Heaven to observe the motion of [Page 24]the Stars, or else they make it walk on the Earth, to make their fanta­stical Remarks on every trifling Ob­ject; and, in fine, they are very carefull to employ it on any thing that is remote from themselves. Nevertheless they would purchase to themselves the title of Philoso­phers at this easie rate, though they are onely in pursuit of natural Causes.

And what more suitable name can be given to 'em?

Philosophy has relation onely to Man, the lesser World, without having any prospect to the greater. 'Tis the part of an Astro­nomer to Contemplate the Stars, the Naturalist to study Nature, but the Philosopher himself alone. But alas! this is too hard a Province for any of these pretenders, there­fore they ought to content them­selves with the bare title of an A­stronomer or a Naturalist, without [Page 25]assuming that of a Philosopher, for my part I never did desire to amuse my self with their Airy Speculations, and in my opinion there is not so much of true Philosophy to be found in some of their Books, which bear that specious Title in the Frontes­piece, as there is in one of my Songs which you despise. I'll instance you in one.

Well, since you'll acknow­ledge that onely to be the true Phi­losophy [Page 26]which regards the regula­ting our Manners: You may find in my Treatises of Morality such Rules as far surpass your Songs, and that obscurity which you reproach me so with (and perhaps not with­out some reason, in some of my other more subtile Books) yet 'tis not to be found in these. And 'tis the vogue of the world that nothing can be more clear and fine.

How you abuse your self! The Controversie is not how to de­fine the Passions, and divide 'em with that exactness as they say you have done, but to subdue 'em. Men easily become Votaries to that Phi­losophy which onely obliges 'em to consider the evils of their Nature without any prospect to their cure. They have found out a Secret of being Moral Philosophers with the same ease they can be Astronomers. How can one forbear laughing to hear men for money preach Con­tempt [Page 27]of Riches, and errand Cow­ards ready to fall together by the Ears about the Definition of Magna­nimity?

DIALOGUE V. Between Homer and Aesop.

TRULY all those Fables which you have reci­ted to me, cannot be enough admi­red; there had need be a great deal of Art to disguise the most usefull In­structions, that Morality can give us in such Facetious Tales, and to cover the severity of its Precepts with such easie and delightfull Sha­dows.

It does not a little please me to be prais'd for Excelling in that Art by him who was so great a Master in't.

Who I? for my part I never pretended to it.

What? did not you con­ceal the greatest Mysteries in your Poems?

Alas! not I.

Yet all the Wits of the Age wherein I liv'd did maintain it, and there was nothing in your Iliads or Odysses to which they did not give the finest Allegories in the world, they would needs have it that neither Divinity, Natural Phi­losophy, nay the Mathematicks too contain'd any thing that was excel­lent or curious but what was vail'd in your Poems, yet there was still some difficulty in the disclosing of 'em, for where one would attribute to 'em a moral sense, another would a natural, yet they all agreed in this that you had known and said every thing, and there onely wanted a ca­pacity to discover it.

I did imagine that there [Page 29]would be some people, who would pretend to find out wit where 'twas never meant: and I writ my Fables with the same success as he that prophesies of Future Ages, where posterity takes care to find out the meaning and fulfill it.

It seems you reli'd very much on the wit and candour of your Readers to find out Allegories where you never meant 'em, what would you have done had they taken 'em in the Literal sense?

Why truly I should not have thought it so great a misfor­tune.

What? that your Gods should wound and mangle one ano­ther, and Jupiter the Thunderer at an Assembly of the Deities threaten to beat the mighty Juno? that the Warriour Mars should bellow so loud as ten thousand men, when he was wounded by Diomedes? and instead of taking the revenge of an Heroe, [Page 30]and cutting all the Greeks in pieces, go crying to Jupiter to make com­plaint of his Wound? all this had been very fine without an Allegory?

And why not? You may imagine that the wit of Man searches onely after Truth, but be not de­ceiv'd, Falsity and Humane Inventi­on sympathize extremely. If you have Truth to tell, you had need disguise it in a Fable to make it re­lish: but if Fiction onely be your Province there's no need of inter­mixing Truth, 'twill better please without it, so that what's true dare not appear in its own native colours, but is constrain'd to borrow of some gawdy Fable to make it be receiv'd, whereas whatever is Fictitious need assume no other than its own. Man's wit and fancy being the place of its birth as well as of its abode, and to which Truth is always a Stranger. I'll tell you moreover, had I put my Invention upon the stretch, and al­most [Page 31]crackt my Brains to find out Allegories and Allusions, it might well have been that men would have swallow'd the Fable without having any prospect to the Figure, and that's the reason that the Stories of my Gods and Heroes were not found so ridiculous.

Oh! you make me trem­ble, then I fear 'tis believ'd that my Beasts did really speak, as I made 'em in my Fables.

This Fear of yours is mighty pleasant.

Why? if it were really be­liev'd as you say, that the Gods had those discourses together, onely be­cause you related it, why might it not be credited with the same ease, that my Beasts spake because I said it?

Oh! The case is not the same, for men would very easily be­lieve that the Gods are as great Fools as they are, yet they won't allow Beasts to be so wise.

DIALOGUE VI. Between Athenais and Icasia.

SInce you are willing to know the principal Ad­ventures of my Life, I'll tell it you in short. The Emperour under whom we liv'd had an inclination to Marry, and to make the better choice of an Empress, he issued out his Proclamation to give notice, that if any Woman thought her Beauty capable of raising her to a Throne, she should on a prefixt day make her appearance at Constantino­ple, and (God knows) there were no small number of pretenders; a­mong the rest I was one, who had so good an opinion of my self, that I thought my Youth and Beauty, the liveliness of my Eyes, with the [Page 33]sweetness of my Air, and handsome­ness of my Meen, might not with­out some reason raise my hopes to the Empire. On the meeting of this handsome Assembly we all sur­vey'd each others Faces not without some uneasiness, and I observ'd when they came to mine they fixt their Eyes with Envy and Emulation. At length the Emperour came into the Aslembly, and having taken several turns between our Beautifull ranks, when he came to me (just as I wisht) he stopt, and beholding me with a loving Air, Indeed, says he, these Women are dangerous Creatures, be­ing capable of doing so much harm; I streight believ'd I needed only shew a little wit to crown all my hopes, so between hope and fear I made this quick Reply. But, Sir, Women in re­compence can and have often done much good. But this unhappy Answer de­stroy'd all my pretensions, for the Emperour fansied it so witty, he dar'd not espouse me.

Certainly this Emperour was of a very strange humour so much to fear a witty Woman, and I doubt he had but little wit himself because he found so much in your Reply; but to deal frankly, I think you had no such great reason to be angry with your self.

So the Fates would have it, that your wit alone should make you Empress, and the very appearance on't defeat me. You were not one­ly witty but a Philosopher too, and yet you could Espouse the Emperour Theodosius the younger.

If I should have had so sad an Example as yours before my Eyes, I should have been a little frighted tho'; for after my Father had bred me a Scholar, and given me all the advantages of Education, he disin­herited me, supposing that my know­ledge in the Sciences was a very ample Fortune, and to speak the truth, I believ'd so too. But now I [Page 35]see my errour, and that I ran a very great risk of making no other For­tune but what my bare Philosophy could give me.

See now what use may be made of this Example, 'twould be pleasant if some person on the like occasion, who knowing my story should make this advantage of it, as not to shew her wit, though there were ne'er so fair an opportunity for it.

I would not answer for her, that her strategeme should suc­ceed, since 'twas design'd. 'Tis those follies we commit by chance that make us happy: have you never heard the Story of the Painter who drew a Bunch of Grapes so natural and fine that he deceiv'd the very Birds, who as soon as e'er they saw 'em expos'd, flew to taste 'em? You may judge what reputation he got by this piece, they were paint­ed in the hand of a little Country [Page 36]Boy, who was drawn in the same piece. It hapned that some person skilfull in that Art, commended the painting of the Grapes, which were so naturally drawn as to allure the Birds, but not the Boy because he did fright them from 'em. And certainly his observation was very rational; yet if the Painter had re­membred to have drawn the Boy with the same exactness, he had ne­ver gain'd that honour by his Grapes.

Well, I am satisfi'd, though we know how to take the justest measures, yet we could not assure our selves of their success: and this instance of the Painter might well make us tremble, lest, like him, we had not made some necessary fault in the management of our affairs to make 'em prosperous. There's no­thing certain in the world above, since Fortune takes such care to give different successes to the same Acti­on; it baffles all their humane poli­cy, [Page 37]and obliges Mankind to live without either Rule or Order.

DIALOGUE I. Between Augustus and Pe­ter Aretine.

YES, I was one of the most eminent Wits of the Age, and Pensioner to the most considera­ble Princes in Europe.

Then you were still oblig'd [Page 38]to write very much to their Advan­tage.

Not at all: I receiv'd Gifts and Presents from all of 'em, and that would never have been, had I made it my onely business to write Panegyricks. They were warring continually one with the other, and as some were the Conquerours, o­thers were distrest, so that I could never commend'em all.

What did you then?

I Lampoon'd 'em, and though I could not crowd 'em all in­to one Panegyrick, yet I could do it well enough in one Satyr. The terrour of my name had reach't so far, that the greatest Princes paid me a constant Tribute, and their Purses still compounded for their Follies. The Emperour Charles V. (whom undoubtedly you have heard of here below) having made a very unsuc­cessfull War on the coast of Africk, on his return home made me a Pre­sent [Page 39]of a Golden Chain, which I re­ceived but coldly, and made the Bearer this Reply, That I thought it was not of sufficient value to compound for so great a Folly.

Then you had found out a new method to enrich your self.

I think I had reason to hope to raise my Fortune on others Follies as being the most sure and certain foundation.

Notwithstanding all you can say to the contrary, the Art of praising is much the surer and the better way.

Oh Lord, Sir, I never had Impudence enough to commend any body.

Yet you had enough to Li­bel every body.

But your parallel will not hold, there's no necessity of despi­sing those we put in Satyrs, but to lash 'em now and then for their Fol­lies, to teach 'em more discretion, [Page 40]whereas weak or extravagant praises are a Libel in themselves, and re­flect more upon the person they would seem to honour than the sharpest Satyrs. It seems as if they never merited the one nor had sense to understand the other. With what impudence could Virgil tell you, that after your Translation among the Deities, it was uncertain what charge you would please to under­take, whether you would take on your self the care of the Nether World once again, or else become a Watry God, by Espousing one of the Daughters of Thetis, and receive for her Dowry the dominion of the Seas, because of the Honour of your Alliance; or whether you should be plac't in the Skies near to the crook­ed and double Constellation Scorpio, and for the honour of your neigh­bourhood be made of a more streight and regular Figure.

You need not so much won­der at the Impudence of Virgil, for Praises are like Allegories, not al­ways taken in the literal meaning; and if there be any deficiency, the kindness of that person to whom they are addrest helps out the Modesty of the Panegyrick, but it often hap­pens Princes merit Honours which are never paid 'em.

Then you reli'd upon the word of the Poet, and were in hopes to Espouse one of the Sea­nymphs, or else to have your A­partment assign'd you in the Zo­diack.

No, no; there must be al­ways something abated in Praises of this kind, but yet not all, and one may at least receive this satis­faction from such Extravagancies, to believe ones self above all ordina­ry Praises, and 'tis Merit alone that made the Oratour surpass all the bounds of nature.

Well, though I should allow their vanity to be guilty of all the Excess imaginable in the Ex­tolling of their Heroes; but to com­mend at different times for those Actions which are directly opposite one to another, I think 'tis the height of Impudence; as for in­stance: If you prov'd bloudy and unmercifull to those you Conquer'd, then there had been nothing so glo­rious, as to revenge your self on those who dar'd to oppose you: but if on the contrary, mildness appear­ed in your Nature, and you were ready to forgive e'm, then the scene is quite chang'd, and the mercy of a mild and gentle Prince shall far surpass the revenge of a bloudy and inhumane. So that one part of your Life must be commended at the ex­pence of the other, therefore chuse you which you will for the Charac­ter of a Heroe, and I can bring you almost equal Arguments for either.

I think there's no need to take so near a view, 'tis enough to the Advantage of Princes that all their Actions are capable of Praises, and when they receive 'em for those which are so opposite, 'tis a sign they have more than one sort of Merit.

What? did you ne'er re­flect on those Eulogies they heapt on you, and was there not need of some Art to refine 'em, to make you believe they were directed to you rather than to those of your rank and quality? Princes are not distin­guisht by the Praises that are given 'em, and not onely Heroes, but more ordinary persons lay claim to 'em, but yet posterity makes this difference by confirming those that are given to some, and abolishing 'em to others.

Then you'll grant at least that I receiv'd none but what I me­rited, since succeeding Ages as well [Page 44]as that wherein I liv'd have confirm'd 'em. But yet I think I have reason to complain as being always lookt upon the most perfect Model for Princes, they are often therefore re­sembled to me, and I am wrong'd by the Comparison.

Be comforted and let this be the occasion of your Com­plaints no longer, for according to all the relations which the more mo­dern Dead have given us of Charles II. now Monarch of the British Isles, his will be esteem'd a more perfect Model; and so much I can foresee, that Future Ages when they'll undertake to commend their Princes, will think they can do 'em no greater honour, than by comparing 'em to this wisest and best of Kings.

Well then; don't you think that those who are honour'd with the Comparison won't hear it with pleasure?

'Tis not improbable, for men are naturally so greedy of Prai­ses, that they'll dispense with Ju­stice, Truth and reason for to gain 'em.

It seems then you would quite exterminate all Praises, and if onely the good must have 'em, there would be but very few Pane­gyrists.

Yes, there would be some few without interest and de­sign who would undertake it. And 'tis they who properly ought to doe it; so your Virgil handsomely com­mended Cato, when he call'd him President at the Assembly of honest men, in the Elizian Fields, because Cato himself was dead, and the Poet could pretend to no reward: But 'twas not so well done when he flat­ter'd you so much in the beginning of his Georgicks, when, if I am not mistaken, he receiv'd a Pension for it.

Then it seems all I gave on that score was thrown away.

'Tis no great matter; you had better done like one of your Successours, who as soon as he was seated in the Empire, forbad all the Poets to make Verses on him.

I must own he had more reason than I: True Praises are not those are given us, but those we merit.

DIALOGUE II. Between Sappho and Laura.

'TIS true, we two have equally felt Love's passion, neither did we banish the Muses to solace it: but yet with this difference; you were best pleas'd to compose Madrigals on your Lovers, [Page 47]but I to have 'em presented me by mine.

What then? that's to say, I lov'd as much as you could be be­lov'd.

That's no wonder, for I know Women are more susceptible of that gentle passion than Men; but that which surpriz'd me most was, that instead of the Defendant you became the Aggressor, and by the charms of your Poems endea­vour'd to inspire your Lovers with the same passion that you felt when you writ 'em.

I was sensible of those Fet­ters that humane policy and ill cu­stome had impos'd on our Sex, and was therefore resolv'd to throw 'em off: for I always thought the Man's part, which is to make the Court­ship, was much more easie than ours to receive it.

In my opinion we have no reason to complain against the [Page 48]common custome of making Love, and if there be any advantage it lies of our side; whene'er we are Cour­ted we can yield our selves Captives when we please; but they that at­taque us are not always Conque­rours when they would.

You forget that men in their Courtships pursue their inclinations, but we to whom they're made don't always with the like satisfaction.

Then you count those sweet attaques they make on us, and so often repeated for nothing, and how much they esteem the conquest of one Heart.

And do you account that nothing to resist with pain the power of so many charms? they behold with pleasure the successfull progress which they make, whilst we are an­gry with our selves and them too, that our resistence has so much suc­cess.

Yet at last after all their Pains, and when we can defend our selves no longer, they'll yet ac­knowledge themselves indebted to us for the Surrender.

That hinders not, but what's their Victory, is our Defeat; they taste no other Pleasure in Love, than to Triumph in the yeilding of the belov'd, and they account them­selves no otherwise happy Lovers, but as they are Conquerours.

What? would you intro­duce a Custome, that Women should Court the Men?

What need is there of that Formality, That the Man must always be the Attacker, and the Women make a Coy Resistance, when yet they Love each other as much as Heart can Wish?

Oh! Matters would go too quick then, Love is so pleasing a Traffick, & yet so quickly dies in the purchase, that I think we do well in [Page]what we can to prolong it. If we did receive it always when 'twas offered, what would become of all those delightfull Pains, that Lovers take to please; those little uneasinesses our Sex do feel when they Reproach themselves for not having pleased enough, and all those Intrancing Joys which Lovers find, & in a Word, that agreeable mixture of Pains & Pleasure which do make up Love? 'twould Vanish e'er 'twas Born, and nothing would be more Inspid than the divinest Passion.

Me-thinks there is a great Resemblance between Love and War; where those have the advan­tage, who make the Enemies Coun­trey the Seat of the War. You your self confest, but now that our Sex was most susceptible of that Passion, and should therefore know how to manage the braver Part.

Yes, but I Fear they would Defend themselves too well, [Page]and since some Resistance, in the ma­nagement of this Passion, is so ne­cessary, & onely so much to make the Victor rellish the Conquest, with­out Defeating of the Passion; and one ought not to be so weak, as to yeild at first Summons, nor yet so stubborn as to hold out for ever, I think 'tis only our Province, and I question whether Men would know so well how to manage it. One that has Wit, may reason on any other Subject, as well as that of Love; but 'twill be found that 'tis best for all things to remain in the same Order that they were, and your pretended Reformations do often Terminate in the greatest Confusion.

DIALOGUE III. Between Socrates and Mon­taigne.

MOST Divine Socrates, I Rejoyce to see you, I have made it my Business, from the first moment of my Arrival hither, to find you out. I writ a Book which is almost every where fill'd with your Praises. I should now desire to have a more Intimate acquaintance with you, that I might Learn of your self, how that Vertue became so Na­tural to you, and all it's Motions so easie, and yet in an Age, wherein you had no Example.

I am glad I have met with a Man in the nether World, who seems to be a Philosopher, and since you are newly Arriv'd here from a­bove, [Page 53]and 'tis so long since I have seen any Person here, for there are very few fond of my Conversation. I hope you won't take it ill, that I ask you some News; as how the upper World goes, and whether it be'nt much chang'd from what it was?

Oh! Extremely, you would not be able to know it.

I am glad to hear it, for I always thought that 'twould be­come better and wiser at length than 'twas in my time.

No, you are mistaken, 'tis more Foolish and Corrupted than ever it was, and on this occasion 'twas, I so much desired to see you, to know the History of that Golden Age, wherein you Liv'd, when Ho­nesty and Justice seem'd to Reign.

And I on the contrary ex­pected to hear Miracles of the latter Ages. What? are not the Follie's of Antiquity yet amended?

I believe you onely slight Antiquity, because you your self were one of the Ancients; one can't enough bewail the Miseries of the present Age, wherein every thing is degenerated, and grown worse.

Is it possible? Things in my time went ill enough, yet I still believ'd that Mankind would take up at length, and grow wise by the Experience of many Years.

But we are convinc'd by that of the contrary, for Men are like Birds who are caught in the same Snare, in which their Prede­cessors were before 'em; there's no Body comes into the World clean, & unspotted, but is as much an Heir to the Follies of his Father as his E­state.

That's because they don't attempt their own Freedom, for I should think the World might grow wiser as it is more advanc't in Years, [Page 55]and more Moderate than in its Youth.

Men of all Ages have Natural­ly the same Inclinations, over which Reason has no greater Power at one time, than at another; so that wherever there are Men, there are the same madness and follies.

And granting this, what reason had you to conclude that past Ages were wiser than the present?

Oh Socrates! you had a more particular, and refin'd way of reasoning, than the rest of Mankind, and knew by the Justness and weight of your Arguments, how to lead Men in that Path that you had Chalk't out for 'em; 'twas from thence you gain'd the Title of Suc­cesfull Mid-Wife of your Thoughts, because you never suffered any to miscarry: for my part, I must con­fess to you, I never could effect any thing, but what was contrary to my first design, yet I know not how [Page 56]to grant you this, for now there are none of those Vigorous and No­ble Souls which they had in for­mer times, as that of Aristides, Pho­cion, Pericles and Socrates.

What should be the rea­son on't? is Natures Fountain quite run dry, that it can produce no more such Men? why should it be productive of all things else, and yet so barren of reasonable Men? can you Instance me in any of the Works of Nature which are dege­nerated? and therefore why should Man?

I know not, but we have been convinc'd by wofull Experi­ence it is so; it seems that Nature onely gave us Images of some few Men, to let us know her Power, and what she cou'd do, if she pleas'd, but I'm sure, she was negligent e­nough in the rest of her Compo­sures.

Always observe, Antiqui­ty [Page 57]is singular in this, that whereas all other distances do diminish the Object, yet that of time makes it seem much bigger; had you known Aristides, Phocion, Pericles, and my self, (since you are pleas'd to Rank me with 'em,) you would have found that in your own Age, there would have been some that might resemble us: Antiquity is so much advanc'd because Men are Prejudic'd against the present Age, and therefore they wou'd say any thing to discredit it, and so are very well pleas'd to exalt their Ancestors, so they may depress their Contem­poraries. When we Liv'd, we also esteem'd our Ancestors much more than they deserv'd, and our Poste­rity deals just so with us. But I believe if our Ancestors, we and our Posterity, could be beheld at the same time, by an Indifferent Eye, the prospect would be found to be very much the same.

I always thought that e­very thing was in Motion, and that every Age had produc't different Humours, and Characters of men. Have there not been some wise, and other ignorant Ages? some that have been heavy, and others more refin'd? some more serious, and others more trifling, and Fan­tastical?

'Tis true, there have.

And wherefore by the same reason, may not some Ages have been more Vertuous, and o­thers more Vicious?

The consequence does not follow, for though the Habit change the Figure, the Body still conti­nues as it was. Wit, Bravery, Knowledge, Ignorance, the serious, or the Trifling Humour are not essen­tial to the Man, but may be put off or on, like Clothes. But the Heart of Man that never changes, and 'tis that which distinguishes him. This [Page 59]is an Age of Ignoramus, but it may be the Mode of the next to be more learn'd. This is an Interest Age, yet I believe the contrary will ne'er succeed; perhaps in the vast Num­ber of Men, that may be born in the space of an Hundred Years, Na­ture may produce Twenty or Thir­ty of Wit and Sense, who are equal­ly disperst all the World over, yet there's no where so many of 'em to be found as to make their Vertue and Honesty become the Mode.

Is Nature always then the same? and makes the same Distri­bution of 'em in every Age? why may not one be blest with many more than others?

Because Nature always Acts by Rule, though we are Igno­rant of its Motions.

DIALOGUE IV. Between the Emperour A­drian, and Margaret of Austria.

WHAT ails you, you are in such a heat?

I have had a contest but e'en now with Cato of Ʋtica about the manner of our Deaths, and I endeavour'd to shew that in the last Scene of my Life, I approv'd my self more a Philosopher than he.

Me-thinks you were a little Confident though, to compare your Death with his; What could be more Glorious, than first, to put his Family in order at Ʋtica, to pro­vide for the safety of his Friends, and then to kill himself as desirous [Page 61]to die rather with the Liberty of his Country, than to fall into the hands of the Conquerour?

If you take but a nearer view on't, you may observe there were many things amiss. First of all, he was so vain-glorious in his Preparation, that there was scarce any Body in all Ʋtica but knew his design. Secondly, he was forc't to reade over some Dialogues of Plato, about the Immortality of the Soul, before he had courage enough to put it in Execution. And lastly, the thoughts on't had put him so out of Humour, that looking for his Sword under his Beds-head, where he had designedly laid it, (which was taken thence by one of his Servants, who fear'd lest despair might make him attempt something on himself,) but not finding it there, he calls for him in Rage, and gave him with his Fist so severe a Blow on the Mouth, as beat out several [Page 62]of his Teeth, and wounded his own Hand.

I can't deny but 'twas a very barbarous stroke, and was a little scandalous to his philosophical death.

You can't imagine what a noise he made about his Sword, how he reproach't his Son and his Domesticks, as if they design'd to bind him Hand and Foot, and deli­ver him to Caesar, and storm'd at 'em at that rate, as made 'em all quit his Chamber, to kill himself.

What need was there of making all that noise about it? had he waited but one day longer he might have done it calmly and qui­etly, for there is nothing easier than to die when one has a mind to it, but all those measures he had taken were founded upon his resolution of doing it that day, and had he de­ferr'd it but one day longer, he might have fail'd of putting his design in execution.

You speak very rational­ly, and I see you are capable of judging what deaths are most Glori­ous.

Yet 'tis reported that when Cato had his Sword again, and every body left him, he fell a­sleep and snor'd; methinks this was very pleasant.

What Story is this? but just before he made a noise as if he were undone, then beat his Ser­vant, and yet in this heat to fall a­sleep is something strange; besides, his Wound troubled him so much, as not to suffer him to take any rest, for he himself but just before profest he could scarce support the pain of it, and made his Physician dress it a little before he kill'd himself; yet at last when his Sword was brought him, at Midnight he read Plato's Dialogues twice o'er, and I can't think he had the courage to sleep af­ter that, and his snoring was no [Page 64]more than dissimulation, that his Servants who were listning at the Door might report it to his advan­tage.

You do ill to be so se­vere a Critick on his death, which still had something in't that was glo­rious; but how could you pretend to prefer yours to his, for, if I mi­stake not, you dy'd quietly in your Bed, and there was nothing in't that was remarkable?

What! was not that re­markable to make these Verses just as I was breathing out my last?

[Page 65] Cato in my mind treated Death too seriously, but I made it my diversion, and 'tis on this account that I do pre­tend mine to have surpast his. 'Tis much easier to Brave one's fate than 'tis to Rally at it; and to entertain it kindly when it comes to our relief, than when we have no occasion for it.

I'll allow you dy'd more decently than Cato, yet 'twas my misfortune never to hear of those Verses which were the ornament on't.

See how the world's im­pos'd on, because Cato tore out his own Entrails rather than fall into the hands of his Enemies, yet such an action shines so in Story, that e­very body that beholds it is dazel'd with its lustre: but let a man die calmly, and in such good humour to droll on death it self, yet our dull Historians ne'er regard it.

Alas! there can be no­thing truer than what you say; for I my self when I thought I should have dy'd, took my farewell of the World more handsomely than you, and yet't has made but little noise in it.

How! what say you?

I was Daughter to an Emperour, and betroth'd to a King's Son, who after the death of his Fa­ther sent me back again with dis­grace to my Friends without ever consummating the Marriage, and not long after I was contracted to ano­ther King's Son, and on my Voyage to his Country there arose so dread­full a Storm that I was in apparent danger of my life, yet I was calm enough to write my own Epitaph, which was this.

[Page 67]I must confess I dy'd not then, yet what's the same, I thought I shou'd. Cato's firmness was extravagant in its kind, and so was your Jollity in another, but mine was the onely na­tural and easie; he was too serious, you to vain, and I the onely rational person.

What! do you reproach me then, that I had too little concern for death?

Yes, you seem'd as if you slighted its approaches, yet I doubt you took as much pains to dissemble your resentments, as Cato did to rip up his Bowels. I expect­ed without fear to be shipwrack't e­very moment, and yet in cold blood I made my own Epitaph. If there had not been something natural in my story the world might have made some difficulty in believ­ing it, or at least that I did it out of extravagancy or fear; but at the same time I was a poor Maid, [Page 68]and though twice contracted, was like to be so unfortunate as to die one: and you may observe that I regretted the severity of my Fate, and 'tis that which makes my story appear so natural, and from whence it borrows all its lustre: your Ver­ses, if you observe, speak nothing but what seems strain'd and affected, whereas mine easily represent my fortune without art or dissimula­tion.

On my word, I ne'er could have believ'd, that the trouble of dying with your Virginity on your hands, would have prov'd so glorious.

You may make your self as merry with me as you please, yet my death, if it may be so call'd, hath this advantage over yours and Cato's, that as you liv'd with the re­putation of Philosophers, so in ho­nour you were oblig'd to die, and if you had but dar'd to fear it, the [Page]world might have been very severe on you on that occasion; but for my part I might have trembled at the apprehension of drowning, and made my cries reach the Heavens, and no body e'er esteem me the less for it, yet I was compos'd enough to write my own Elegy.

Between you and I, was it not made on Land?

That trifling evasion of yours is a little uncivil. I made no difficulty of believing you.

I own my self subdu'd by your reasons, and shall hencefor­ward be of your opinion, That that vertue is greatest and most commen­dable which surpasses not the bounds of nature.

DIALOGUE V. Between Erasistratus, and Har­vey.

YOU tell me wonders: What? that the Bloud Circulates in the Body? that the Veins carry it to the Heart, and the Arteries receive it from thence, to convey it to the exteriour Parts?

I have demonstrated it by so many Experiments, that now there is no one doubts it.

Then we Ancient Physicians were very much deceiv'd, when we attributed to the Bloud onely, a slow and gentle Motion, from the Heart to the Extremity of the Parts. The World has reason to be much oblig'd to you, for abolishing this old mistake.

I am satisfy'd it has, and not onely for that, but by putting 'em into a Method, of making all those modern discoveries in Anato­my, which so much Illustrate the Art of Physick; the Motion of the Bloud was no sooner discover'd, but immediately there were new Cana­les, new-Pipes, and new Reposito­ries found out for it. It seem'd as if the whole Frame and Machine of Man's Body were taken in Peices and cast over a-new. What Advan­tage the modern Physicians have o­ver you, who pretended to cure the Diseases of that Body ye had so lit­tle knowledge of?

I grant you, that the Mo­derns are something better Natura­lists than we, but yet I do deny that they are better Physicians. I should desire very much to see how you or any of 'em, would have manag'd such a Patient as Antiochus in his Quartane Ague. You must needs [Page]have heard of my Success in that Case, and how I discover'd by the brisker Motion of his Pulse in the presence of Stratonice, that he was enamour'd of that Beautifull Queen, and that his Disease proceeded from that Violence he did himself in Endeavouring to conceal his Passion: yet I perform'd that difficult Cure without the knowledge of the Cir­culation of the Bloud, whereas had you been in my Place, you would have found your self extremely puzl'd with all your Inventions, your new Pipes and Canales would have serv'd you then but to little purpose; the Disease was in the Heart, and therefore 'twas of more Importance to know that.

That's not always necessary to be known, neither are all those that are sick Inamour'd of their Mo­ther-in-Laws, as was Antiochus. I doubt not but for lack of this knowledge of the Circulation of [Page 73]the Bloud you let many of your Patients die on your Hands.

Then you believe your new Discoveries are of great use and be­nifit to the World?

Without doubt they are.

Then pray Answer me one question, what's the reason the Dead come crowding hither as thick as e'er they did?

Oh! if they dye now, 'tis commonly the Fault of the Patient; not of the Physicians.

Therefore your modern discoveries do conduce very little to the Cure.

Perhaps they han't leasure to make those advantages of our discoveries as they might, but 'tis probable in a little time we may see more surprizing Effects.

On my word, all things re­main in the same Station where they were, there's a certain measure of necessary knowledge which Men do [Page 74]easily attain to, and they are so far oblig'd to Nature for inspiring 'em with that which is so much to their advantage. Men were very unhap­py, if they were always beholding to the slow and often unsuccesfull Motions of their reason, for all they know, and those things that are not of the like necessity, are discovered by degrees and long pursuit of many Years.

Why may not a skilfull A­natomist make the same advantage of the perfect knowledge of the Machine of a Man's body, as an Ar­tist doth of a Clock or Watch, and by the in-sight that he has of its springs and wheels best know how to regulate its Motions when they are disorder'd? but if it be of so little use, as you would have it, men strive in vain, to advance that Science, and 'twere much better if 'twere let alone.

Oh no! then there would [Page 75]be much diverting knowledge lost; but for any use there's in't, I think to discover some new conduit in the body, or some new Star in the Hea­vens is much the same. We cannot break great Nature's rule who has Ordain'd, that men must mutually succeed one another, which can be done by no other way but Death. Mankind may make defences, and seem to combate with diseases, till they come to the brink of Fate, but neither the newest discoveries in Anatomy, nor a search into the Closest recesses of the Body, can e­ver make Mankind pass over that, Nature will still be Conquerour and Death will put an end to all their Pretensions.

DIALOGUE VI. Between Berenice. Cosme. II. de Medicis.

I am told by the modern Wits lately come hi­ther, some news, which troubles me; you know Galilaeus, who was my Mathematician, had discover'd certain Planets which move about Jupiter, and in honour to me call'd 'em de Medicis, that they are now known no more by that Name, but call'd the Satellites, it must needs be that the World is grown ill natur'd to rob me of that honour which is my due.

I never knew a more re­markable instance of its Malice.

You may speak with­out [Page 77]concern, nor have you the same reason to complain as I, you made a vow to cut off your hair, if your Husband Ptolomy return'd Victor, from I know not what Wars, which he afterwards did, and you to perform your vow, made an offering of your hair in the Temple of Venus; but the next Day a cer­tain Mathematician stole it thence, and Publish't that 'twas taken up to Heaven, and plac't amongst the Stars, and to this Day one of the Constellations goes by the Name of Berenice's hair they might as well call the Stars after a Prince's name, as a Woman's Locks; yet you are re­membred in the Skies; and I am forgotten.

Were it in my Power to present you with my Heavenly Locks, I should be very willing to part with 'em, for your satisfaction, and yet have no reason to upbraid [Page 78]you with the greatness of the Obli­gation.

I should esteem it very considerable to be assur'd, my name should live as well as yours.

Alas! if all the Constel­lations were call'd by my name, what should I be the better? they are plac't above in the Heavens, whilst I am here below. Men know not how to Rob Death of's due, and yet they wou'd make two or three Syl­lables survive; this is a very plea­sant evasion, were it not as well that they and their names dy'd toge­ther?

I am not of your mind, we naturally desire to die but as lit­tle as may be, and after Death it self, we endeavour to preserve our lives on some Marble-stone or Monu­ment.

Why? those very things which seem to give us Immortality, do also at length die themselves. On [Page 79]what 'Object would you fix your name? neither City, Town, nor Empire could answer your desire.

'Twas well contriv'd then to give it to the Stars, for they always last.

Nor there could you be secure, the Stars themselves being Subject to the same Fate of changes and revolutions, and if we can be­lieve Astronomers, new ones rise, and the old do disappear, and it may come to pass at length that my Locks may also vanish; or if we knew how to fix it on something that was more permanent, our names as well as that whereon it was set, might suffer a Grammatical Death by the change of words and letters, e­nough to puzzle the greatest antiqua­ries to find 'em out. Sometime since there were two of the Dead who disputed one with another with some heat, and I observing on't desir'd to know who they were; [Page 80]and what was the grounds of their Controversie, and I was told that one was Constantine the Great, and the other was an Heathen Emperour, and that their past greatness was the Subject of their quarel. Constan­tine said he had been Emperour of Constantinople, and to give it the Preference, said it was situated upon three Seas, the Euxine, the Thracian Bosphorus, and the Propontis; The Heathen Emperour said he was so of Stambould, which has as advantage­ous a situation, on the black Sea, the Strait, and the Marmorean. Con­stantine was surpriz'd at the resem­blance between Constantinople and Stambould, but after he had exactly inform'd himself of the situation of the place, he was much more so, when he found it was the very same, which he knew not because of the alteration of the name, and cry'd out, Alas! I might as well have left it it's ancient name of Bizantium, [Page 81]for who can find the name of Con­stantine in Stambould, I doubt 'tis therefore drawing near it's utmost Period.

I am somewhat satis­fi'd, and resolve hence forward to be more patient, and since we can­not free our selves from death, not to be concern'd about our names which is of so much less Conse­quence.

DIALOGUE I. Between Anne of Britain and Mary of England.

CErtainly you were very well pleas'd with my death, for I was no sooner dead, but you crost the Seas to Es­pouse Lewis the Twelfth my Hus­band, to seat your self in that Throne which I had but just forsa­ken, but yet you enjoy'd it not long; and your youth and beauty, which so much charm'd the King, [Page 83]hasten'd his death and your depar­ture.

'Tis true, my Royal­ty did no sooner appear but it va­nisht.

Yet after that you be­came Duchess of Suffolk, that was a great fall from Queen of France: thanks to Heaven for my better Fate. When Charles the Eighth, my former Husband, dy'd, I preserv'd my Qua­lity by espousing his Successor, which was a singular instance of my good Fortune.

Believe me, I never envy'd it.

No? I conceive well what 'tis to be Duchess of Suffolk af­ter being Queen of France.

But I lov'd the Duke of Suffolk.

That's no matter: when one has relisht once the sweet­ness of a Throne, all other pleasures become insipid.

I grant it: excepting those of Love, you have no reason to be angry with me for succeeding in your Title, since had it been in my power, I would have assum'd no other than that of Duchess, which I so quickly did when I was dis­charg'd from being Queen of France.

Could you have thoughts so mean?

The uneasinesses of Ambition could never suit my tem­per; Love is Nature's gift, and like all its other Bounties is calm and quiet, and easie to attain to; but Ambition, like its Parent the Fancy, is restless and unquiet, and never possesses it self of any thing but with pain and difficulty.

What? has not Na­ture inspir'd Mankind with Ambiti­on as well as Love?

We must needs own Ambition to be the product of the Imagination, whose stamp and cha­racter [Page 85]it bears; for like that 'tis stormy and unquiet, full of fanta­stick projects, and sets up bounds to it self it never reaches.

But unhappy Love ar­rives at it too soon.

The joys of Love do often make us happy, and frequent­ly we taste its pleasures, whereas that of Ambition affords but little satisfaction to its greatest Votaries; and though we might suppose that they often reap fresh delights, which were still like their Laurel green and flourishing, yet still greatness is onely made for few; but Nature's gifts are all diffusive and free as the Air and Sun, and all the world do love, or if any are exempted from this great rule, 'tis onely they who place their happiness on the top pi­nacle of Honour: some mighty King who can have an hundred thousand men to await his pleasure, yet he can't assure himself the conquest of [Page 86]one Heart, and the person of some private Man shall be more taking than all His greatness: so that he often parts with the simple and in­nocent pleasures of his life as the purchase of his Royalty.

Those exemptions they have as due to their condition, do not derogate from their happiness, when we see their will is not only o­bey'd but even prevented, by all those services and cares which are offer'd to 'em, and on whom depends the raising of so many Fortunes. I think 'tis indifferent to know whe­ther they are esteem'd for their Per­son or their Quality. You say am­bitious Joys are onely made for few, and 'tis that which makes me like it; those that rule have so many advantages above other Men, that though they loose some of those lit­tle pleasures which are common to the world, yet they are sufficiently recompenc'd by the number of the rest.

You may judge of the loss they generally suffer by th' sweet­ness of the pleasure which they some­times find in the enjoyment. I'll tell you a story I lately heard here of an English Princess (who reign'd long and happy in that Kingdom without ever being Married:) When some Dutch Embassadours had their first Audience, it happen'd that there was a handsome young Man of the Retinue, who as soon as e'er he saw the Queen apply'd himself to those that were near him, and said some­thing with a low voice, but yet with such an Air that the Queen could easily divine what he meant (for Women have an admirable In­stinct that way) and it prov'd that there was more wit in those two or three words of that dull Hollander, than in the whole Harangue of the Embassadours; for as soon as they were dismist the Presence, she being willing to satisfie her self so far as to [Page 88]know whether she had guess'd the truth, ask't what that young Man said, but was answered with much respect that they dar'd not repeat it to her; but at length she made use of her authority, and commanded 'em to tell her, and then 'twas one­ly that he thought her Majesty a very handsome Woman, with other such dull expressions, which yet had sense enough to please the Queen; and the event on't was, that when the Embassadours had their last Au­dience she made the young Dutch­man a considerable Present. Observe therefore how in the midst of all her Royalty and Greatness the pleasure of being thought handsome did sen­sibly affect her.

But yet she never part­ed with her Crown, for all those I­maginary pleasures; that which is too simple and easie suits not with our natures, 'tis not enough that pleasures tickle the imagination, but [Page 89]they must transport it too, hence it is that the innocent lives of amo­rous Swains, which Poets paint with so much elegancy, are no where to be found but in their Poems, 'tis too soft e'er to succeed so far as to be put in practice.

Then what's the rea­son that the prospect of the most glorious Court affords not so much pleasure as the bare Idoea of this pastoral life? unless it be that men are most naturally inclin'd and de­lighted with its innocency.

So that your calm and easie pleasures consist onely in those Chimera's which are form'd by an idle fancy.

No, No, for tho' some people are of so distemper'd a palate that they rellish not those Joys at first, yet in the end they do. After the imagination is tir'd in the pur­suit of such false and fleeting ob­jects, it fixes it self at last on those that are true.

DIALOGUE II. Between Charles Vth. and Eras­mus.

DOUBT it not, had I got hither among the dead, but one minute before you, I should have disputed the preemi­nence.

What? a Grammarian, a Scholar, and to push your preten­sions as high as they can reach? a man of wit, to contend with me, who was so glorious in my life, as to see my self master of the better part of Europe?

You may add America to the rest of your Dominions, and yet I shall have as little reason to submit to you. What was the source and fountain of all this greatness, [Page 91]but blind Chance, which so wonder­fully united so many different parts into one Empire? If Ferdinand your Grand-father had been a man of honour, What pretensions could you have had to any part of Italy? If other Princes had had but sense e­nough to have believ'd the Antipo­des, Columbus would ne'er have ap­ply'd himself to him, nor America of the number of your Conquests; what wou'd have become of your Spanish Rhodomontade? That the son ne'er sate in your Territorie's? If on the death of the Duke of Bur­gundy Lewis the 11th. had but re­flected on what he did, Maxi­milian had ne'er been Instated in that Dukedom, nor you in the Low Countries? If the Reputation of Henry of Castl [...]e, your great Uncle had not been scandalous among the women as to his manhood, as the Ver­tue of his wife something doubtfull, his Daughter might have been well [Page 92]enough thought Legitimate, and you had been depriv'd of the king­dom of Castile.

Oh! you put me in­to a fright, then it seems I might have lost Castile, the Low Countries, America, or Italy.

Mock not, you know not how to own these Truths, but at your own cost, for as well the Im­potency of your Uncle as the levity of your Aunt, did contribute to your greatness; therefore see, how beautifull a Fabrick that is, which is built upon no other Foundation, than that of Chance.

I know not how to sus­tain so severe a scrutiny as yours, and acknowledge that your wit makes all my Grandeur disappear.

Yet these are the qualities you so much pride your self upon, of which I have with so much ease despoil'd you. You may have heard the story of Simon the Athenian, [Page 93]who having taken many Persian captives, expos'd 'em naked to be sold, they on one hand, and their clothes on 'tother, which being ve­ry rich and gawdy, every body crowded to purchase 'em, whilst the poor Persians were not regarded: On my word the same which happen'd to those Persians would to others al­so, if their personal merit could but be separated from that, for which they are indebted to Fortune.

What is this personal merit, which you so much value your self upon?

Is that a question to ask? 'tis that which is in our selves, and has no dependance on any thing without us, such as wit, learning, &c.

And can a man with reason glory so much in these?

Without doubt, they're not the gifts of Fortune, like nobili­ty and riches.

That were strange in­deed, [Page 94]what don't the learn'd possess their knowledge, as men do their estates by succession? don't you as much inherit the wisedom of the Ancients as we do the possessions of our Fathers? Hence it is that the learn'd with the same veneration do regard their Opinions, as we do the Mansion-houses of our fore-fathers, and commonly relinquish them with the same difficulty.

No, for great men are born heirs to their fathers Fortunes, but Scholars by their Birth inherit no part of their learning; 'tis not deriv'd to us by succession, but ac­quir'd by industry.

Well then, the goods of Fortune are preserv'd with the same difficulty, as those of the mind are first acquir'd; and there's as much on't to be met with in the common affairs of the world as in the deep­est speculations of the closet.

We don't speak of scien­ces [Page 95]but of wit alone which has no dependance upon Chance.

What does it not depend on a certain conformation of the brain? and is there not as much of Chance inbeing born a possessor of this happy disposition, as there is inbeing born the son of a King? You had the good Fortune to be a witty man, yet ask a naturalist the reason why you were not as well dull and block­ish, and he'll answer you, that the Fibres of your brain were of a more delicate contexture than ordinary, and some other swall matter which the most discerning Anatomist has not yet discover'd. Yet these witty gentlemen think they have reason to prefer themselves before all others, as being so independent upon Chance.

Therefore by your reck|'ning the rich and the witty are equally deserving.

I must confess 'tis bet­ter [Page 96]luck to be born witty than rich, yet 'tis Fortune onely to which they are both indebted.

Then every thing falls out by chance.

Yes, all that happens we know not why: you shall be Judge if I have not laid open Man­kind more than you, who would onely take from 'em the Advantages of their Fortune, whereas I have that of their Wit too: Therefore if Men would but first assure them­selves, that any thing is their pro­per Right before they are proud on't, there would be no more vanity in the world.

DIALOGUE III. Between Queen Elizabeth and Duke of Alenzon.

WHY did you flatter me so long with hopes of marriage, when you were resolv'd ne'er to consummate it?

You were not the onely deluded person, there were others also who had as fair pretensions. I was the Penelope of my age, there was You, the Duke of Anjou your brother, the Arch-Duke and the King of Sweden were all pretenders, and wou'd have been willing to have made your selves masters of an Island, much more considerable than that of Itha­ca; I kept you in Chace for many Years, and when you had given me [Page]sufficient diversion I dismist you.

Here are some among the dead, that will not allow that just resemblance between you and Penople in every thing, but we sel­dome light on such comparisons as hold good in every point.

If you had more wit, and less obstinacy—

Well well, to be serious, do but observe what Rhodomon­tades you made of your Virginity, witness that vast continent in Ame­rica, which you nam'd Virginia in memory of one of the most doubt­full of all your qualities, but yet this Country was in t'other world, and so 'twas well enough; but to return to the subject of our debate, give me but a reason of your myste­rious conduct in all your projects of matrimony, was it that your Fa­ther Harry the Eighth's six marria­ges, was a lesson for you not to Mar­ry at all, as the constant Rovings of [Page] Charles the Fifth, taught his Son Philip the Second never to stir out of Madrid?

I might make that my pretence which you have furnish't me with, and seem to dislike it, be­cause my father spent all his life in marrying, and unmarrying, in di­vorcing himself from some, and cutting others heads off. But the true reason of this my Conduct, was because I found more pleasure in forming designs, and making pre­paration, than in putting 'em in Ex­ecution, for the expectation is al­ways more than the enjoyment; and as soon as Objects forsake the fancy where they have their being vanish into nothing: when you came into England to Court me, we had Balls, Masks, and Entertainments, nay it proceeded so far that I pre­sented you with a Ring, and so much on't was pleasant, as consisting onely in the Idaea, and Image of marri­age, [Page]but when these grew stale, I preserv'd my self as I was, and sent you home again.

Then your maxims, and mine suited not well together, for mine reacht at something more sub­stantial than Chimaera's.

All the pleasures of our lives consist in such imaginary fan­cies. Now I see you were not sen­sible of the greatest happiness of your life till 'twas too late.

What satisfaction could I receieve in all my life, to whom no­thing e'er succeeded? I thought four times I should have been a King, first of Poland, afterwards of Eng­land, then of Flanders, and last of all of France, which did of right belong to me, but the end of all my hopes was nothing.

See how much happiery ou were than you dream't of, you were always feasted with hopes and ima­gination without having 'em de­stroy'd [Page 101]by reality and enjoyment, for you did nothing all your life but make preparations for a Crown as I did for Matrimony.

But I believe as a real marriage wou'd have done you no injury, so a substantial Crown would have much better pleas'd me.

Pleasures have not soli­dity enough to endure the touch, but vanish like fairy money in the handling, or not unlike to marshy ground where men must tread but gently lest they sink.

DIALOGUE IV. Between William de Cabestan and Albert Frederick of Brandenburgh.

I Like you so much the better for having been as very a Fool as my self: pray let me know the History of your Folly, and how it first began.

I was a Poet of Pro­vance, and much esteem'd by the age wherein I liv'd, which was the oc­casion of all my misfortunes. It happen'd I fell in Love with a cer­tain Lady, to whom my Poems had done no small honour, and she re­lish't 'em so well, that she envy'd any other should have the like ad­vantage; so to assure her self of the fidelity of my Muse, she gave me, [Page 103]some curs'd drink which turn'd my brains, and put me out of condition e'er of Rhyming more.

How many Years have you been dead?

I think it may be much about four hundred.

Certainly Poets were very scarce in that age, when they put that value on 'em as to poyson 'em after such a manner. Had it been your fortune to have liv'd in mine, you might have made your Poems on all the Beauties of the times, without fear of being poy­son'd for the matter.

I know it, for of all the wits that have come hither since, I have heard none complain of my destiny. But pray inform me how you became a fool?

After a very grave, and rational manner, there was a certain King became so onely at the sight of an Apparation in a Forrest, [Page 104]which was no great matter, but what I saw was much more ter­rible.

What did you see?

Why, all the Cere­mony and preparation for marriage; I was wedded to Mary Eleanour of Cleaves, and during all the marriage Feast, I made such serious and Ju­dicious Reflexions upon Matrimony, that from that time I quite lost my wits.

Had you never any Intervals of reason in your Distrac­tion?

Yes.

So much the worse, 'twas my misery to have my senses quite returned again at last.

I should ne'er have look't on that as a misfortune.

When one's once a fool 'tis best to be intirely so, 'tis onely your half-witted fools who have the returns of wit and folly, [Page 105]and who happen to be so by Chance, whose number is very inconsider­able; but those who are so by course of Nature and crack't in their Cra­dles, with whom the world's so throng'd, are always fools, and and are so fortunate as ne'er to ad­mit of any cure.

For my part I always thought that the lightest touches of folly were best.

Oh! then I find you never understood the use on't, for it hides a very melancholy prospect from us, that of our selves; and as one wou'd never suffer such uneasi­ness if one could help it, so nei­ther wou'd we any return of reason which shou'd cause it.

You say well, but you shall ne'er perswade me that there are any other sort of fools in the world, but those that are like you and I; some men speak reason, else 't had been no great mat­ter [Page]to lose one's wits, and those that are Frantick could not be distinguish't from Men of Sense.

The Frantick are onely fools of another kind, but the common follies of the world, though they are ne'er so extravagant, yet being of the same nature like Atoms of a resembling figure, do ve­ry easily combine, and fasten the link of humane society, witness the vain desire of Immortality, false glory, and many other such like Principles on which Mens Actions all are founded; but the Frantick are a certain sort of fooles which can't be brought into order, neither will their follies suit with those of o­thers, and therefore are not fit for the ordinary Commerce of Life.

Mad-men have so lit­tle wit as to treat every body like Mad-men and themselves, but men of sense do not so.

You're mistaken, all [Page 107]men point at one another, and know not how to prevent that, which is so ordain'd by nature; The solitary Man laughs at the Courtier, yet ne­ver goes to Court, to let him know it. The Courtier too despises him, and yet never seeks to find him out in his retreat: If there were any party that was generally acknow­ledg'd to be most rational, all the world wou'd embrace it, and the crowd were not to be endur'd; 'tis better therefore that Mens Fancies were divided, so as not to hinder one another in their imaginary pur­suits, and continue still to laugh at one another.

With all your rea­sonings, I take you for a fool still, and I believe the Lady's Potion has not done working in your Head.

Observe what Notion one fool has of another. True wise­dom distinguishes its possessors, but the Opinion of it equalls every bo­dy, [Page 108]and yeilds as much content and satisfaction.

DIALOGUE V. Between Agnes Sorel and Roxilana.

TO speak the truth, I can't comprehend your Turkish Gallantry, where your Lovers need onely Will, and without farther ceremony Enjoy: you make use of none of those feign'd and engaging Resistances (Love's most powerfull & attractive charm) neither do men make their approa­ches with that gentle submission and care to please as they ought, so that your Sultans and Sultana's are insen­sible of the greatest Joys of Love.

Why? the Turkish Em­perours, who are extremely jealous of their Power for some reasons of [Page 109]State, won't submit to use that re­fin'd way of Courtship; they fear lest those Beauties who have natu­rally too great a power over Men, might by that means usurp upon their Souls, and so intermeddle in State-affairs.

Perhaps that had not been so great a misfortune as they imagin'd; and often Love is not onely delightfull in it self, but also of advantage to that which seems to have no dependance on't; I my self was Mistress to a King of France, and the absolute Dominion which I had over him was the saving of my Country: you might have heard what extremity France was reduc't to in the time of Charles the Seventh, and how by the successfull valour of the English 'twas almost brought to nothing.

Oh, yes; that Story made no small noise here, how that France was sav'd by a Woman: were you that Person then?

No, you're mistaken, you mean another; the King (who lov'd me) was just resolv'd to quit his King­dom to the Conqueror, and retire for his Safety to the Mountains; but to defeat his design I contriv'd this Strategeme. I order'd a certain A­strologer to come to me (whom I had privately manag'd before) to tell me my Fortune in the presence of the King, and after he had seem'd to have consider'd very well of my Nativity, The Stars (said he) are the greatest cheats in Nature, or else you will inspire some great Monarch with a long and lasting passion; up­on which I appli'd my self to the King, and told him, that I hop'd he wou'd not take it ill if I went to the English Court, because he no lon­ger wou'd be King, and I lay under a necessity of fulfilling my Destiny. The fear of losing me made him once more resolve to be King of France, and from that time he be­gan [Page 111]to be successfull: France has therefore reason to be oblig'd to Love, and treat that kindly which was its preservation.

'Tis true, but to return to the Maid: We have been therefore much deceiv'd in Story, which gives that honour to a Country Girl, which of Right belongs to a Court Lady, and the King's Mistress.

There has been such a Maid who by the Bravery of her Ac­tions and Speeches animated the fainting Souldiers, but 'twas I that first inspir'd the King; she did him no small service with her Sword, but he was indebted to my Charms for his Delivery: and in fine, you can have no longer reason to doubt of the good Service I did my faint­ing Country, when 'tis so manifest by the testimony of one of the Suc­cessours of Charles the Seventh in these Verses. [Page 112]

Now what say you Roxilana; if I had onely been a Sultana like you, and had no more power of Charles the Seventh than you had over your Sultans we had been all undone.

I admire at your vanity, to value your self so much on so small an action: What difficulty was there for you a free Woman and Mistress of your self to assume so much power over your Lover? But I had the courage to throw off all subjection to the Sultan, though I were his Slave; you made Charles the Seventh a King against his will, [Page 113]and I made Solyman against his will my Husband.

How so? they say the Sultans never Marry.

'Tis true; yet it came in­to mine Head to espouse Solyman (though he had so often satisfi'd his passion before, and to effect my de­sign I contriv'd this Strategeme: First I built many Mosques and Re­ligious Houses, and perform'd some other actions of Piety and Devoti­on, and having so done, I dissem­bled a profound Melancholy: The Sultan a thousand times desir'd to know the cause of it, to whom I re­ply'd after the Ceremony on't was over, that the Doctours of the Law had told me all my works of Piety would be of no advantage to my self because a Slave had perform'd 'em, and all I had done was for my Lord Solyman. Whereupon he pre­sently made me Free, that I might reap the benefit of my own works; [Page 114]afterwards when he would have ta­ken his former freedom with me, I told him with a grave and serious Air, I thought he had no power on the person of a Free Woman. Soly­man who was of a nice and tender Conscience went immediately to consult with a Doctour of the Law (whom I had secretly manag'd be­fore) and had this Answer return'd him; That he must have a care how he treated me any longer as a Slave, he himself having made me Free, and there was no way left of Enjoying me but Marriage. Upon this he was more Amorous than ever, and, contrary to the custome of all his Predecessours, Marry'd me.

I must aknowledge that was pleasant, to catch those in that Net which they are so cautious to avoid.

Man is not that head­strong Animal we fansie, and when he is caught by th' passions, 'tis an [Page 115]easie matter to lead him any where. Were I to live but once again, and had assign'd me the most Imperious of 'em all to manage, I would make him be my humblest Vassal, provided onely I had much Wit, some Beauty, and but a little Love.

DIALOGUE VI. Between Joan of Naples and Anselm.

WHat, can't you let me know my For­tune? surely you han't forgot your Astrology that you were so great an Artist in i'th' t'other World?

Whence should I take my observations? there's neither Stars nor Heaven here.

'Tis no matter, I'll dispence with you from observing all the rules of your Art so exactly.

That were pleasant, for a Man that's dead to turn Astrologer; But what wou'd you desire to know?

Something in relation to my self.

Good! why you are dead, and will be always so, and your Af­fairs and condition here will always remain in the same posture, and that's the summ of all that I can tell you.

That's it which gives me all my trouble, I am well enough assur'd there's nothing new can hap­pen here, yet if you wou'd but fore­tell me something, the thoughts on't wou'd divert me. You cannot Imagine how melancholy it is to have a prospect still of the same For­tune: Come, one little Prediction I beseech you, be it what it will.

Cou'd one believe that you shou'd suffer the same uneasinesses [Page]here that you did above? there they are never satisfy'd with the pre­sent, and are always anticipating the Future; we should be wiser now we are here.

If men do so, 'tis not without reason; the present time is but an instant, and 'twere great pity to bound one's life but with that one point, and take no delightfull pros­pect beyond that; is it not much bet­ter to enjoy the future with the pre­sent, than that alone which creates all the pleasures of Avarice?

And what's the event on't? they borrow so much from the fu­ture by their hopes and fancies, that when it becomes the present they find it so rifled and deflour'd that they know not how to relish it: And though the pleasure's dead, yet their Impatiences are not so. 'Tis the great concern of Men to know what will be; and therefore the Astrologers are so hunted after to [Page]inform 'em, who tell 'em, with a great deal of Confidence, that there are hot and cold Signs, Male and Female; that some Planets are good, and others hurtfull; and that some are neither one nor t'other, but are so complaisant to conform them­selves according to the humour of the Company they are found in; yet all these Follies are very well re­ceiv'd, because they are in hopes by them to be brought to the know­ledge of the future.

What? do they let us know nothing then? I wonder that you who were my Astrologer shou'd speak so ill of your own Art.

Heark ye! the Dead don't use to lie, I abus'd you with that very Art which I profest, and you so much esteem'd.

Oh! but I won't be­lieve you: how cou'd you foretell me then that I should be four times [Page 119]marry'd? and what probability was there that any rational person wou'd let her self be so often caught in the same Noose? therefore I am certain you read my Destiny in the Stars.

I'll assure ye I consul­ted the Stars much less than your Inclinations, and though some of our Predictions come to pass, yet this is no proof of the Infallibility of the Art. I cou'd bring you to one of our Fraternity, who can tell you a very pleasant Story on this Subject. This Man was a profest Astrologer, and rely'd as little upon his own Art as ever I did; yet to satisfie himself whether there was any certainty in it or not, he dedicated one whole day to make his Observations, whether the particular Actions of it cou'd any ways answer to his Rules, and it happen'd that he foretold ma­ny things which were far more strange than your four Marriages, which mightily surpriz'd him: but [Page]afterwards more narrowly examin­ing his Astronomical Tables, on which his Predictions were groun­ded, he found 'em to be all false and imperfect; and if they had been rightly made, he should have been oblig'd to have foretold the quite contrary.

If this be true I'm for­ry I knew it not in t'other World, that we might have been no longer cheated with these Impostors.

There are Stories enough in the World to their disadvantage, and yet the Art continues still in vogue. Men are so Infatuated with a desire of knowing what's to come, that they will by no means suffer themselves to be disabus'd, with pleasure they sacrifice their All to a future hopes; yet when it comes to their possession, they streight fly from it as if spightfull Nature had so ordain'd, that Mankind should ne'er enjoy those goods they have, [Page]nor think of making themselves happy the present moment, but still refer it to that which is to come, as if at its Arrival, it wou'd not be like the former.

I own 'tis still the same, yet 'tis not good that one should think so.

I shall make you under­stand the folly of this fond Opinion, by the Relation of a Fable: There was a Man that was thirsty, and sitting at a Fountain-head, refus'd to taste the Waters, because he hop'd at length they wou'd become more clear and pure, the Waters still continu'd running, yet still the same; which made him wait as formerly in expectation. But at last the Foun­tain became dry, and when he wou'd, there was nothing left for him to drink.

I believe this story might not onely be appli'd to me, but to all the dead, and our Glass of [Page]Life is quite run out, before we know what use to make of it. But what then? methinks 'tis Expecta­tion makes the greatest Blessing, and there is something of pleasure not onely in the hope, but in the fear of what's to come: wou'd you have a Man live in the world, as we do here, where the present and the future are all alike?

Man's Life were very plea­sant indeed, if all the happiness on't consisted in the prospect of distant and imaginary Objects. What plea­sure can it be to aspire at that which can be ne'er enjoy'd, and pursue a sha­dow which can ne'er be Caught?