Licenced, Octob. 1. 1677.  
Roger L'estrange.   

A COLLECTION OF Select Discourses Out of the most Eminent WITS of FRANCE AND ITALY.  
A Preface to Monsieur Sarasin's Works by Monsieur Pelisson.  
A Dialogue of Love, by Mr Saracen.  
Wallenstein's Conspiracy, by Mr Saracen.  
Alcidalis, a Romance, by Mr Voiture.  
Fieskie's Conspiracy, by Signior Mascardi.  
LONDON, Printed by S. R. for Henry Brome at the Gun in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1678.   

A PREFACE TO THE WORKS OF M. Saracen.  
MY Friends, who have sometimes heard me speak against Prefaces, will wonder perhaps to see me undertake for the Works of Monsieur Saracen, what I never advised any to do for his own: But let me apply to these things what a famous man once said of Funeral Pomps and the Rights of Sepulchre, 'Tis honest to be careful for other men's, but not to trouble ourselves about our own. And certainly if there be nothing less praiseworthy than to go in quest of that praise we have deserved, who sees not that these great number of Prefaces wherewith Authors do swell their Books, excepting some wherein Discretion and Judgement shines throughout, and which are either very necessary or very useful, all the rest, though strowed with the Flowers of Eloquence, and highly pompous, deserve more blame than praise. For to what purpose is it to entertain the Reader at the Entrance with the excellency of that which they present him, with the difficulties they met withal, and the qualifications necessary to surmount them; to entreat, to flatter him in some places; to scorn and defy him in others, to speak sometimes with submission, and sometimes with empire, as if we would force their liking; or else, as a Spaniard pleasantly says, ask it with tears in our eyes; discovering to the World a weakness by so much the greater as we are not able to dissemble it? If our Works are good, let us be assured upon the Faith of all Ages, and all that ever was wrote handsomely, that sooner or later the World will do us right, though we free ourselves from the shame of soliciting it: If they are bad or imperfect, let us think rather of suppressing then defending them; of correcting our Faults rather than excusing them: And let us not expect from our Eloquence what was spoken but in jest concerning that of the famous Pirocles, who, when he was worsted in Wrestling, persuaded the Spectators he had no fall, and constrained them to give more credit to his Speeches than to their own eyes. If it be so hard to know ourselves aright, how much more difficult is it to speak of ourselves as we ought? In which case, though we think as we ought, we ought not always to speak of ourselves as we think, Where open and declared Vanity is insupportable, excessive Humility always suspected of concealed Vanity, and the way between these so narrow and so hard to keep, that I know not for what reason, or rather through what error, so many without any necessity embark upon a Sea so full of Rocks, and famous for so many Shipwrecks,  
But we fear nothing of this, when we labour for a Friend that is no more. It becomes us to defend with heat the Fame and Praises which concern us not, to excuse Faults we have not committed, and to speak for him who cannot defend himself. Passion and transport show handsome here; and though we stretch the Truth a little, and of a great make an extraordinary man, those who condemn our judgement will esteem our Affection, and wish to have Friends like us. Let us add one voice then to the noise of his Praises, yea begin amongst the People, and in the crowed of his Admirers these first Applauses, which in all likelihood will be seconded by those of all France.  
His Works have not been collected without much pains, and doubtless would have appeared handsomer, if he had had the advantage to publish them himself: And we must acknowledge that there is I know not what of a last hand, which cannot be given to the Works of the mind but by those that made them. We dare not handle the Writings of a dead Friend as we would our own; either through a respect we bear the Genius of another, or a distrust of our own, or fear by confounding two different ways of producing a bad one; and the more Judgement we have, the less Boldness. I assure myself notwithstanding, that these Orphans, unfortunate as they are in the untimely loss of their Father, will have the good Fortune to please their Country, that a small number of Defects shall be hid under the brightness and light of a great number of Beauties; that if any one will attain them, he shall labour only for their glory; and if they must fight, it will be only in order to triumph.  
Amongst the divers Pieces whereof this Volume is composed, the History of the Siege of Dunkirk presents itself first, which having already seen the Light, and gained the public Approbation, seems to refuse my Praises, and send them to some of its Fellows; however let me say to those that knew Monsieur Saracen but by halves, and only by his Poems, That 'tis the Work of a Masterly hand that never abandoned Judgement to run after Wit, and sought not Flowers when 'twas the Season of Fruits: So that writing the History of a particular Action, which held much of bare Relation, he hath contained his style within a just mediocrity, not suffering it to raise itself too ambitiously above its subject, and hath deserved extreme praise in that way wherein he seemed not to have sought it.  
But Walstenis' Conspiracy which follows, as it surpassed this History for the richness of the matter, had infinitely surpassed it for the beauty of the workmanship, if the Destiny of human things, which seems every where to deny perfection, had permitted Monsieur Saracen to finish so excellent a Piece. However, if Antiquity thought fit to rank with Masterpieces some Pictures left imperfect, yea some Lines drawn upon an empty Cloth; why should not we render the same Justice to this Fragment and its Author? He hath not done enough for us; but be hath done enough for himself, and to let us see that if he had lived a little longer he had got the Reputation of an Excellent Historian.  
In these two words I pretend to have included a thousand praises, and represented a thousand great and rare qualities. Not to speak of that which depends in some sort on our Will or on Fortune, to be well instructed and to be faithful; not to employ our Pains and Industry, whether innocently or on design, to abuse Posterity; a good Historian besides this aught to have an Universal Knowledge of the World, and of Affairs; a mind subtle and penetrating, capable of unraveling the true Causes of human Actions from their pretexts and colours; an Imagination lively and judicious together, apprehending things as they are, and afterwards delivering them so as he hath conceived them: he doth not recount, he paints; and if he speaks of a Battle, a Negotiation, the Passions of Princes or their Ministers, his Readers think they fight or negotiate, are agitated with the same Desires, the same Inquietudes. He hath besides an exquisite taste in all that may please or displease, weary or entertain; and though he omits nothing necessary, he knows to extend or shut up his several subjects according as the beauty of his Work requires. He doth not show his Wit, but lets it be seen every where; he lies not in ambush on all passages to speak fine things, and apply Sentences of Seneca; he expresses sometimes a weighty matter in a word, or causes it to be understood without speaking it, as those that with the sole motion of their eye tacitly approve or condemn what is said or done in their presence. His style is clear, simple, familiar, but without lowness, and accompanied every where with dignity; for he still remembers that he entertains all Nations and all Ages, that all the Earth hears him, that he speaks, as we may say, in the public Assembly of Mankind, where nothing ought to scape him which is not mingled with a Character of shamefacedness, respect, and good manners. But that I be not accused to extend myself too far on this Subject, all these great things whereof I have spoken, are found in this Fragment: I have drawn the true Genius of an Historian, but have done it only by copying it from this Work.  
After these two Histories we have put the Dialogue upon the Question, If a young man ought to be Amorous. Those who are not favourable to our Author will, I confess, find here something to object, and so oblige me to employ the more pains to defend it. This kind of writing hath been hitherto little used by the French; Whether they have thought it hard to attain its perfection; or whether a Nation quick and impatient, as ours, cannot entirely relish Works, where much time is lost before we can arrive at the Subject, or find what we seek: Whence perhaps it is, that Dialogues have not where been in so much esteem as with Greeks and Italians, men of great wits and great leisure. For my part, to speak my mind, I think the less Dialogues are in use with us, the more honour 'twould be to bring them into public liking, even against the inclination of the Age; which would infallibly come to pass, if we used all that Art and Wit they require. There seems to be three kinds of them, the character and use of each is different. The first are those we may properly call Didacticks, whose only end it is to instruct, and are contented with adding to solidity of Doctrine clearness and elegancy of Expression; they are chief useful in this, That representing to the life the doubts of an ingenious Scholar and the decisions of a learned Master, they show by the order of Questions and Answers, the order of Knowledges and the progress of Reason; and that more neatly, and in a way more lively and animated than a bare discourse could do. The second kind is opposed to this, and we may rank here Dialogues of raillery, which take only the flower of things, instruct by laughing, and go not to profit but by pleasure: They have their value too; and their ingenious, subtle, fine and delicate strokes descend sometimes deeper into our minds than the most grave and serious Precepts. But between these two there is a third kind, and may be esteemed the perfectest, which not having all the austerities of the first, nor all the sportiveness of the second, holds something of each of them; for it handles solid matters, and handles them solidly, but brings a thousand kinds of Ornament to render them more acceptable. The Dialogue of Monsieur Saracen is of this last kind, in which three things are necessary to its perfection; the choice of the Matter, knowledge and profound meditation of this Matter, and the Art of reducing it to Dialogue. The Matter ought to be some Science or some Art, but those Sciences and Arts which fall oftenest into Conversation, and do not wound the mind by their thornyness: Law matters, for Example, cannot be proper, less Geometry or Algebra; the great Waters we ought to drink of are, Morality, Politics, Rhetoric and Poesy. Next follows a profound meditation of the Subject, either discovering something in it which hath not been by others touched at, or something new upon the common places of others; which (in my Opinion) is the greatest and most noble proof of human Wit: For what can be more excellent than to teach men by new ways those general Maxims whence springs their happiness; to add, as I may say, new rays, new brightness to those great and eternal Lights which guide the whole course of our life. In the last place, he must have the Art of Dialogue, that this Conversation he represents, though more learned and serious than ordinary ones be, yet a conversation, that is, a free, familiar, and natural entertainment strowed every where with mirth and gaiety, and the civilities of honest men. The Dialogues of Plato and Zenophon do not only instruct us by the Discourse of their Socrates, but make us wish we had lived with him, and had seen with our eyes, I say not this Philosopher, but this living and animated Philosophy, so sublime and so humble, so divine and so human at once. And that inimitable Dialogue which Cicero hath left us, does not only teach us the Rhetoric of the World and of Affairs, different from that of the College; but also shows us all the graces of Roman Conversation, and that Urbanity which our words of civility, gallantry, and politeness explain imperfectly, and which our Language hath not found a proper name for. To come now to our Author, of those three parts, which make up the perfection of a Dialogue, there are two wherein, if I do not deceive myself, we cannot reproach him: his Matter is a question of Morality not only handled, but cannot choose but be handled in ordinary Conversations: and for that Art of speaking things with the familiarity and liberty of a true conversation, it appears throughout; he hath followed the tract of the Ancients, and happily profited himself of their great Examples. There rests only to examine the things he hath used with this Art; and here all that is opposed is, that there is too little his own; that there is less Wit than Reading; more Memory than Invention. And certainly he himself knew, that having had divers occasions to show his Wit, this of introducing learned men seemed favourable for him to display and pour out those rich Harvests he had made in the best Books of several Languages, and acknowledged he was carried to a desire of doing it with some excess, and was not the master of it. But his Dialogue, according to his project, should have had two parts; and as in this he had given less to Reasonings than to Authorities and Examples, so he proposed the contrary in the other. Besides, if we consider well, when a man is acknowledged Master of a Wit, great, noble, and fertile, and reproached to have taken from others what he might have found in himself, preferring the riches of strangers to his own: This Reproach, I say, carries with it praise as well as blame. I would he had done better: But shall it stand for nothing that he hath done well? Because he hath not deserved all our praises, shall we refuse him those he hath deserved? Should we not imitate Virgil's Hero, who at the Sports he celebrated in honour of his Father, after he had given the first prize to the Vanquisher, gave two others, sometimes three, to those that came nearest to Victory?  
That we may the better comprehend what glory our Author merits by his Poems, let us make here a general reflection, which perhaps will be neither unpleasant nor unprofitable. Amongst those Reasons which cause us attribute to Poetry I know not what of Divinity, methinks I see two which are not the least important.  
First, which indeed carries with it something great and marvellous, that in a Langunge so constrained as this, they can express thoughts the most subtle and the most delicate, high and sublime, with so much liberty. What Prodigy is this? when we speak in Prose, and all terms and all expressions of a Language are abandoned to us, if some thought comes into our mind which is not common, we have difficulty to make it be understood, and often our words remain below our matter: whilst these men who seem truly inspired, after they have imposed on themselves a necessity of using only certain fashions of speaking, and despising all the rest as too vulgar; to shut up their words in a certain measure, always like itself; add, if you please, to end always by Rhyme; after, I say, they have submitted to so many hard Laws, and difficult to be observed, in spite of all these obstacles they make us understand all that they please, in a way more noble and more easy, than 'tis possible to do in common Discourse. One would think they could not say what they say otherways, though they would, so easy are their expressions; their words drop from their Pen without design, and each naturally takes it place: The Harp of Amphion did no greater miracle, when the Stones drawn by its harmony ranked themselves one by another to build the famous Walls of Thebes.  
But in the second place, Poetry may be esteemed Divine in regard of its Subject, which she draws from herself; whereas Prose borrows it elsewhere, and doth only beautify and polish it. When we consider a House of Pleasure in the hands of powerful and cautious Master, and see Mountains levelled to please him; Precipices filled up; Rivers turned out of their way; Springs, before hid under ground, sport it in the air; we admire man's industry, and cannot enough wonder that a Creature so weak in appearance should be capable of so great Designs: But if it should happen that in this vast extent of Air, where before was nothing to arrest our sight, we should discover in an instant a proud and magnificent Palace, spacious Fields, Mountains, Forests, Rivers and Seas, we should instantly cry out, That 'twas not the effect of any Human power, but something above our Nature. 'Tis much the same in Poesy and Prose; the one, as I said, takes its Subject elsewhere, changes it, embellishes it, 'tis true, beyond all we could expect; but the other asks nothing of any body, is content with itself, draws all its Matter from its own bosom, making of nothing something, by a kind of creation which seems to surpass Human power. Thus we may say that two things render Poetry admirable, the Invention, whence it hath its name; and the Facility, which is very necessary to it. I do not speak of the Facility of composing, which may sometimes be happy, but aught always to be suspected; I mean the Facility that the Reader finds in the Composition, which is often to the Writer one of the most difficult things in the World, and may be compared to Terrace Gardens, whereof the expense is hid, and after they have cost thousands, seem only the work of Chance or Nature. He that doth not find in himself nor richness of Invention, nor this happy Easiness, let him not knock at the Muse's Gate, for it is not necessary we make Verses. Now we should be unjust, not to acknowledge that they both meet in Monsieur Saracen. As for Invention, he hath always something ingenious, new, and particular, which he hath not taken elsewhere, and which he owes only to himself: And for Facility, where is it to be found if not in his Works? never any thing was wrote more free, more easy, and more sliding: Nature not only appears every where, but, as a famous man said, appears every where at her ease.  
I perceive I am gone far, but how can I but say something of those several sorts of things of different nature, wherein this great man took pleasure to exercise himself? To excel in one kind of writing is much; to excel in many, and almost opposed, as Monsieur Saracen did, is a certain mark of the greatness and beauty of a Genius. I will go further; 'twas once said, That an eloquent man had the same advantage over other men, that other men had over beasts. We can make without injustice almost the same comparison between him that is not able but for one sort of writing, and he that is excellent in many. For certainly, by what name soever we ought to call that Light which conducts Beasts, it produces so admirable effects, that our Reason, as proud as she is, is forced into wonder and acknowledgement that she knows not how to attain the like: But notwithstanding, because this Light which directs them so divinely in some things, wholly leaves them in others, and there remains not one ray, one spark of it, we admire what they so marvellously operate, but we esteem them much below ourselves; judging that this principle, which often makes them act so well, hath something of the stranger in it; greater, 'tis true, than our Reason, but is not to them what our Reason is to us; that 'tis rather lent than given them; that it makes them go to their end without their knowledge, as an Arrow that flies to the Mark which it sees not, guided by the eye, and forced by the hand of the Archer: Whereas Man, as he hath for the things of the body an universal Instrument, which is the Hand, hath also for the things of the mind an universal Instrument, that is, Reason, which he employs continually in all sorts of occasions and to all purposes; whose extent, rather than force, distinguishes it from that other and inferior kind. By a like consequence when we see one excel in one kind of work, and not fit for any other, if we speak the truth, in what he doth so well, we admire rather Nature in him than admire him: For we conclude, That if he doth not act by chance, at least he acts by a blind Faculty, and only by Imagination, which is that part in us, we have common with beasts. But that which ravishes all our esteem and all our admiration is, to see one that acting by this general and universal principle, and possessing the Idea of several kinds of writing, passes from one to another with extreme facility: As an able Printer, who having all his Characters before him, distinguished in their several Cells, chooses without hesitation and without mistake, the great, the small, the least, according as the beauty of his own Work demands. Whatever a Wit of this make goes about, he seems to have applied himself always and altogether to that thing; the Proteus of the Fables, nor the conclusion of the Naturalists, change not more easily than he. He will be like that Philosophy expressed in Boetius, sometimes of the ordinary stature of a man, sometimes his head raised to the Clouds. He will imitate the suppleness of Alcibiades, who was at Sparta more laborious and more austere than a Lacedaemonian; in jonica more voluptuous than the jonians; in Persia more pompous and magnificent than the Persians, changing manners as Climates and abode. His light will be as that of the Sun, which Philosophers say is of no colour, nor in itself a colour, but becomes any colour according to the object that receives it. He will accord things serious and witty; Verse shall not hinder him to write well in Prose. Such are the Wits of the first Magnitude, and such will appear the Genius of Monsieur Saracen in this Volume.  
But now having given him these Praises, let us answer to what may be said in general against his Works. It is not my design here to reply to all that Envy or Ignorance can oppose: Now adays, that men boldly tear in piceces the most famous Authors living, who will wonder, if they treat the Dead after the same manner? There is not a more agreeable Consort, saith a Greek Poet, than that of two men, whereof one speaks all manner of Ill, and the other hears him without Answering; let our Age have the pleasure of this sweet music without interruption, either in behalf of the Living, or the Dead. I shall only speak to three sorts of persons, that act on a better score, and whose Objections are most important.  
The First are they, who would pass their Melancholy for Solidity and Virtue; and knowing that our Author hath been chief celebrated for his Works that are purely divertising, they refuse his Writings even without reading them, and accuse him for employing his Pen about things unprofitable. These severe Judges, more wise than God and Nature, who have made an infinite number of things for the mere pleasure of Mankind, would have men labour continually in Law, Physic and Divinity; telling us, That nothing deserves esteem, but what tends to public benefit. In this last particular I am near to their opinion; but I cannot believe we labour unprofitably, when we labour agreeably for the greatest part of the World, and when without corrupting men's minds, we can divert and please them. Shall we call those unprofitable Works, whereby the Master of a Family eases himself of his Domestic toils; the Prince and Minister of their cares of State, a Magistrate of the tumult and noise of Courts; a Soldier of his pains, and the Artisan of his labour? that make one forget for a time, his poverty; another his disease; a third his cruel passions, and all in general their misfortunes? Those that judge so are grossly deceived, and take the means for the end, for want of going far enough, and penetrating to the bottom of things. Let us open our eyes, and let us not imagine that either the Exchange, destined to Commerce; or the Schools, where they teach and dispute eternally; or the Bar, where they plead particular Causes; or Counsels, where they deliberate of public affairs; or these Armies, or these Canons, or in a word, these great number of Engines, which move the vast body of the State, are things made for themselves, or have every one a particular end: they have all one general end, which is, that the Citizens may live together virtuously, peaceably, and pleasantly. These three things have, or aught to have met in the intention of Lawmakers, and those that have founded Republics: All that which contributes to the last without hurting the other two, far from being out of the way to public good, as it may seem, take a more direct and shorter way thither: For example, The Writings of one well skilled in the Law are profitable, who denies it? they instruct the Lawyer to defend his Cause; and the Lawyer well instructed, the Judge pronounces Sentence aright; the Judge doing Justice, the Citizens live in peace: but we often see, that the several hands of so many divers Artisans turn the Art from its natural intention; and it happens here as in those Machine's, fair and of good invention in appearance; but being composed of many pieces, whereof some one is always out of order, they are often useless, and sometimes overturn what they should bear. On the contrary, these other Writings, which treat commonly of Trifles, if they do not serve to regulate the manners, or to enlighten the mind, as they may, as they ought and as ordinarily they do, directly or indirectly; at least without having need of any thing, but themselves, they please, they divert, they sow and scatter every where cheerfulness, which is after virtue the chiefest good. The man you blame finds perhaps, that to re-establish his ruin'd health, to defend himself from evil fortune, for the good of the Family whereof he is the stay, it is more profitable for him to make Songs, than to write of Morality and Politics; if so, we may boldly affirm, that Morality and Politics bid him make Songs; and 'tis an injustice without example to condemn what another does, without knowing the motives or the circumstances. But I go too far, and M. Saracen hath no need of this defence; for we see by the different pieces of this Volume, that he reached at Fame by different ways, that he thought of great things as well as small, if any part of learning can be called small.  
'Tis better that I now turn myself to those that are reconciled to the truth I apply to this kind of composition, but will not pardon the least fault in it; believing perhaps by their severe Criticisms to gain the reputation of men more quick-fighted than others. They are deceived; and if there be no malignity in what they think, deserve to be disabused merrily, which I shall essay to do. I knew an an ancient Gentleman, a great Wit and a great Courtier; Age seemed to have reverenced these two rare qualities in him, and only to have attempted on his body; his sight began to weaken in such a manner, that he saw nothing but with difficulty; yet still he used an extraordinary diligence, not to cure this imperfection which he knew incurable, but to hid it even from his most intimate acquaintance: and if at any time he chanced to be at liberty with them, he would strive by all means to discover either some inconsiderable spot upon their Clothes, or a Ribbon out of its place, or something of this nature; and when he had given them this proof of his sight, returned with less regret to his first obscurity, and contented himself with that troubled and confused light which Age had left him. Is it not by a like Artifice, that so many, little or meanly Learned, excuse nothing in productions of the Brain, and pretend that they are not able to support the least negligences? for, in a word, those that pardon these small defects in an excellent work, see them it may be better than those that will not. If there be any difference, 'tis, that they perceive the beauties much better, which are more sensible. A good Wit embraces them, as we may say, with his Love; all that is in them please, because they find a great number of things worthy to please. If it be told us, that this is a disease of the mind, 'tis at worst one of those diseases which are the signs of health, whereof Hypocrates makes mention, and amongst them reckons Hunger and Thirst, though they are two things purely Natural.  
It may be I am preoccupied with a like passion for the Works of my Friend; however, in the last place, I cannot be friends with an Opinion which some others have taken up, and which I should have concealed, if their Discourses had not made it public. But I must say, that I approach this point with trembling, for I see, or fear I see amongst those I am to combat, some whom I reverence, and whose Opinions are any where else so many Laws to me. For all this let us boldly venture either to defend the Truth, if we are happy enough to know it, or let the World see that we are deceived, as it often happens to men from the least to the greatest. In one word, I would defend our Author, not from the Admirers of the deceased Voiture, for I am one of them; but from those that will admire none but him; who hold him for the only Original of brave things; and fear not to say, or suffer it to be understood, that all the rest, and in particular M. Saracen, are but bad Imitators or mean Copyists. I say again, none admires Voiture more than myself; not excepting this excellent man, who being too unjustly condemned to an eternal silence, when he heard some attack the Memory of his Friend, burst like the Son of Croesus, all the strings of his Tongue, and cried out (but, good God, with what a grace, and with what force?) It is the King. Only that I may be the Echo of this voice, I willingly repeat It is the King, and dispute not to Voiture the first place in many things, without examining whether he deserves it in all. But certainly the field of Fame is wide enough for all the World; there is more than one Laurel and one Crown upon Parnassus. Can we not enough esteem Voiture without despising those that he himself esteemed? let him ever enjoy the advantage to have been of the best and most gallant Society that ever was, from which he received much, and to which he contributed much; let him charm eternally all the choice Spirits of the World; let him be eternally inimitable; but let them not eternally accuse us for imitating him, and for being of the number of those men, or to speak with Horace, those Beasts given to servitude, who have, or so little Courage, that they dare not undertake any thing of themselves, or so much Rashness, that they pretend always to do better than those that went before them. For my part I am of opinion, that a man who hath a Genius high and noble, as M. Saracen, will endeavour to equal all the Writers of his Age, but will not imitate one of them. However, let us see in what part of his Works he could be an Imitator of those of other men's. Is it in the History of the siege of Dunkirk, in Walstein's Conspiracy? this I think is not that they would say. Is it in his Dialogue, in his Funeral pomp, & c? there is little likelihood here neither. Courage then, we have saved half this Volume. Voiture wrote a great number of excellent Letters, and if we may judge by the pleasure they give, 'tis this part of his Works he loved and esteemed most. M. Saracen on the contrary hath scarce wrote any thing of this kind with care; and when he was obliged by some reason of necessity or good manners, he applied himself to it with regret and discontent, for he could not endure that, when a man had got the reputation of Writing well, he should lose the liberty of writing as other men do; I have seen one of his Letters wherein he complains very pleasantly of it, and these words remain with my memory, I envy the happiness of my Lawyer, who gins all his Letters with, I have received yours, and no body finds fault with him. Not but that sometimes some Letters scaped him of an excellent and particular Character; but he keeping no Copy of them, the most are lost by the regligence of his Friends, and we have found only four or five, which we have not been willing to publish, lest it should be thought that they were the best of a great many, and that by choosing them we condemned the rest.  
I can pronounce then, that in all these two wrote in Prose there is so little resemblance, that one of them doth not give us the least occasion to think of the other. Let us come then to the Poetry, where I confess we shall have a task of it: And yet here we have a great advantage, for they cannot reproach us with the imitation of any particular Poem. But, say they, you have imitated the chief, that is, the Style and Character; and that kind of Poetry Voiture had introduced, which renouncing Gravity without stooping to Buffoonery, is most proper to entertain the ingenious part of the World. To answer this Objection 'tis necessary to begin a little further off.  
It hath been said, that Sciences travel through the World; and as they own their light to all the Earth, after they have a long time shined on one Climate, they leave it in its first darkness to go and dissipate that of another. To this we may add, That in all Climates, and amongst every Nation, every Art and Science takes it turn, as we may say, to lose its ball upon this great Theatre, and then retires to give place to another. Whether this variety proceeds only from the destiny of humane things, always subject to change; or whether 'tis bred from the diversity of times, or the different genius of those who govern, whose Inclinations serve for Laws. Now these revolutions, as those of Commonwealths, are made by means of some reigning Wit, elevated above the rest, who not contented with the present state of things, finds out a new way to greatness and glory: But as soon as one of these extraordinary Wits appear, we see two other sorts which set out also; the first, who have nothing good, but a Wit to do well, follow the tract, but afar off, and are only shadows and vain images, imitating him to little purpose; forgetting that there is no virtue, but hath two vices attending it, nor elevation, which is not environed with precipices. The other doth not 'tis true take a contrary way, for than they should oppose the gust of the Age, which greedily embraces the novelty, and perhaps they should oppose their own Inclination, which had carried them to the same thing, if they had not been prevented; but going the same way they open different paths, make new discoveries, sometimes they overtake, sometimes they pass him that was before them; and if they do nor the one nor the other, they make a different Character that hath its price and its proper value. 'Twould be easy for me to justify what I have said by Examples of most Nations, if that tediousness, which without doubt hath wearied my Reader, had not wearied me too. To come then to our particular Subject, French Poetry was gay and fooling in the time of Marot and Melin; and though since it hath sometimes appeared with the same face, yet Ronsard, Bellay, Perron, more grave and serious, had refined it, and our Muses began to be as severe as the Philosopher of Antiquity, who never was seen to laugh. Voiture, who can refuse him this praise? comes next with a Wit gallant and delicate, a Melancholy sweet and ingenious; he called to mind the liberty of our Ancient Poetry, and had before his eyes that of the Italians, and the most polite Roman and Greek Authors; of all these together, not following any, he composed a kind of Writing, which charms no less by its graces, than by its novelty. What should M. Saracen do, who came into the World a little after him? if his inclination had led him from this kind of writing, I assure myself he would have forced it to accommodate with the time; but I think the contrary, and that he gave thanks to Fortune for being born in an Age whose taste was so conform to his own, and which 'twas so easy for him to satisfy. He began then to write in this free style, and finding himself rich in his own Inventions, no more imitated Voiture, than Voiture did Marott. Now it these ingenious and learned persons will confound these two so different manners of Writing, they wrong themselves; and should leave it to weak and obscure sights, to make no distinction between things that only have some resemblance. Take a man altogether ignorant, he will put all the Poets in the World in one rank, from Virgil to the makers of Acrostics. Give him a little light, and he will distinguish between Heroick-Poem, Satire, Epigram and Elegy; but will not be able to make any difference between Statius and Virgil; Plautus and Terence; Juvenel and Horace; Martial and Catullus: and for Ovid, Tibullus and Propertius, he will not suspect 'tis possible to distinguish their Genius and Character. On the contrary, he that hath an exquisite taste, and an exact knowledge of good Authors, will not only distinguish the Characters of these several Writers, but, as all things have their abuse and excess, he will sin on the other hand, and mistrust the testimony of Books and Manuscripts; and finding in Works of the same Author some light difference of Style, he will attribute them to divers Authors; without considering that a man is sometimes as different from himself, as he is from another man.  
If our Nation and our Age cannot produce in every kind, more than one man for our admiration; if Voiture hath left nothing for others to do, unhappy they that follow him, let them renounce Poetry; why should they engage in a business wherein there is no more Honour to pretend to? but let us not so cruelly discourage so many brave persons that run the same career. I know some (and how many are there which I know not?) whose Writings, though in the same kind, will pass one day, I believe, for Originals and not for Copies. One, with the Spirit of the World and of the Court, will have something of fine, subtle, laboured, turned, united; another will inspire his works with the Spirit of Love, and some tender and delicate passion not to be found elsewhere; a third though Sportingly, will have the art to strew his Writings with the most excellent Morality; and who can recount the several Characters which are now to be found, or may appear hereafter in these things, seeing that from the divers mixture of these qualities, as from so many Elements, an infinity of forms and different species may arise?  
Let us try if we can clear this by a Comparison. There is something happens like this in all good Arts; there is no one of them which hath not been cultivated by a certain number of excellent men; some have gone before, others have followed, and every one hath contributed something of his own to the perfection of the Art, so that we do not find the entire Art in one, but in all taken together. Let us consider the progress of Painting, which hath so much affinity with Poetry. Amongst the Illustrious Painters of Greece Apollodorus was the most ancient; but they said of him, that he only opened the Doors of the Art, whereas Zeuxes was the first that entered by a more exact imitation of Nature. After him follows that crowd of famous Painters, Parasius, Protogenes, Pamphilus, Aristedes, Nichomachus, and several others, every one happy in certain things, which Pliny hath so exactly and pleasantly described, one excelled in Symmetry, another in the Invention and design; this was esteemed for well representing the Hair and extremities of the body, that for hitting the Passions and Inclinations of men; another for admirably finishing his works; and some for ending in a short time. Appelles' surpassed every one for a certain inimitable grace, which he bestowed on all that past his hands; but this Appelles, this Great Appelles, as eminent for his Wit as for his Pencil, freely gave way to Amphion for order, and to Asclepiodorus for heightenings and due observance of distances. Let us on in this path, for 'tis all strowed with flowers; and we cannot go amiss though we are out of the way; for we now discourse of those Painters whose Fame is fixed in books, and whose Names had been efaced as their Colours, if the Works of Learned Pens did not last longer than those of the best Pencils. Raphael being the Disciple of Pietro Perugino, at first followed his Master by an imitation exact, and laboured, as they say, but dry, and imitated his manner so precisely, that what the one and the other did could not be distinguished: but his Genius beyond compare greater than that of his Master, could not long be contained in the same bounds; he fortified it by the imitation of Leonard and Michael Angelo, and added Graces that these two excellent men, though consummate in the Art, never knew, he composed a new and charming way, infinitely beyond those he had followed. Julius Romain, the Scholar of Raphael, had a great Spirit, and was capable of the greatest designs and most noble capriccios of the Art, but wanted the sweetness and graces of his Master, though he had laboured all his life to profit himself of his Precepts and Examples; all his Figures were fierce and bold, and he discovered how our resolution in vain carries us one way, when Nature draws or leads us another. Jitian on the contrary had an ordinary Painter for his Master, yet notwithstanding he surpasses all his Profession in the sweet mixture of his Colours, and in that love which reigns in all his pieces. Correggio owed less to others instructions, Nature formed him herself, he was born and bred in Solitude, never imitated any, and yet by an admirable effect of his great Genius, his pieces have an universal way. which holds something of all the rest. Let us admire this diversity: One by far surpasses all those he imitates; another, though eminent in several things of his own, used all his skill to resemble others, and could not attain it; this, though he perfectly knew what all their several ways had in them of excellent, yet could not form a better; that knew it not, nor imitated any one, and one would say he had taken them all together. They followed one another, and instructed one another, and yet are all great Masters and not Copyists.  
But why do we stay upon Comparisons, perhaps too far from our Subject, when we have such as are near at hand? Every one knows how much our Language owes to the admirable Wit of the deceased Balsac; nor can we dissemble it without too much ingratitude, it was not the same after he began to Write, but changed face and came about. All those that wrote after him are his Debtors for part of their Style: even those honest abused people, who when they say, to speak Balsac mean, to speak ill, if ever they speak handsomely, are obliged without knowing it, to him whom they outrage and abuse. The Fame of this excellant man will be without doubt great and immortal; yet not such as to obscure that of many illustrious Writers, who appeared after him; nor in particular that of Voiture, who yet is as much his Debtor for expression, as M. Saracen is to Voiture for the Character of his Verse. To end this; Voiture, if we will believe his intimate Friends, was of very delightful Conversation, so was M. Saracen; but 'twas, as all agree, in a different way; if Discourse and Writings are equally the images of the mind, why might not the like different Graces, which appeared in their Converse, be found also in their Works?  
After having bestowed so many Praises on M. Sarasin's Works, let us a while speak of M. Saracen himself. I know not by what ill fortune, the genius of Letters, and the genius for the World, are almost incompatible; those who consecrate themselves to study, are capable of little else but studying; the most part of them seem not to live but in their Works; to be Authors they cease almost to be men; they have their minds full of great knowledges, but when they would draw some present profit from them, they let us see how great a distance there is between the beauty of contemplation, and the vigour of action and practice; like that famous Galley of one of the Ptolemy's, which had sourty ranks of Oars, and could carry Three thousand Soldiers, besides Four hundred Sailors, and Four thousand slaves; but so vast and unwieldy, that 'twas impossible to set it to Sea, and it served only to look upon. Let us not accuse Arts and Sciences for this, 'tis not their fault; 'tis the imperfection of humane Wit, not strong enough to bear them, or able enough to manage them; but as a sick or weak Soldier, is oppressed or hindered with his own Arms. Our excellent Friend was none of these, and if there be need of an illustrious Witness, we will produce no other but that Prince, great by Birth, great for his Mind and Courage; a Prince who judged not by others Eyes or Opinions, but by his own, and who a thousand times, when environed with a crowd of persons of quality and merit, found an entire Court in M. Saracen; whether he was to deliberate, or execute; to negotiate important and public Affairs; to rely upon him for the conduct of his private; or sought a Conversation solid and learned, or would relieve himself by a pleasant one.  
Can I but represent by some great and bold stroke of my Pencil the charms of his Conversation, as they are impressed in my memory; but it happens here as in all other excellent things, it is easy to say what they are not, and hard to describe what they are. If it be asked me, What had Monsieur Saracen in him so universally to please? He had nothing of that which displeases in most Learned men, and in such as make profession of Letters. Some, either by a virtue too austere, or by a Scorn which renders them scorned, hold no commerce but with the Learned, and voluntarily renounce the Society of the greatest part of the World: they do wrong to Philosophy, for men instead of conceiving under this name, good sense and love of reason, which naturally hath a thousand charms, fancy something strange and barbarous, which renders men of bad humours, and will not let them be Sociable; they forget that Socrates their Founder and Father (if they are his legitimate Offspring) would laugh, and dance as other men, and thought nothing unworthy of him, but Vice. There are others who have not this peevishness nor fierceness, but by a too strong application to their designs, are always divided, and carry but half themselves to any place, still looking aside, as a Lover far from his Mistress. Others, that have but little experience of the World, though a great Judgement, stir not but with fear, as in a strange Country; they say nothing through a too curious choice what they should say, and we may divine their minds sooner than see them. On the contrary, others abuse the Reputation they have got; they speak well, but they speak always; they speak continually excellent things, but they will not let others do it; whereas they should do in Conversation, what that Ancient did in the Commonwealth, when he retired sometimes to let Virtues less bright than his own appear. What shall I say of those that can talk of nothing, but of their Works? of those that please at hand, but having still the same thing to say, grow as tedious the second time, as they were delightful the first? of those, who to show their Wit are continually contradicting? those Opinionative men, who, whether it be through a foolish Pride, dispute against the Truth they know, which is a vice unworthy of an honest man; or whether it be that they can never know it, being once prepossessed, which is always a great fault; or whether they sustain trifling matters unseasonably, or with too much heat, without complacency, without discretion, which is a great weakness. But this is a matter without bounds wherein I am engaged. I stop here, and it shall be enough to say, None of these weaknesses were discoverable in our Friend, and whether by this or by a thousand rare qualities, he pleased all different sorts of Spirits, as if he never thought of pleasing but one of them. The Ladies, the Learned, the Courtiers; in Affairs, in Pleasures; whether he held a place in a regulated and serious Conversation, or whether amongst his Friends and Acquaintance he was carried to those innocent debauches of mind, those sage Follies, wherein serious Discourses give way to the capriccio's and ends of Poetry, where every thing is in season, except cold and severe reason. But it is time to put an end to this long Discourse, wherein I fear to have taken pains for my own shame rather than for Monsieur Sarasin's honour; however, I have done what I chief desired to do, for I have given public marks of the Esteem I had for him; may they be as immortal as his Works. I may be accused for having said too much, but when I consult the passion I have for his glory, I reproach myself for not having said enough; and I know well, that if I had not rejected several things that came into my mind upon this rich and abundant Subject, I had said much more.   

A DIALOGUE OF LOVE, Out of French.  
BEing come to Paris to justify 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 retired with my intimate Friend M. P. one day after dinner M. Chappelein, Trilport and Menage came to visit me. These Gentlemen concerned themselves infinitely in my disgrace, and acted in my behalf with a noble heart, not to be found in the Histories of Orestes and Pylades, and other Friends of antiquity. They sound me in the Hall, where I was harkening to an excellent Musician: I believed, said Mons. Chappelein addressing himself to me, that in this your Retirement I should rather have found you fastened to Seneca's Treatise, which proves, that a wise man is not subject to the Injuries of Fortune, than pleasing yourself with Music, which ordinarily does not delight any, but unperplexed minds. This ought not to surprise you, answered 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 accustomed to regulate your virtue by that of the Stoics, 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 bias defend ourselves 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, pursued he, that this man's 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 are they called Socrates, the Father of Philosophy; we cannot, I say, praise him enough for having employed 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 filled whole Towns in Greece. I am very glad, replied 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 true Epicureans lead a life as regular as our reformed 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 Sallust 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 Sallust, who can make an Historian one of the Disciples of Epicurus, who forbids his to meddle with the Commonwealth? I am not sworn, replied 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, answered I, that I own 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 wrote 
Qu'Eve ayma mieux pour s'en fair conter,  
Prester l'oreille aux fleurettes du Diable,  
Que d'estre femme, & ne pas coquetter.  I was so embroiled 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?  Que s'empescher d'aymer est dur aux belles aims. 
I remember nothing but what follows, answered I;  Qu'aymer fidellement apporte de soucy. 
And to speak freely, retiring from the Service of Ladies, I rather think I have cured myself of a small Disease, than deprived myself 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 learned it of Ladies, who have suffered you and been beloved 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 own to Ladies, methinks there needs nothing but my Example to satisfy 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 unpolished from their Conversation, I leave it to M. Menage, against whom you have addressed 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 rendered him so accomplished. Truce, if you please, with your Compliments, 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 lived 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 accused not to accustom myself to be of other men's, or whether I please my 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. Cham am ready to maintain it against you. For my part, says M. Trilport turning himself too M. Ch. I declare myself 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 served 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 vanquished. Wherefore I once more resolve, having proposed any thing to imitate Ariosto's Rodomont, who called 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, answered 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 me, replies M. Ch. 'twill be doubtless more by the force of truth, than by mine: for if his cause were just, I should esteem myself lost, knowing him a long-winded Knight of great force; or, to speak more familiarly and quit the Romantic Metaphor, knowing no man more apt than he to maintain Paradoxes, no not amongst us Stoics, 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 loved, and often 
Sans fair levain, mon avanture a esté telle  
Que de la mesme ardeur, que j'ay bruslé pour elle,  
elle a bruslé pour moy.  I am forced 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 myself 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 Orator that gave him Military Lessons, and the Orator had had no less occasion to laugh, if Hannibal had undertaken afterwards to show him the precepts of Rhetoric. We cannot discourse well of things which we have not practised, 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 Cloister 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 myself at present in a condition to speak of it with an entire indifferency; but because to judge of the effects of a thing 'tis necessary we know the nature, we shall not do amiss to inform ourselves 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 Colleges. I will also do you this favour, not to inquire 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 myself 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 Ribbon 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 Chimaera. 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 designed 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 herself of strange and surprising Pictures to draw the vulgar to the search of truth. The Modern Italians, who have outdone the Invention of the Greeks (for the Latins did but copy them) expose nothing so fantastical, to which they have not fixed an Allegory, and tell us, that their Enchantments, their Furies, their Giants, 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. Here I demand of you, if you were to represent Fortitude, Prudence, or any of the Virtues, should it be under this Figure? I am confident you will answer me, that you should like better to draw an armed Pallas, or show 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 theatres, without counsel, without guide; accompanied with Suspicions, 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 discovered how Lovers pass their life, that they are deprived 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 foreign Face, dress herself up like a Puppet, and buy the cajoleries 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 
Qu'autant vieillard à la barb fleurie,  
Pour ses voisins que pour say se marry.  And you may remember, that in Old times they publicly hooted at these Gallants of Proserpina, and that against their approach they armed themselves with the same preservatives that Pagan Superstition had ordained 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 
Les ridicules aventures  
D'un amoreux en cheveux gris.  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 Ribbon which his Mistress gave him, and how wittily he discoursed of this Favour of hers, so that you wanted little of wishing an Old age like his; at least, reflecting upon his Nymph, his Music and his good Cheer you told us, he passed this age as Horace had wished. Truly, added M. Trilport, the Romance of his life is so pleasant a thing, that I think 'twould be spoiled should it be reduced 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, 
Habbia vita (rispose) é libertade:  
E nulla a tanto intercessor si negbi.  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 man's 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 Maxim, That there is nothing more shameful, than to strip our 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 Ribbon 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 herself, 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 apologise enough, when they protest that, thanks to Love, they cannot see what they do; and that you may not appeal from these harken 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 Ribbon 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 Love's 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 shaped a Monster, if they could have imagined any 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 benumbed with cold, those which drink of the Seine and those which every themselves with the Sands of Plata, if they had not furnished him with an invention to make these long Journeys; 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 itself. I remember one day in discourse with M. C. M. R. and A. the first very pleasantly maintained, that considering all these great labours, Love was no better handled by Poets than their Sisyphus, seeing they employed him continually in a work that seemed more intolerable, than the rolling of his Stone; the second added freely, that it seemed 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 Love's Feathers he explained Petrarches Verses, 
In cosi tenebros a estretta gabbia  
Rinchiusi fummo, oue le pen usato  
Mutui per tempo.  He pretended this straight 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 signify 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 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 burned Troy the Great. Certainly 'tis in the use of these Arms that he shows himself stark blind, for he strikes any where and on all sides. Sometimes he makes a Monarch adore the daughter of a Dunghill: 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-featured 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' enamoured of the same Wench, was jealously enraged 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 intreagued 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 Love governs them; to what transports we abandon ourselves 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 poisoned 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 Poison 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 Led 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 hindered 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 always blunt, though Love lets them fly 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 poesy 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 signify 'tis Money drives the trade of Love, and that Covetousness overrules 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 Victim; for you know very well what Jupiter thundered on this Ixion, seeing 'tis a Story of our times: and it seemed he was better contented with Death's Arrow, than with all those we speak of; at least he that was in the Coach with him when he was killed 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, 
De tus flechas por ser d'oro  
Ninguna leise deffiende.  He would say, after those experiences which his Liberality had given him, that Presents are strange Corrupters. Let us confess the Infamy of this traffic, 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 disturbed it and filled 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 portrait, 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, and in one word I can excuse my bad Rhetoric by the ordinary Quodlibet and say, that my Picture wants nothing but words. O Painter Apelles, Painter Zeuxes, cries out M. Chop. why are not you now alive? you had learned 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 Friend's 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 Panegyric, looking upon it as a piece meant to please, whereof the invention seems handsome, and the order and colours may flatter our Judgement 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 displayed none of Love's 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 forced her to hang herself 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 their Chief: He perhaps was elected by the Greeks, because they were of your opinion; they knew him of an Amorous complexion, and judged 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 stopped his Fleet at the Port of Aulide, and would be appeased by this victim. This action seems at first blush above the common Virtue; 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 days in the preparation of this execrable Sacrifice, to give time to his Emissaries to find out a certain Boy of whom he was desperately enamoured; you would cry out, Is this the man whose Magnanimities ennobled him above all others, and upon whom all Greece had turned 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 fned. I only let you know, that when he carried away Cassansandra from her house all dispetto di Madonna Clytaemnestra, he provoked the vengeance of his Wife, and armed for his execution the weak and effeminate hand of Aegisthus. But his Rival, the man that was nourished with the marrow of Lions; brought up under the discipline of Chiron; so robust that no man could use his Lance; Achilles, for whom the death of Hector was reserved; what does he when Agamemnon stole his Mistress? doubtless something high and noble, for he was a Hero and a Lover; first he railed at the King with the scold of an Oister-wife, calling him Cuckold and dirty Dog, whereby he disparaged the Gentaur which should have brought him up better. When that would not do, the pitiful fellow went crying to his Mother, and stayed in his Ship far from the Army, and at the expense of his Reputation. But what will you say to Hercules, that mighty tame of Monsters, when you shall find him sitting by Omphale, having changed his Lions-skin for a Petticoat, and when you see him 
— de la clava noderosa in vece  
Trattar il fuso, e la conocchia imbelle?  Can you like the condition to which Love had reduced this gentle Spinster? rather would you not wish, as the Captain in Terence, that the Wenches had clapped his Cheeks with their Pattens. 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 own 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 passed before the Chariot of Love, he was most oppressed with the number and weight of his Chains. 'Twould be tedious to repeat here all his Metamorphoses, or to consider this Governor 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 Virtue! I see by M. Ch. looks, that he is vexed 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 numbered with the Lovers, and indeed, if amidst their Loves they had preserved those great lights with which they penetrated the most obscure Science, and so prudently established 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 darkened these allseeing 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 suffered in his understanding. He never lay down, but he called 
* Aster was a Boy.  her Lucifer and Hesper; and according to the ordinary gibberish of Lovers, placed her above the Stars. If he were to bid her farewell, he presently complained he had lost his North-Star, and that his Reason was benighted. But the Epigram he composed for Archianassa shows us more plainly, that Wisdom goes out of the Head when Love gets in. This Woman approached 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 wrinkles as in an Ambuscade; whereas, if he had had his Reason about him, he would have said, that he lay there interred 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 handsome 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 wrinkled Mistresses. Truly, answered M. M. I had forgot that Sonnet and those Mistresses, and I do not care for remembering the Follics of my youth. For your Mistresses, replies M. Trilport, let them be drowned 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 composed, 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 handsome discourse for a man they call Divine, as if it were too little to style him 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 loved Phaedra, he loved Xanthippe; perhaps it was Socrates Wife, and that he made a Cuckold of him the Oracle had pronounced 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 believed men ought not to lay matters of this nature so to heart, and would have been Scandaled at it less than you are. I see how things go, continueth M. M. you would support vanquished 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 public 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 Love-tricks 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 reproach, whose Famous Acts raised them above others; Lovers of that age, when nothing in the World was so great as our Court, when Charlemagne counted almost the days of his Reign by the number of his Victories; when they preserved 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 Hypocrates 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 Chemic. I could produce Hannibal, who failed to Triumph over the Romans, and ruin'd the Reputation of his Country 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 Profane, and show you David without Conscience, Solonton without Wisdom, Samson 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 covered with Rose-bushes, 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 shore; for I will never consent that we go thither in quality of Lovers; 'twere better we got thither upon a broken Plank, the remains of a Shipwreck, as to an Enemy's Country, than to go before the wind in the Egyptian Queen's Vessel, if we went to pay our homage. Let us walk up and down a little, to refresh ourselves after the Voyage amongst these troops of Lovers, upon these Flowers and in these Meadows; but on condition that we harken 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 burden of their Song, 
La jounissance est pleine  
De peur d'un changement.  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 crowned with Myrtle too, but for all that in an eternal inquietude. One torments himself to explain a word his Mistress said to him, because he doubts 'tis not advantageous for him: Another complains, that his Lady looked upon his Rival too long and too pleasantly. This laments, because he believes he did surprise upon his Lady's Cheeks the remains of a Smile, wherewith she favoured 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 join in one Chorus and ingeniously sing.  Tutti habbiamo di pazzia colma la testa? 
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 crossed with grief, another skipping. But see that Wretch who poisons himself, those Rivals who kill one another. See Leandro in Mare, e Hero a la finestra. See those who have ruined 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 those we frequent, and that we are equally born good, but bad Company ruins 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 Juditions in all you hold, and you are so little accustomed 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 show 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 allege 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 these shameful Errors, 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 Lawmakers, or Conquerors, whose Examples we have been obliged to produce? though we have besides strengthened 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 alleged 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 easy 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 showed you, that generally all Lovers are extravagant, you cannot think our Nation more exempt than others. And I am vexed, continued He, that you did not acquaint me with your desires before we weighed Anchor to come from the Amorous Island; for there I could have showed you a great many of those people you inquire 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, 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 acquired with their Mistresses: And first, to study their Conversation, we shall find it nor wise, nor solid, nor polished, 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 concealed mystery. The Ladies in the mean time they laugh upon the public Faith, as if they understood the subtleties; if they meet with any man, that will not quit Reason's 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 Judgement, 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 examined their Wit, which we find in pitiful plight, let us consider their bravery. We shall quickly discover, that their highest design is to gild a Coach, or to vary a Livery, or as Malherbe says, 
Le perfum d'un colet,  
Le point couppé d'un chemise,  
Et la figure d'un balet.  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 possessed 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 Battle, to go lie with his Wife. From their Conversation and their Persons let us pass to their Manners. Amongst other faults Libertinism offers itself 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 Virtue of their Ancestors; the wings of Love cannot raise them to any generous thoughts; every day passes alike; the flower of their Light slides away in a shameful and unquiet Idleness, whilst they are seated in their 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 Centauris, the first Cavaliers of the World, came to the wedding of Pirithous only to make Love, and by consequence they disturbed the Feast. I should be too long, if after the Gentleman I should examine the Town-Child: I will content myself 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, ruin their Domestic 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, carved 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 chief they were admirable for the invention of a Figure, which they erected over the Tomb of that famous Courtesan, 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 embossed, which tore in pieces a Ram. I should never have done, should I recount all the Errors 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 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 Virtue? Nor is it this Virtue 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 hindered 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 enquired of you concerning those pretended Maxims you attributed to Ladies, we did not ask for the Dialogues of Lucian's Courtesans, nor Juvenal's sixteenth satire, 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 moneys 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 declared 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; and if her grief had stifled her, whilst she complains of fortune, when she drowned her face in tears, and said against the stars, what could be said: 
Tout ce que fait dire la rage,  
Quand elle est Maistresse des Sens.  I say, if she had expired 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 herself. Scaliger, upon the fame of an ancient Author, informs us, that this Queen fell in love with a young man of Abidas, called Dardanus, and to revenge herself of his coldness, she surprised him sleeping, and did tear out his eyes; but that her Revenge did not diminish her Passion, its violence forcing her to throw herself from the Rocks of Leucadia, she died 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 Feast 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 Ulysses, when he returned 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 killed herself after the fact? Thus by searching things to the bottom, we see that the most part of these Beauties, 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 threatened to crucify Cupid, at the instance of Venus reduced his punishment to a whipping with Roses. Let us not then abuse ourselves in a belief, that Women can inspire generous thoughts; but rather think their Beauty corrupts our Judgements, 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 esteemed himself very happy in that he had shaken off the yoke of this Amorous tyranny. But we will end with the Advice of Thales, and admire the Counsel he gave a miserable wretch, ask what he should do to free himself from Love; he first advised him to fast; and when a Diet would not serve, he persuaded him to expect his health from Time and Absence; but after many months and a long peregrination, seeing that Hunger, Distance, and Time were too weak Remedies, he ordained 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 persuade him, that he could not find out an event, nor more new nor more surprising, than to cause him be publicly hanged. 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 pronounced 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 authentic as that of a Judge. That may be, added M. Trilport, but there is a remedy for it, and I declare to you, says 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 myself a Sage, which God forbidden. But, continued he, addressing himself to M. M. though I am to plead the Cause of Lovers, yourself shall be the Judge. You hold your Cause very good then, says M. M. seeing you are content to be Judged 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 harkened to your discourse with an entire 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 Ulysses, escaped from the danger of the sirens, after having been charmed 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 deceived, 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 heresy, that cannot appear fair, but because you paint it. I shall act clearly with you, answering what you have advanced point by point; showing, if I can, the falseness or the weakness of them. I will also accommodate myself to your way of Philosophising, which is without doubt the most proper for a Conversation, and of which I shall willingly serve myself, 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 easy, 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 myself 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 virtuous 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 showing 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 figured her with a Lance; others represented her Statue armed; 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 we will remember, that he unravelled 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 always sound amongst Young people. But this Boy, say you, is impudent to go always naked. 'Tis true what you say, that 'twere a foul action to strip one's self in the open Market, but you advance little by this; for not only this is not always true, for the Dacedemonian Boys and Girls 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 Impudence were a vice of Childhood, none ever said so: nor that Shamelessness, which is a sign of this defect, and which proceeds always from a long custom of filthy and bold actions, is figured by Childhood. Far from this, we are pleased 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 ware of being scandalised at these nudities. As to the Testimony of Eustatius, which you allege, 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 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 herself 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 explained 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 show, 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 show his exceeding force in this weak estate. You will come off no better, I believe, in your interpretation of his Ribbon. You take it for a hoodwinked reason, whereby our minds are cast into darkness worse than Cimmerian, 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 myself 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 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 Ribbon, which we might call a Diadem, if we would defend ourselves 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 concealed, as one of the Ancients pleasantly said; and that Discretion is the best quality, not only of Lovers, but of men the most debauched. You are not ignorant, that the Italians faith, Discretion staben sin all— 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 always grovel upon the Earth. For his Arrows, I can easily approve of those reflections you made; but, to judge wholesomely, 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 ourselves, 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  History to the Grand Cyrus, is there any thing so handsome or so frequent, as that scorn wherein Lovers hold Greatness, Crowns, Treasures, only to preserve their Fidelity to miserable and exiled persons, who groan under Irons, and have no other advantage, besides 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. Merlin's Fountains, whereof Aristo makes his Knights to drink, and whose scurce Claudian found before him, confirm what we faith. 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 Perfumes. 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 conserveses 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 persuade 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, 
Mira d'intorno, Sylvio,  
Quanto il mondo ba di vago, & di gentile,  
Opra è d'amore. Amante è il cielo; amante  
La terra; amante il mare.  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 (compared with their Wisdom) esteemed 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 Love's 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 showed more Wisdom, than when they took Love from the Mountain of Helicon, to lead him into the Academy adorned and crowned with Flowers; in the midst of Music 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 served you for his Accusation, is very proper to make his Panegyric. 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: 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 frizzled, 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 surprise 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 laughed a little, leaving, continued M. Ch. these Representations, which make little to the Question, I will come to Plutarch's Opinion, who assures us, that Love is not visible; and will faith, 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 Peaceable, 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 join issue with you here. Your Cause won't be the better 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 alleged, 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, Fellow and Fly, Threaten and Pray, is Angry and feels Compassion, is Sad and Rejoices, Will and Will not; and all this at one time and for the same person, concludes, 'tis not a thing very Judicious, but an embroiled 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 sport hath some Black design. And this is enough fully to persuade you, that I have betrayed 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 remarked at the entrance of your Discourse, that the first Poets did Philosophise, and then you placed 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 Judgement 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 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 refined, and in this condition is no less dangerous, than Folly. 'Tis the same in other Virtues, whose extremes are never wholesome; good Sense only is that which moderates them; and all the advantage which persons have we call Virtuous, 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 alleged. Greece, as amorous as it was of Lais, mocked at those who brought a Talon to this Courtesan to pass a Night with her; but the insensibility of Zenocrates was no better handled by them, when he compared 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 acknowledged two Venus'; one Celestial, the other Vulgar: The first they called Urania, the other Pandeme, or the Venus of the Common people. And they had each of them their Love, whereof one was governed 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 signify, that the advantage of knowing how to love was reserved for the Virtuous, 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 embark themselves in this Passion before they have chosen, whence finding humours contrary to their own, or unruly minds, their life must pass in disquiets, or they must abandon themselves to that disorder, which they pursued without any foresight. Doubtless here some one cannot forbear to allege the half Loadstone, which Plato says we have at our first Creation, which is not without trouble till 'tis joined 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 Ideas. 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 chief that of failing in the election, as the source of all the rest, when he says, 
Car enfin la faute, qui naist  
D'aymer ce, qui n'est point aymable:  
Et de n'aymer point ce qui l'est,  
Est seul in amour condamnable.  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 Ovid's Opinion, who in his Remedies, 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 entered 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 professed a Virtue so rigid, which is, That when Venus passed the River Eurotas to present herself to Lycurgus 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 appeared before this severe Man with a Helmet upon her head, her hand is charged with a Lance and Buckler. Let us apply this, and we shall find that Love, which represents itself to Common men with all those  Beauties that deceive and ruin them, lays by these pernicious Enchantments when he approaches the Wise; or rather, that 'tis the Vulgar who dress up Love in this attire, Idolising 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 writ to reform the Manners of men, do not aim at these Wise men we speak of, because they have no need of Remonstrances, 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 reduced 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 mixed 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 always good in itself, that we can accuse nothing but the disorders that happen in it, and that they are these vulgar Lovers who have thus disfigured 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 myself you will find solid and reasonable, it will be easy for me to build the Answers I am to make, and to defend myself from all those Examples wherewith you are armed. I will add only two things to this Discourse, whereof you shall grant me one, unless you would have me convince you by yourself, which are, That all the exaggerations in the discourse of Lovers serve as well to show 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 ourselves enough to believe, that our Laws and Customs 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 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 join issue with you, if instead of Agamemnon and Achilles you would produce Ulysses. But I will take these three, the better to confirm by them what I have advanced, 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 Homer's two Poems, notes well, that the War of the Greeks and Barbarians contained 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 brutish Sensuality; and that the Soldiers suffered through the Folly of their Princes. Coming afterwards to consider the Odysseys, he saith, that the Poet hath proposed Ulysses for a perfect and profitable Example of all, that Prudence, Wisdom, and Virtue 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 aught to judge of them according to Seneca's Opinion, That Merit and not Dignity, separates us from the crowd. If we return to Ulysses, 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 always 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 wished. 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 defamed him as a Mad man, and one who filled 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 preferred Violence to Equity, and abused 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 learned 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 raised upon Altars and peopled Heaven with these Generations, and that among the Egyptians we find stately rooms of Jupiter's Mistresses. Thus, you cannot draw consequences disadvantageous 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 prefer. 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 Loved, say you; we believe a Wise man ought to do it. But during their Gallantry they wrote Verses, and did things unbeseeming their Gravity. Let us see, if in this they did not allow something to the Mode of their Country, and if upon a matter indifferent in their Customs they have not suffered their Genius to sport itself. You know how far Greece once countenanced 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 Poesy, and the Muses were always 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 assumed for the Hymns of the gods; they came attended by Bacchus and Ceres, dressed, perfumed, and merry; they came, as we find them in the Poetry of Sapph, Anacreon, and other Lyrics, celebrating, amidst Wine and garlands of Roses, the Beauty and Wit of those they Loved. And this being so, can you think it strange that these Philosophers followed the fashion of their Country in Actions, which the Manners of their Nation and Age not only made lawful, but which were so esteemed, 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 served themselves of the same Praises, and used the same Language with other Poets, that they employed 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 showed 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 examined by so severe a Judge as yourself. And for the Kiss of Agathon, without examining Grecian Manners, let it satisfy 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 charmed him, and his conceit of Love hid under wrinkles, ought rather to please than offend you. For what concerns Xanthippe, she it may be you used lets us know, you did not believe 'twas Socrates' wife, and I think you only played 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 profaned it; but if he was undeceived, ought you to wonder, if to honour what he loved, he paid to his Mistress the respects which the Vulgar rendered to Idols, and performed a Ceremony, which not only was indifferent to him, but which he laughed at? You know that he fled from Athens, for fear lest the Magistrates, through the politic necessity of Government, should use him for matters of Religion, as they did Socrates, and, as he said, lest he should be forced to sin against Philosophy. Having examined 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 errand, and bring in Orlando Furioso; but if you will have Romances, and consent we should draw consequences from them, we have absolutely gained our Cause. But you pass him and come to Antony, Hannibal, Samson, David and Solomon; see a troup of Enemies mustered against me, but a little patience will lay this Storm, and in a few words I shall be able to rid myself of these famous Names wherewith M. Menage thinks to oppress me. Let us begin with Antony; this Roman having only judged of Cleopatra by his eyes, and suffering himself to be seduced 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 blamed. To make Love the Author of Hannibal's 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 debauched 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 Custom hath passed 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 ourselves with Lovers that make Verse; let us leave them their Pearls, Scarlet, Roses, Lilies, the Aurora and the Sun, which they have possessed 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 his Torch be put out, for the fire of his Passion makes it light enough, let us not imagine he is persuaded 'tis so: and if we meet with one of the Moderns singing to his Guitarr, that the Passing-bell should be tolled as often as his Mistress arms herself with her two Suns, let us for all that believe, that this Spaniard feared a Fever or the Small Pox, more than the encounter of this Basilisk. If I should now combat your Citations with others, and seek Love's 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 theatres, I consent that such depravers of honest Love be chained 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 Humours and Actions of Lovers; you do ill to make Crimes of indifferent Gallantries, of these garlands of Flowers with which they crowned 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 handsome 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 Homer's Jupiter, who of two things Agamemnon asked, granted him one, and refused him one; so I will 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 satire hits but few. It is true for the Citizen, that the foolish Pride which descends to them with their Inheritance, and those false Ideas which they form of a Voluptuous life, corrupt in them the sense of Virtue. But this disorder is not general. In the mean time you accuse Love for this Artificial handsomeness, which you pretend effeminates our Youth, and allege that such men seem to seek other men; to which I reply nothing, but that it were to be wished they resembled him who was first reproached 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 Poltroon 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 men's 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 opposed alone to all the Sages of Greece, he kissed her and prayed her to dress up the Scythian in such a manner, that he might appear handsome 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 employ 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, answered 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 practised no better than the Common people; and the conceit of a Greek Poet pleases me well, who saith, he can no more be persuaded, 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 Stoic Philosophers were laughed at in Atheneus, who said, they had no design but upon the Soul. Here you will allege what Plutarch writes, that the love of the Body cannot be called Love; and that Euripides contends for a Love that only pursues the mind, and that in fine, an Italian calls the Union of hearts Vltima speme di cortesi amanti. But after all we must return to Nature, which hath an 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 refined 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 subtilised 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 touched with this Discourse, that those who were Married hastened 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 Virtue, I cannot think M. Ch. will be so unjust to forbid honest people loving this Flower; on the contrary, I assure myself 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 wholesome Proposition from the art and force of M. Menage. Besies, I am not at such distance from your last opinion. And if you marked my words, I said, Love might cofine itself 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 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, Virtue 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, employ evil means; whence it happens, that their intrigues being ill conceived and ill conducted, are not lasting, end with Scandal, and during their course are traversed 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 itself, this will not say that Love is irregular, as you think, but on the contrary renders it more accomplished, 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 attacked 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 blamed upon the Theatre the Sex he adored in private, and that you have not spoken ill of them because you believed it, or because you have been 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 appeared to us a great Enemy of Ladies, I find myself obliged to defend them from your accusation; which I will make appear to you is more ingenious than true. In effect, 'tis easy to sustain their Cause; if 'twere unjust, their Beauty only would suffice to plead it. You must remember the Judges of Greece, and the Courtesan Phrine; this Woman was accused; Hyperides defended her; he was a famous Orator, and one from whom might be expected all the succours of Eloquence; but the cause being very foul, and the Judges severe, his Rhetoric was too weak, and the matter inclined 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 learned, 
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,  
Quàm quae sunt oculis subjecia sidelibus.  I assure myself, if I should do so, I should not find you more difficult than these Reverend Judges; but as I do not speak of Courtesans or Gossips, so I have no need of using violent Remedies, and 'twill be enough for me to persuade 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, 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 inquire, whether there are many such to be found, or only those which you have mentioned. But this Sex hath not been so unhappy as you pretend. All Ages have had illustrious Women as well as Men, and they have shared with us in all good qualities. I will not prove their Virtues 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 humour 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 performed in the general, and in the particular, quantity of remarkable Actions both for Policy and War. History hath placed a great many Queens at the head of Empires and Monarchies: if we would have marks of their Courage, Wit, and Virtue, 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 herself 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 environed with flames, we cry out 
O spectacolo grande oue à tenzone,  
Sono amore e magnanimo virtute.  But we shall be surprised with a profound astonishment, seeing Laena dumb-in the midst of Torments, and as little apt to reveal the Complices in the Conspiracy of 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 Lyric 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 ashamed 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, Aspasia 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 scattered 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 own to this great Princess; you often enter her Palaces, which are famed for celebrious Schools, where utmost Politeness is learned: and I appeal from you to yourself, whether there men are judged of by their outsides or the advantages of Fortune. Believe me, these are the Examples you ought to have produced, and not have troubled yourself to shake the Reputation of Penelope and Lucrece, too well established 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 proved 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 raised to that point, that they dare aspire to please excellent persons of the other Sex; but the heat being over, and it being almost time to walk abroad, I must end, for I make conscience of hindering you from a walk in an Evening that prepares itself to be very fresh and fair. M. Trilport and myself, and M. Menage, who took a singular pleasure in harkening to M. Gh. and to whom the matter was not so material, that he should care much though he changed an opinion, which he had taken up only for Discourse fake; when, I say, we had all conjured him not to make such haste, I have been too long, replied M. Chappelein, and I was not resolved to spend any more time in teaching you a Doctrine which you know as well as I; however, seeing I am engaged, I will add a few words. No body replying, he continued in this manner: I have always esteemed the Opinion of Empedocles, who calls Love the principle of all good; and indeed, when we exactly examine men's 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 theatres of Heroic Virtue, both public employments and private retreats own 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 extremely 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 Lacedæmonians 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 loved Spectators of the actions of their Lovers in sight. But to say all, Did Antiquity ever see any thing more gallant than that Cohort of Thebaus, which they called Sacred, and which was composed of Lovers? And do not you fancy the criticism of Pamenes, who censures the Sage Nestor for having in Homer put the Greeks in Battle 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 esteemed 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 served then for Chronicles. Now the Poet, forgetting Religion and Country, 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 Mistress' hands, not to return to Jaen without a Captive Moor, and those who had Mistresses exceeding fair, engaged 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 recompense he appoints for the Conquerors 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 were little Images of War, never had other object but the Love of Ladies; and as they passed 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 banished 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 raised them to such a high esteem for gallantry, that 'twas said, never any Abencerage had served Lady of Granada without being favoured 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 covered in the arms of Mars, valiant and victorious; let us place him in a condition a little more tranquil, in calms and peace. Zeno the Stoic teacheth us, that in this estate he hath care of things which concern the welfare of the Commonwealth, 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 polished men in the World, will show 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 raised the Statues of Mercury, Hercules and Cupid; to show that 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 bestowed Verse and Music upon us. And an Italian will confirm you in this opinion, 
Amor primo truouò le rhyme e versi,  
E suoni e canti, e ogni melodia.  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 humours 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 men's minds the quality which is most necessary to Civil life, which is, to know perfectly, and without trouble to accommodate one's 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 practised publicly 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 esteemed, 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 of the Roman Commonwealth, whereby he would signify, 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 
Et ces barbares coeurs que jamais l'amitiè,  
Ni les pleurs des humains n'esmeurment à pitiè.  gave up Eurydice to the love of Orpheus; Circe's left her Wichcrasts for Ulysses, with whom she treated sincerely and faithfully. Did not Love make an able man of an Idiot 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 resolved 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 discoursed excellently well of Beauty: it seemed that Cupid by the wound in his heart let in virtue into his Soul; he beheld that face as an excellent book, and in an instant became a Master in Love's School; the brightness of those eyes though shut, did shoot light into his eclipsed understanding, and in a short time he proved an excellent Philosopher, and a gallant Courtier. Does not this bring us to the Italian Proverb?  Amor puo far gentle un cuor villano. 
If these Allegorical instructions are not enough, History will teach us, that the Courtesan Lais became stayed 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 inspired by Love; if 'tis he that corrects our defects; if whatever is handsome 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 rustic 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, 
Tutto e perduto il tempo che ci accanza,  
See in amar non si spend.  He had scarce ended these words, when, etc.   

WALSTEINS' Conspiracy.  
THE Conspiracy of Walstein was certainly one of the most famous Erterprises of the last Age; and therefore such as are pleased with the recital of great Actions, and who would profit themselves of the Vices or Virtues of Famous men, will like the History. 'Tis this perhaps hath engaged 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 accused the Emperor of Cruelty; many praised his Prudence and Justice. These have rendered 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 deprived them of the freedom of speaking.  
I, not being preoccupied with any of these Considerations, and finding myself 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 majestic than pleasant; he was naturally very Temperate, sleeping little, always 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 Public good for pretext, though he made all serve to the growth of his Fortune; despising Religion, which he kept in service of his Policy. Extremely artificial, chief in appearing disinteressed, 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 public candour and liberty, blaming in others that dissimulation whereof he served himself on all occasions. This Man, having studied carefully the Maxims and Conduct of such, who from a private condition had arrived at Sovereignty, was always filled with thoughts and elevated hopes, despising such as contented 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 despised 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 Enterprise just and facile, pushed 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 informed, what it was that enticed him to this Conspiracy, and the means that he used.  
They who have said Fortune raised Walstein from the Plough, and that his Birth was obscure, erred 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 naturalised 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 reckoned 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 by dissimulation, nor corrected by prudence. By this his Parents saw themselves constrained to send him to Court sooner than they intended; so they present him Page to the Marquis of Burgh, Son to the Archduke Ferdinand of Inspurch. Whilst he remained there, falling from a high Window without hurting himself, he turned Catholic: and fancying, that after this happy escape he was reserved for something extraordinary, he quits his Master with intent to Travel; thereby to render himself worthy of that, which his destiny seemed to promise him. He sees Germany, England and France, accommodating himself to the manners and habits of those Countries; noting their Situations, Laws and Forces, taking from each what he liked best, and at last sits down at Milan, having curiously visited the rest of Italy. Here it was that he repent his neglect of Learning (absolutely necessary to a Great man) and rendered himself capable of Arts, if not knowing in them. Particularly he falls upon the study of Politics and Astrology, which suited his genius and his designs: pleasing himself infinitely with those Maxims which are distasted in public by those who practise them in private; fancying for himself immoderate Grandeurs, lodged in the Stars, which he did not forbear to hope for, though his Reason seemed to set them at an infinite distance. But partly awaking from this dream, his mind stuffed with vast pretensions, 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 gained, by his excellent address, so much on her affections, that she preferred him to several Great persons, who were engaged before him. And after she was married, continued so desperately amorous and jealous, that she had almost killed him by mixing with his drink one of those Philters, which instead of winning the mind wounds it; making strange havoc in the body that suffers its violences. A Poison 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 Archduke Ferdinand with the Venetians breaking out in Friol, he embraced the occasion he had so often wished, 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 raised few: so levying at his own charge three hundred Horse well appointed, he offered his own and their Service to the Duke at the Siege of Gradisk: where, by his liberality to his Officers, and readiness to secure his Soldiers in their necessities; by his conduct in War; often fortunate, always remarkable, doing actions extraordinary; praising other men's, 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 gained, 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 Emperor, Walstein continued faithful, though the Rebels solicited him by offers of chief employment, and by the hopes and recompenses of the War. But he pretending no less from the Emperor, and as yet preferring things certain and honest to things doubtful and tumultuary, after having endeavoured 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 Countrymen had confiscated his Estate, he got as much of the Public Treasure as he could, and retired to Vienna, where all was squeezed from him except twelve Thousand Crowns, which he had conveyed away, and with which he raised a Thousand light Horse. But here I must not omit one passage, which showed 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 entered in Arms, and without leave into the privy Chamber of the Emperor; where they made their propositions with such insolence, that one of them, his hand on his Sword, durst say, 'twas that should satisfy their demands, if denied. In this fear and surprise of Ferdinand Walstein arrived by chance with a new raised Troop, which he meant to show the Emperor, which obliged these bold Rebels, who thought themselves betrayed and lost, to throw down their Arms and to cast themselves at the Prince's foot, whose favour Walstein possessed 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, purchased him an extreme Fame and an extreme Envy, (for never any could separate these two) the Prince of Leistaine constituted Judge of the Bohemian Rebels and Governor 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 always found, if we will buy it, hastened thither with sixty Thousand Crowns, and not only purchased 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 gained 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 Emperor in his pressing necessities, he obtained, besides his light Horse, two Regiments of Foot, and the charge of Sergeant 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 surprise 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 Soldier which his good conduct had gained him. He offered the Emperor 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 engaging his whole Estate, that he in a short time accomplished it, and succeeding to the charge of the Marquis of Montnegro, who was deposed for having unfortunately served the Emperor in Transylvania, he owed his Dignity to nothing but his Ambition and his Virtue. In this high employment he added much to his Reputation. He took the Town and Diocese of Alberstad. Conquered Hall and its Bishopric; wasted the Territories of Magdeburgh; entered into those of Anhalt; fortified Dessau; defied 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 bend towards Hungary by way of Silesia, to give life to the Rebellion and join with Bethlem Gabor, he pursued Bethlem and Mansfield, and finding them at the Siege of Novegrade, vanquished them; cut in pieces the Janissaries that were come to the succour of Transylvania, and drove Mansfield out of Germany, who had been its Terror for so many years. Returning into Silesia, where he found Weimar dead, he obliged half his Troops to surrender themselves, and overcame the rest, took in all the revolted Towns, and after he had pacified the hereditary Provinces, led his victorious Army, strengthened by that of Tilly, against the King of Denmark. With these great Forces he defies the Marquis of Vrlach, conquers the Archbishopric of Breme and Holsace, filled his Troops out of the new Levies that Charles of Lavemburgh had raised for the Enemy; rendered himself Master of all that lies between the Ocean and the Baltic 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 enterprised any thing, contenting himself to secure 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 remained, and that there he should take up his Winter quarters: but in effect it was, that the Emperor 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 Emperor; instead of disbanding this multitude of Soldiers, who, having conquered all, seemed now useless, he raised 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 Commander's 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 Soldier being unpunished 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 Traitors 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 satisfy the Soldiers and Courtiers. It being not only easy, but honest in appearance, to calumniate those they meant to ruin. And that the King of Sweden, who so many miserable wretches looked 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 laboured to establish; after having condemned 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 Baltic Sea, except the Sound, to which he lays 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 spite of hatred or envy, he might quietly have enjoyed 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, and an insupportable despising of others; made Prince of the Empire and Duke of Meckleburgh; styled Highness; eating alone; stamping Money; and in his Equipage, Expenses, and solicited Audiences affecting to resemble Kings, he corrupted the solidity of his Virtue, and gave the World aversions for his injurious and irregular Vanities.  
The Peace with the Danes being concluded at Lubeck, the Emperor, extraordinarily pressed 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 usurped 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, despoiled 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 aimed 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; endeavoured to find remedies for these utmost extremities, and, by the help of the French, to oblige Gustavus Adolphus King of Sweden, alarmed by what was done on the Baltick-Sea and ambition of Honour, to come to their assistance under other pretences. On the other side, the Catholic Princes, to whom the Greatness of the House of Austria rendered it terrible; and generally all people oppressed with that Poverty to which they were reduced y Contributions and Winter quarters (the invention of Walstein, and not any thing of public calamity) demanded of the Emperor a General Assembly for the good and quiet of his Empire. Chief 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 Emperor had promised him, and Walstein opposed. He saw also that his General Tilly was removed, and found that absolute power lessened, 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 touched him nearest was, that the fruit of all his Labours remained 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 ruin of both, if his Enemy, who never pardoned any, continued 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. Pushed on also by Monsieur de Lem the French Ambassador, and the Capuchin Joseph, a man of Intrigues. It was he also, that to obtain this Diet, and to hinder the Emperor from discovering, they meant to diminish that Authority which he had usurped, gave him 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 wished nothing more; for we believe easily what we desire earnestly. The Emperor with his Son came to Ratisbone the end of June 1630, where all the Electors were met, except those of Saxony and Brandenburg; who excused themselves by their Deputies, as not able to defray the charges of the Journey, the great expense of Walsteins' Garrisons having impoverished them: and 'twas true, that fourteen complete Regiments had Wintered in the Territories of Brandenburg only. The present necessity, and the fear of the future, augmented the boldness of the Electors. And, besides their dependence on the King of Sweden, who had begun the War in Germany, they were emboldened by the absence of Forty thousand men, who, contrary to the advice of Walstein, were employed in the War of Mantova, or lost in that of Polonia. They were further encouraged by the French Ambassador: for upon complaint made in the Diet by the Duke of Lorain, that a powerful French Army was upon the Frontier, the Ambassador assured 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 engaged with him, that he might the more freely assist them. Next, they resolved 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 Catholics 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 if they had assembled for nothing else. The hatred born him was general; and the weakness of the Emperor, astonished 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 ruins had never been so much their study, if he had been less faithful to him, or had rendered 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, offered them to oppose him. The Emperor saw himself constrained to disband his Troops of the upper Germany, and to consent to a reformation of the rest, which lost him the greatest part: the Soldier accustomed 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 Emperor by his weakness, the artifice of the Protestants, and the passions of his own, was reduced in an instant to dread the Swedish Forces, which Walstein would have slighted, if in his Authority he had retained 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 waved 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 deposed, though the suddeness of the blow surprised him, seemed rather to regret the Misfortune of Ferdinand, than his own: Without speaking of himself, he only said, that the Emperor was betrayed, and his Council corrupted. That same Virtue which had gained him the General's Staff, served 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 repaired to him: some he kept with him; assigned 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 guessed 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 hide an extreme 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 recalled him to it; whereof John Baptista Seni his ginger shows him approaching hopes, and whereof he assured himself by the Judgement 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 Customs, and of his Domestic 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 writ; to which these Remarks seem not altogether impertinent: but truly I fear, that in reading them 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 lived in seemed rather the Palace of a Monarch, than the dwelling of a particular man: for he shared 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 ruin 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 ruins of an hundred Houses, that were pulled down to make way for it. The apartments were beautiful, magnificent and commodious; the ornaments and moveables represented Luxury and Abundance, and his Lodgings showed them in Excess. I would willingly describe the retail: the Gardens, beautified with a great number of Statues; the Fountains, Grots, Fishponds, Votaries; rare for their extent, planted with Trees, filled 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 Customs. 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 Germane Princes are curious in these. If Death had not constrained him to leave his Castle of Segan unfinished, possibly he had surpassed in that Edifice all those of the Ancient Romans, as he equalled them by enlarging the Town of Gidzin, building a , founding a College of Jesuits, 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 Expense, 'twas an unheard of profusion. A hundred Dishes always served up to his Table: and the neatness added much to the good Cheer. Fifty Halbardeer were the constant guard of his Antichamber; Men chosen by their Faces, and known by their Actions. Without were Sentinels, and every where Lackeys. Twelve men marched continually about his Palace to hinder Noise, which he could not suffer: in this, delicate even to weakness. He entertained sixty Pages, Sons of the best Houses; who learned 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 informed 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 followed his Court. He always carried with him fifty Leer Horse, beautiful to wonder, and covered with the most precious Harness, and these led by fifty men, each mounted on a Horse of price. Such as love frugal and modest Virtue will blame this Pomp, whilst such as adore outward Vanity will like it, and all will judge it easy for Walstein, living more splendidly than Kings, to aim at their rank and dignity. I have not mentioned the Palace of his Wife; the Pensions he gave, or the Recompenses: nor of the vast sums he spent throughout Europe to be informed of all; I have said enough, methinks, for my design and for my leisure: Besides, that things of this nature please in passing, but tyre us when we dwell upon them. Let us then betake ourselves 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 weakened by several losses. The Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg left it openly, joining with Gustavus; and 'twas only Tilly, that sustained for a time the burden of the War. He, who possessed the Virtues of a good Captain, Fortune, Prudence, Valour, Care; and, what is rare, Piety, endeavoured 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 Emperor's Armies, and those of the Catholic Princes, Leagued 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 herself in forsaking them in their maturities, he was vanquished at Lipsic; and the loss of this Battle made the Empire decline towards its ruin. More than half Germany was subjected to the Swede; the Duke of Saxony seized on Bohemia; the Landgrave of Hess cast himself on the side of the Victor; the Elector of Triers sought protection of the French, and the danger seemed so great to the Duke of Bavaria, that he staggered in his fidelity 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 turned his Force thither after this Battle: but truly, without reflecting on what might be said to the contrary, humane Counsel seems to be subjected to a Superior 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, employed 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 seemed capable to re-establish them, if he would undertake it. They considered his Courage, augmented by Difficulties, far from being terrified by them; industrious and passionate to execute what others held impossible; his active Vigilance never surprised; his Riches, proper to facilitate great designs, and ready to secure the necessities of the Empire; his Credit, his Intelligences, and the desire the Soldier 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 Virtue had been intolerable then, when he seemed useless, praised in him in this pressing occasion even things vain and fortuitous. They believed moreover, that he would return to his employment with an extreme 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 show him some assured hopes of his re-establishment, thereby to draw from him some testimony of his desire thereof: and thought, that by engaging 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 dispatched 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 than goes to visit him at Zeman, where he remained after the loss of Prague; and after he had entertained 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 bestowed 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 hid 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, answered 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 Emperor seeing they had advanced little by this means, pressed with time and danger, served themselves of the only way which remained; to act openly, to entreat, 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 appeared so great, that they had despaired to overcome it, if the Prince of Echamberg had not laboured 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 served him at Court; employing all his diligences to prevent his Fall, and in his disgrace never grew cold. They considered also the Authority of this man; powerful over the inclinations of the Emperor, whose Director and Favourite he was. And certainly his Favour was not ill placed; 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 Emperor's Letters, dictated as the present occurrence would; he lively represented the Honour of saving his Prince and Country; the obligation they must have to him; the beauty of such an Enterprise; the Fame, and what else might stir up a mind passionate of Glory. He added the Entreaties 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 Recompenses: engaging for that the Credit of the Emperor and his own, which he knew to be great, and had ever proved it certain.  
Walstein, though he saw that it was time to close, yet at first denied his assistance, though in a fainter manner than ordinary: opposing, as in doubt, the malice of his Enemies, ready to calumniate what he might do; the facility of the Emperor to believe them, and perhaps to cast him off after he had drawn Service from him: And besides, though he might be secured 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 pressed, sometimes feigning to acquiess in their persuasions; sometimes, to give way to the importunity of his Friends, he promised his Service; but for Four months only: in which time he would be sole and absolute; and that ended, lay down this burdenous Authority; to which Echamberg consented; believing 'twas enough he had engaged him to the Employment, 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 engaging 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 succeed; if it did, the Murders, Poisons, and distrust of all things terrified 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 assured; the Princes of Europe Leagued with Gustavus, or Ill-willers to the House of Austria; this House in decline: And he judged by these Conjunctures, the time ripe for Novelty. He well knew, that extremity of Affairs only having forced the Duke of Bavaria and the Spaniards, powerful at Vienna, to consent to his re-establishment, he could expect no other recompense 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 ruin them and to raise himself, than to secure them and to lose himself. He thought he had the opportunity and the means. He considered himself consummate in the experience of Military Affairs; dear to the Soldier; ready to command a mercenary Army; hardy, opulent, and industrious; always succoured of Fortune: whereas he looked upon the Emperor as slothful; little addicted to Arms; of a soft Nature; slow, exposed 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 suffered these torments, he abandoned himself at last to the worst Counsels, and determined to attempt the usurpation of Bohemia; not being able to vanquish the motions of his vexed and ulcerated mind, nor resist that cruel passion for Greatest, 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 public and interpreted, being naturally framed to dissimulations and feign, he resolved, without admitting any Confident of this his last resolution, to bury it under a profound Silence, and to apply himself entirely 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 ruin the beginnings, that are usually weak: and that when they should come to be discovered, he might be in a condition to carry them on by force. Being thus confirmed against the danger, and resigned entirely 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 recalled to his Employment. After this, to put the Affairs of the Emperor 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 advantageous 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: inclined to it by the commodious situation on the Confines of Moravia and the Hereditary Provinces; where, notwithstanding the Swedish War, Abundance and Peace had remained, and where the fury of the Enemy and the Domestic 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 Coin, Soldiers flocking to him upon his Credit; he raised in two Months an Army, if not answering the Fame in number, yet 'twas more than 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 engaging 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 wont Artifices, he wrote to Vienna, that he had satisfied his Promise, and that now he would retire; that the Army was ready, but he wished Domestic Peace; that they should send a General and grant him a retirement. He knew for all this, that what he asked was impossible: for having put into employment the Captains he retained in his disgrace; given Regiments to his Kinsmen and ancient Confidents, under pretence of sparing the principal Pay, and training up new Soldiers under old Commanders, obliging the Colonels to hazard all they had upon the sole hopes of his Parol; winning the Chief Officers by high Employments, corrupting the Soldiers by Presents, and all men in general by the expectation of his Fortune; he had so ordered things, that this Army could not subsist without him, and reduced the Emperor to an absolute necessity of maintaining him General.  
When they knew at Vienna, that he persisted to signify dislike of the Service, the Ministers of Spain and those of Bavaria, attempted once more to take his Command from him. The first, who governed 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 feared to see the Command in the hands of him whom he had despoiled of it. They urged both of them, that the Power conferred on Walstein caused the Revolt, and 'twould confirm the Rebellion, if it were renewed, and make those contrive to revolt, who hitherto remained faithful; that the presence of the King of Hungary would lead Princes and People back to their Allegiance, who would be ashamed to bear Arms against the Son of their Sovereign, and who must one day be so: besides, what opinion would Europe entertain of the Successor to the Empire, if he should be deprived of this Command? And what greater Argument of the weakness of the Empire, than shamefully to betake themselves to a man, who designed 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 Public good they ought not to trust Walstein, nor put him in condition to revenge the Injuries he believed to have received, especially since a design of Rule might be mixed 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 scattered 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 employing 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 placed him; as it is ordinary for the unhappy to suffer themselves to be blinded with the weakest hopes, flattered himself with thoughts of retrieving his former Greatness, and secured himself of the Fears they endeavoured to instill. Besides, his Council, jealous of the direction of the Affairs of Germany, which the Spaniards went about to usurp; hoping that Walstein joining with them, might uphold their credit, favoured his Cause and declared, that the House of Austria had need of him; that 'twas necessary to reserve the Emperor 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 wronged, and that he preserved 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 managed 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 ruin him securely; that the goodwill of Ferdinand seemed constrained, 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 declared, that he was ready to do what they would, provided they furnished him with what was necessary; Echamberg and the Bishop of Vienna, who were returned with ample power to grant him any thing, urging him to declare what he desired, as one that accepted of a weighty Charge, and asked only such 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 engaged, if the love of his Country and desire to serve his Prince had not controlled them; that he had already employed his Estate; that he was ready to hazard his life also; that they would have him add his Honour, which he esteemed 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 Warlike King, hitherto Arbiter of Victory and Fortune, against whom he should only oppose new and vanquished Soldiers; 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 Employment; that if good men wished him prosperous, because he laboured for the Public good, his Enemies longed for his ruin, which they preferred to their cause, prepared to accuse him as guilty, if he failed to be happy, and to impute to him as Crimes the faults of Fortune. That for these Reasons it behoved him to see, that good men might not be deceived; that Malice might be disappointed, and his Honour preserved; and that it was but fit, that those who against his mind had called 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 ruin the Affairs of the Empire, and his Reputation.  
After this discourse, which in appearance was so much the more innocent, as it seemed free and disinteressed, he gave them Articles containing, That they made him General of the Austrian Armies, and Arbiter of Peace, with an entire, 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 alleged, That great Erterprises 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 chased away their Kings, were forced 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 Soldiers 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 touched none but ourselves, but when they were in common, we neglected that reputation and that blame, whereof little would come to our share. He employed 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 advantageous the King of Hungary should Command in the Army, nor fit he should Obey; that 'twas not convenient Soldiers should leave the Service, and go to seek Rewards of their pains at Court, where their Faces were scarce known, and where ordinarily forward men and Flatterers disguised Truth, decried the best Actions, and usurped 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 Soldiers, that fight for a sterile 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 chastised; that upon hopes of Impunity bad men were hardened, Good men corrupted, and Discipline ruined; 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 reduced to that Retreat, other parts of Germany being harras'd and possessed 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 Caesar's become a prey to the Barbarous.  
Though all this appeared necessary and innocent, yet the thoughts of Walstein aimed further, and tended to grasp a Dictatorship in the Empire, that he might render Ferdinand despicable, despoiled of his Majesty, and reduced to a perfect Idleness; and also to accustom the Soldier 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 usurped 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 show that he did not stretch his designs beyond those of a Private man, after his Propositions that regarded the Public, he made others for himself; earnestly urging, that the reward of what Service he should do, might be assigned him in Austria, and that his restitution to the Dukedom of Meckleburgh should be comprised in any Treaty of Peace that might be made: as if he dreamt of nothing, but to join 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 desired 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 obliged 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 public mark of Honour and goodwill. However, that their proceeding might not be suspected of dissimulation or weakness, and that they might not seem totally to abandon their Pretensions to rule in Germany, they proposed, 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 augur ill from his refusing. The Duke of Bavaria for his part, fearing to draw the implacable hatred of his ancient Enemy upon his Country, bowed 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 public processions, and paid Vows for the success of an Army destined to its ruin. But Walstein persuaded, that whilst they acted nothing, they addressed 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 shared to his Family the Empire and the Kingdom of Spain, his Successors remaining in the Union, believed it was their interest to make the same Peace, the same War, to have the same Alliances; whatever concerned the Greatness of their House being common to them; and after they had consulted together for the public benefit they acted apart, and each did his own business. Rodolphus and Mathias did thus. But the Troubles of Germany obliged 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 Emperor's Council by Pensions and Presents, so that at length nothing was done without them. Afterwards their Ambassador had a particular Council to deliberate of that which should be proposed in the general, where most Resolutions waited upon his projects; not without the extreme jealousy of those among the Germane Ministers, who possessed 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 diversely 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 Soldiers, to ruin the Duke of Bavaria by the Swedes, to weaken the Hereditary Provinces by Winter quarters, and at leisure 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 resolved 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 Germane War, have carefully and elegantly recounted them. I shall only say what seems necessary to my Subject.   

OF STYLE.  
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 men's mouths; nothing furnished Poets with more propitious matter; nothing suggested to Orators a more benign Subject. Wherefore, not to seem a Stranger amongst so many Citizens of Plato's Commonwealth, I betook myself with a great deal of fervour to look into the reverenced Memorials of that worthy Philosopher; and found, that the Platonical Doctrine had no legitimate consonancy with the discourse of my Friends: so that I enquired of them concerning it; but they could never assign me a right definition of the Love they called Plasonick, according to the true Principles of their Master. The same hath happened to me concerning Style. What word amongst the Learned and Unlearned, more domestic than this? Who is not bold to judge of it? who does not pronounce definitive Sentences, condemning the greatest Authors who have laboured for Praise? This hath no Style, his Style is too rough; 'tis a difficult Style, that is consused, 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 darkened with clouds of Ignorance and Envy, which thunder upon Historians, lighten in the face of Orators, 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 composed, or rather from the conjunction of what pieces it results.  
If the Science which God at first infused 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 called. For though the Divine light participated to Adam, served to many and noble effects, yet in this it singularly shined forth, that letting him perfectly know the Essence of Created things, he could impose a Name upon every one of them, which efficaciously expressed their Nature; so that every Name might be called, the Definition of the thing named. But because in that woeful 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 wand'ring through the uncertain and deceitful paths of a cloudy Philosophy, we puzzle ourselves 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 used to write Characters in Waxed Table-books, or to cancel what was written. From the material Instrument with which they wrote, the signification was afterwards transferred 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 used. 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 served 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 restrained to signify a bare Composition, but comprehends besides a certain particular quality or, manner of Composing. 'Tis once used 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 used in Composing, yet none have declared what it is, or prescribed 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 persuade to Goodness, and when the Understanding had Truth any way represented to it, without any enticements of flattering Eloquence, it would run to embrace it; and the Will, freely bound by the naked, but efficacious proposal of what is good, would feel itself ravished 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 composed two sorts of Remedies. The one violent, called the moving of the Affection, which does not work but by a notable alteration of the Patient: The other pleasant, called Elocution, in whose company Persuasion does sweetly instil itself into the mind. Both of them managed 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 Famed Authors, nor be rude and uncultivate. Aperta, by propriety and use, shunning improper ones, and such as are not commonly used by good Authors. Ornata, with figures, called 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 ennobled by it only, as it ought. It seems to me, that Words (whether in their own nature elegant, or raised to a foreign sense by using them figuratively) are like Stones which are prepared 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 called out to their proper places by a discreet Collocation. Thus Elocution being confined within too narrow bounds by those, who restrain it to the propriety and ornament of Words; further enquiring into what the Masters of the best taste 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 Error, but as much as may be, approach that Virtue which may render the Composition without exception chaste and correct. Let it be clear and perspicuous: and this perspicuity is chief derived from the propriety of it. We must acknowledge for an undoubted Truth, that those who Writers, refusing the way trodden by good Authors, practise unused Forms, do so intrigue Elocution, that the poor Reader finds his path entangled, nor can free his feet from those Enigmas which retard him. An Error 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 easy, but that discretion prescribe a measure, that it does not become low and grovelling. 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 Orator: 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 wished, that some Modern Authors bore more respect to the Ears of understanding men: for we see a form of Discourse introduced, abrupt 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 placed or disposed. Hence springs the dependence and jointing of Members and Periods. Whence those who work their pieces ala Musaico may perceive, that forming a Discourse made up of bits, not chained together, but broken and no way correspondent, make a Garment of divers Snips ill stitched together, but do not wove 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, than Elocution alone is not enough. Elocution, though in its perfection, if it be without the Characters, forms, or Ideas of Speech, remains idle and indetermin'd. For if a discourse were to be examined by the foregoing Rules of Elocution, many things would remain unexamined, 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 observed this distinction in three principal persons of his Poem. To Menelaus he attributes a mode of Reasoning altogether sincere and restrained, without superfluity; which is the virtue of the Humble Character; whilst words, they said, flowed out of Nestor's mouth more sweet than Honey, and regards the Temperate. But to express the Sublime, in the person of Ulysses he composes such an ample and stately Eloquence, as is compared to a Torrent enriched and grown proud by melted Snow.  
There is no Subject which may not laudably be managed 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 diminished 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 endowed 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 writ 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 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 formed 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 formed 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 often caused by Circumstances which accompany the Writing. Of a glorious and heroic Exploit in War, may be formed 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?  

Examples of the Characters out of Tasso.  
BY all this discourse we do not reach a decision of Style; for, that it does not consist in these three Characters, we may consider first, that if Style and Character were one, there would be but three sorts of Style, as there are but three Characters; which is so manifestly opposed to Experience, that we find as many kinds of Style as there are Writers. Besides, we find many excellent Authors who writ in the same Character, which compared are of a Style vastly different; and every one hath his proper excellence, which distinguishes him from those, from whom he does not differ in the kind or character of Writing. Virgil and Lucan composed their Heroic Poems in the Sublime character, yet they are altogether unlike in Style. Let us add, that the most Famous Authors make use of all the Characters according to occasion, yet the Style with which they manage them is the same. Nor does Cicero vary his Style with his Character, whether he writes a familiar Epistle or forms a Dialogue, or treats of Morality, or thunders in an Oration; but by the consent of all men the Ciceronian Style is one and the the same. And thus we have found, I think fortunately enough, in what Style does not consist, and what it is not: But because to be defined by Negations belongs only to the Divinity, by reason of that infinite excess in all the parts of it, which does not suffer created Understanding to comprehend it; let us see if we can in Positive terms arrive at the Truth we seek.  
The Precepts, the Art of Elocution, the Forms and Characters of Discourse are common to all; but Nature, which endows men with different Genius, hath so ordered it, that every one in the use of those Precepts possesses a certain particularity, something peculiar, which springs from his proper Genius, by virtue whereof that Elocution, those Forms, that Character in themselves common to all Writers become in such manner proper to each one, that one man's Writing is distinguished from another by that particularness: and this I would call Style.  
Thucydides and Demosthenes, according to the opinion of all Masters of the Art, formed their Writings according to the magnific or sublime Character. And not differing in the Character, by consequence they do not differ in the Form and Elocution, which are the parts whereof Character is composed: yet, whoever shall read their Works will find in them a mighty difference, and shall not know wherein it consists. Now this difference arises from that particularity which issues from the proper Genius of each of them, so working that though Character in the kind and the precept be the same, yet it is not the same in the use: so that from the Character in conjunction with the individual particularity springing from the use of Thucydides genius or wit, results the Style of Thucydides; and from the same Character in the application of it, and individual use of Demosthenes, results the Style of Demosthenes.  
'Tis on all hands confessed, that Arguments may be drawn from the Writing, if not infallible and necessary, at least probable and well grounded, of the affections and manners of the Writer. But this guess cannot be founded in the Character; for 'twould be insufferable fascity to infer uniformity of passions and manners in those that compose in an uniform Character: therefore the illation depends upon some other principle more individual and intrinsic. Virgil and Lucan, for what concerns Character, must both be ranked with the Sublime. Now he that in the Works of Lucan traces the manners of the Writer, will esteem him conrumacious, proud, impatient of Order and Laws; of tumultuous thoughts, precipitous resolutions; agitated rather by fury than by sober Counsels; worthy, in fine, to be numbered amongst those that conspired against Nero. On the contrary, Virgil will appear always noble and honourable; of pleasing behaviour; of a generous, but temperate mind; an Enemy of all Indignity, tenacious of Decorum; bashful, but manly. Now if this diversity hath no foundation in the Character, which is the same in both, it must have it in that particular manner in the application and use of the Character, which is individual to every one, as the Wit which produces it is individual, and makes the difference of Lucan's and Virgil's Style.  
I will add one Consideration, which, if I am not deceived, serves efficaciously to display the Opinion I intent to establish. In the short space of humane face, by an unconceivable miracle of Nature the same parts concur in every one; and in all, they are disposed in the same order, placed with correspondent and uniform distance; and yet in this likeness of parts an entire dissimilitude of Faces appears. Further, let us imagine a thousand Faces equally beautiful in proportion and symmetry of parts and well tempered colour, yet for all that each of them shall have its proper air, which shall be enough to distinguish it from all the rest. Whence we say, this hath a gentle air, this a noble mein. 'Tis certain, the Air does not consist in the parts so ordered and disposed, nor in the Colour tempered and composed after a certain manner, for both one and the other are common to all of them: yea, it oftentimes happens, that a Face which is not fair according to the proprieties appertaining to perfect Beauty, is for all that of a better air, and more amiable than one entirely Beautiful. So that what we vulgarly call the Air of the Face, is a proper and individual quality of each one arising from the particular Complexion, by which it is rendered different from others, in common with which it hath the same measure and order of Parts, and mixture of Colours. And this, perhaps though understood by all men, we know not how to define or express. This Air of the Face answers to Style, as the Parts and Colour correspond with Character; and is perhaps what the Masters of the Art often name Orationis Color, and we may style the Air of a Composition. But it may be another similitude drawn from Art, will better express our intentions, and 'tis taken out of Cicero.  
Four things are necessarily required to render a Painter excellent in his Art: Design, Colour, Composition, and Custom; (though for Custom 'tis known of few, and observed by fewer:) and if a Painter fail in any of these parts, he cannot be termed excellent. Raphael, Titian, and Corregio possessed them all in a supreme degree: and at this day, eminently, Giuseppino, etc. Wherefore in the mouths of those that understand, they pass for Painters of the first Classis, and such as fortunately contend with the Ancients. 'Tis certain for all this, that amongst themselves they vastly differ. Nor can this difference have its original in those things which have an invariable and common Rule: for they have all a regular design; proportionate colour, though not uniform; every one of them preserves an orderly Composition, without confusion, and all of them study, as they may, livelily to express Custom; and yet those who understand the excellency of the Art, find out a particularity in their Pieces, by virtue of which they know how to pronounce this Picture is Giuseppinoes, this Guido's, &c. And to this particularity, by men of the Skill, is given the title of Manner, or Way; whence they say the Manner of Raphael and the Manner of Titian. To the Manner of Painters we may compare the Style of Writers, and say as properly, this is the Style of Sallust in Catelines Conspiracy, as this is the Manner of Raphael, speaking of a Picture.  
From all that hath been said we may draw these Corollaries. First, that Style is a particular and individual manner of Discoursing or Writing, arising from the particular Genius of each Writer in the application and use of the Characters of Discourse. Secondly, Comparing Character with Style, this holds of Nature and Genius, that regards Art and Study. And by consequence this multiplies and varies according to the number and quality of the Genius's; that remains always divided into three Members, as before we have declared. Thirdly, To ask any one in what Style he writes, is foolish; because he cannot compose in any other Style than his own, dictated by his Genius: except that through imitation he may study to express with some likeness the Style of another; so that to render the question proper, we ought to say, In what Character does he write; when we do not mean Imitation. Fourthly, We may say, this is the Style of Thucydides and Sallust; but we cannot say, this is their Character, for 'tis a thing common to all, and not proper to any one, as Style is.    

The History of ALCIDALIS and ZELIDE;  Written in French by Mr. Voiture. 
Dedicated to Madamoiselle de Rambovillet, who invented the Subject of it.— unfinished. Les plus belles choses du monde sont imparfaites.  
WHen Spain was divided, not only amongst many Kings, but amongst many Nations; and that the Goths, Moors, and Spaniards held each a part of it; Arragon was under the power of one King, who amidst the Wars wherewith his Neighbours were busied, had always maintained his Subjects in Peace; and who had nothing remarkable, but his being Father to him whose History we writ. His Wife, when she had given him a Son, left him a Widower, much about the time that the Countess of Barcelona, a young and virtuous Princess, lost her Husband. band. Though he was now old, his Council and Subjects found, that for the safety of his Person and Estate, it were to be wished he could leave more than one Heir; and prayed him to that purpose, to choose a Wife to his mind in his own Country, or amongst his Neighbours. The Beauty and Virtue of the Countess were known beyond Arragon. And besides that reason of State required, that an occasion of joining to his Kingdom a Town so important as Barcelona should not be lost, the inclination of the King did entirely carry him to it. Rosalva (for so she was called) was fair enough, and Judicious as she was fair: and finding herself a Sovereign Princess, nothing less than a Sceptre could tempt her to a second Marriage. But having only one Daughter, and the King of Arragon but one Son, she believed that it was not only to make herself a Queen, but to leave an hereditary Kingdom to her Daughter: and that being amidst many Neighbours, who designed upon her State, she could not be blamed for securing it by putting a Crown upon her head. She easily agreed then to lose the name of Countess of Barcelona to be Queen of Arragon; and was received with all the Joy and Magnificence possible. Being young, fair, and witty, in a short time she absolutely governed the King, and soon after the whole Kingdom. The most important Affairs were not determined 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 gained the hearts of all that looked upon it, a Wit which in the first years of his age found 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 passed no day wherein he did not say or do something which astonished all the Court. Those who had the art to judge of men's Fortunes by the lines of their Faces, spied promises of many great and incredible events in his. And those who considered his Actions and his great Qualities, said the Crown of Arragon was too small for a head like his. They foresaw that the Moors, who were the Neighbours of his Father, should one day be forced to put the Sea between him and them; and that no more time was necessary to give up Spain to one man's power, than was needful to give this young Prince strength to draw his Sword. All these qualities daily augmented the Queen's affection towards him, who knew him better than any. She wished 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 Arragon, as to be Wife to Alcidalis. But whatever we say of Fortune, it must be confessed 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 resolved 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 Arragon, which he resolved to go in person and possess himself of, because it was disputed him. But extremely loving his 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 passed with all their Family to Arragon. They were received 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 received from the Queen, whose affection she had gained, 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 herself. She lodged her in the Palace, and had so much care of keeping her near her person, that it seemed she lost somewhat when ever she parted from her; and that she was not at all herself where Camilla was not: 'Twas so they called 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 judged would be the last of all her Evils. This extremely grieved the Queen, who passionately wished her health. She conjured the most expert Physicians to practise the greatest secrets of their Art; but though at her solicitations they employed all their skill, and spared no diligence, the sickness of the Princess prevailed upon all their Remedies: Which she well knew, and resolved 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 Country, 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 kissed 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 inquire into the truth of her condition, she would please to suffer her to say, she felt herself 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 prayed her then to permit she might manage those few hours that remained, 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 deign to receive from her hand the Present she was about to make of all, which in the World remained 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 esteemed the Voyage of Arragon a happy one, though she easily judged, 'twould cost her life as well as his. However, she thought she had the good fortune of being beloved by her at an easy rate; which she so esteemed, that if the World had any thing she lost with impatience, 'twas her Friendship. But that she comforted herself 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 queathed in dying. That she prayed 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 believed she left her richer in it, than in the two Estates to which she remained Heir. That she should die content, and believe her death would be in some sort happy for Zelide, if it procured her the honour to be brought up by the wisest Queen in the World. The Queen embracing her said, that she received 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 herself a Witness of the effects of her Promise. This extremely comforted the mind of Camilla, but did not diminish her disease. She lived 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 interred 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 Country, and, which is more to be feared by her, in the power of a person by whom the Stars threatened 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 accomplished than hers: and in the fairest body in the World, she had a mind which cannot be imagined by ours: it seemed 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 admired in the mouths of Sages. There was never known a Birth so happy as hers. All the Stars had conspired 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 seemed a Celestial person dropped down here below by miracle. Her inclinations carried her so powerfully to good, that it seemed she had not freewill to do amiss: and all the Virtues were so natural to her, that she must have done violence to herself 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 followed what was right and handsome 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 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 enchanted Souls. She had infinite other amiable qualities, which cannot be expressed: and the least part of her perfections were those which could be.  See her, Madam, I think in every thing so like you, that there is no body but would take her for your Sister. And for my part, though I extremely well considered her when you showed her to me, yet there were so many things to be observed, that I vow I could not paint her in my memory; and should not have drawn her Picture so well, if I had not copied her by you. 
With these Arms Zelide must conquer the Kingdom of Arragon: 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 entered 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 Cupid's: 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 extremely 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 without an equal, if they had not appeared at the same time in it. So that, to say the truth, though they gained the affection of all that saw them, they had never been loved worthily, if they had not been loved 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 resolved to give signal proofs of his power in two such rare persons, established 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, seemed to want it only for the young Countess, and never appeared so constrained as when he was with her. Whether it was that this glorious mind took it ill, that they should destiny him to any thing without informing themselves of his will; or that the Stars, which had caused him to be born for Zelide, gave him a secret aversion for all those who would usurp her place. So that when she was entered the Palace, and that the Queen had given her for Companion to her Daughter. His mind seemed to be changed all at once. He never left the apartment of the Countess, nor enjoyed good hours, but those he passed in Zelids company. Love, to be welcomed 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 rendered himself so powerful, that he need not fear to be chased thence. At first these two young Lovers felt nothing in themselves extraordinary, but an extreme pleasure to see each other. At their interviews they were touched with a certain joy and content, which they were not used to feel: and there was no body, but thought they embellished 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 seemed he reserved 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 rendered himself knowable. Alcidalis begins 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 proposed 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 deserved. As oft as he left her, he seemed to have fallen from Heaven to Earth; and losing her company, he could suffer nothing but solitude. And then he passed exactly in his mind all her words and all her actions: and considering them by all their biasses, he drew conjectures favourable or disadvantageous. Then calling to mind all that he had said or done, he still repent him of something. Sometimes he blamed himself for being too fearful; another time for being too bold; and still remained as ill satisfied with himself, as he was well satisfied with her. He began by little and little to leave all those pleasures which pleased 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 considered 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 entered 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 herself as oft as she saw the young Prince. She had more care of her Beauty and Dress than ordinary. She loved less the Countess, because she was destined for him: and the Duties which by force he rendered 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 inclined her, wrought with time an impression there which nothing could ever efface, and formed in it an affection as fair and perfect as herself.  
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 was quickly known to all the World: and many had taken notice that they were amorous one of another, before they perceived it themselves. At first, when their Childhood rendered 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 Judgement which might serve to govern his Father's 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 bowed 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 advanced with so much light and splendour, that it seemed she declared 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 Governors, and under the conduct of a Woman. His Breast, naturally great and Royal, was also swelled up and enlarged with the passion which filled 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 Tournaments; and in Dances all his devices spoke of her; and he could not endure it should be imagined 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 followed with the desires of all others. The Queen now began to fear, and to perceive she had too long deferred to oppose so great a fire; that it would cost her care to extinguish it; and that she should be forced to serve herself of violent remedies. But she would first try all others. She essayed by all ways to regain the mind of Alcidalis, which she saw was estranged 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 appeared always with a great deal of Pomp; always dressed, and hid in Jewels. But Zelide neglected, as she was, shined more. Her eyes and colour took away the glittering from Diamonds, and whiteness from Pearls: and the Riches which Heaven had given her effaced 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; resolved at last to separate them, and to carry Zelide farther off: hoping that Absence might blot out those impressions which Love had stamped in their minds, as yet young and tender; and that those she had placed about Alcidalis to gain him, might find him more capable of being persuaded, when he should no longer see the object of this growing passion. She feigned 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 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 enjoyed 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 touched 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 extreme, past through his imagination. But seeing that this Evil was without remedy; and that at last the time approached that Zelide must be carried from him: he resolved 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 lived with her without saying any thing of his Passion: and all his actions spoke to her daily, though his words witnessed nothing of it. Whether it was, that shame, which is ordinary to this Age, had hindered him; or that being entirely filled and satisfied 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 Queen's 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 tried to say what he had resolved upon: and having opened 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 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 yourself, 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 chief this affection I bear you. By the knowledge you have of yourself 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 received 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 seemed to Alcidalis, that he had seen the Heavens opened 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 Virtue that you only have made me understand. I ever believed, that all the Earth was too little for me. But I now believe, that I myself am too little for you: and as much as I esteem all things below myself, I hold myself 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 received by yours. I would not praise it thus boldly, if it were still mine: and I speak advantageously 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 entertained its Infancy, was the conquest of the World; and since it hath been more bold and more reasonable, it hath desired Zelide. If this adorable Zelide does not oppose me, 'twill be easy to bring about the other: and the Crown of Arragon, 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 astonished 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 spoke to her with more earnestness than usual. The Queen, who above all others had minded it, and to whom this converse gave much disquiet, risen up, and approaching 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, answered fiercely; Madam, I hold Zelide for so just a person, that if she had done me wrong, I would have no other Judge but herself. There is no occasion, that any should mingle themselves in our differences: and whatever quarrel we have, I cannot be pleased 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, seemed least to understand it, and presently changed 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 Jealousy, 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 and Sighs, suffered the same regrets as if Zelide had been dead, and not absent. Why do you complain, Alcidalis? you have all your life peaceably enjoyed the fight of Zelide, and do you not know how to endure a few days absence? Love is 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 own 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 employed. 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 passed 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 resolved 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 passed along the Walls of Saragosa: as if there were nothing more worthy of him in Arragon, he takes the way of Catalogna; where having received in his passage many small Rivulets 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 extremely fertile, and covered with Trees; and by so much the more pleasant as the rest of the Country consists in dry and naked Plains, or in Mountains black and scorched 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 encompassed on one side and on the other with Mountains. In this place the River glides very peaceably by the encounter 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 extremely shady and flowery. 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 Country 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 Northwind, so that at all times 'tis covered 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 embellished by her presence. She only was sad amidst so many objects of Pleasure, and lost daily that lustre and beauty, which she seemed to impart to all things. The absence of Alcidalis afflicted her extremely. 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 befall 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 herself 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 herself, than her Goods, or than her Fortunes. She considered that the Prince's Affection was not ordinary, that his Courage was extraordinary; but that his power was as yet but weak. That he would never be suffered to despise the City of Barcelona, which Fortune offered him so happily with the Queen's 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 governed both. That whilst they were Children, all men liked their affection, but that no body would approve of their Marriage. And, that some already looked 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, filled 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 judged it could not be a happy one. One day amongst the rest, accompanying the Queen, who walked in a Wood extremely shaded, whose Alleys led to the Meadow, which served as a border to the River, she sound opportunity to leave the Company, followed only by one of her Maids. And it was not a small consolation to her, that she sound herself at liberty to be sad, and to appear so. Representing to herself the Fortunes of her life; running over the past Misfortunes, the present, and those which threatened her; her thoughts had entertained her so well, that not thinking of the way she had made, she found herself 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 Country lies down in the Ocean, and appears fairer than in any place of the World; was now ready to hid itself 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 Trees, and Waves of the River, that he seemed to rekindle his Rays to continue a day in favour of this Princess; environing 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, enticed 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 struggling together, who rolled down from the height of a Rock: But afterwards she perceived 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 advantageously mounted, carrying a Horn hanging in a Ribbon, and a Lance in his hand. Who stopping a little, and seeing the danger in which the man was, who seemed 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 vexed to have seen in 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 finished to know him, but not daring to remain certain, she turned back to her Maid and asked 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 seized upon Zelide; so that she could not find words for the first Compliments. The Prince, who was prepared for this encounter, though with much difficulty on his side, was more assured 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 easy 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 leisure ro recollect her Spirits, you are ingrateful to the Heber, on whose Banks you are, and which seemed 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 embrace this Valley with so much care, that when you shall have well considered the beauty of this Meadow, these Woods and this Park which we are entering, 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 handsome, as what you showed 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 appeared so fair, as what you let us see in this Valley. Now they had taken the path which led to the Queen, and the Maid that followed them, staying a little behind, Zelide with a low voice said to him; Sir, you have performed two things of a great deal of boldness; one, to precipitate yourself 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, answered Alcidalis, it had been a greater boldness for me to have stayed in Saragosa. For that had been with a firm foot to attend that death I could not shun, if I had remained 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 engaged in. I could not have imagined 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 displeased 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 yourself; and who carry always with you whatever is amiable in the World. Alcidalis, answered Zelide, you do not believe what you say: and if you thought me so ungrateful and so vain as not to love any but myself, you would not have so much impatience to see me. But to the end that you may be better informed, give me the hearing and leisure to make that answer I promised you at our parting. And because in saying this, she felt she blushed extremely, 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 to confess she Loves; but I know, if any may be excused, '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 shroud themselves. I will only allege 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 forbidden our Sex to entertain any. I cannot be blamed 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 concerned me for you: and Self-love, which we feel betimes, and which is so natural to all the World, entered my mind later than that Friendship I bear you. My Reason, which appeared long after, found it so well established, that it took it for a part of myself: Besides, it seemed so innocent and so just, that she hath rather strove to fortify, than to destroy it. I say all this, to excuse me with you and with myself; 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 willed it. And if you are obliged 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 hid 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 the content of knowing and being assured 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 prise 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 men's 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, aught 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 Virtue, that what is ordinarily blamed 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 spoke, and that it was much more favourable than he durst wish, could scarce believe his ears. But at last, seeing he was not deceived, 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 answered better by Silence and tears of Joy. But having turned into another Alley, and seeing himself out of the sight of her 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, extremely troubled at this encounter, told him, Sir, your undue humility will cost you dear, and see a beginning of my Prophecies. Madam, answered 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 advanced, and Alcidalis being near her, she received him with a face so open and pleasant, that Zelide could not have done more. When the first Compliments were finished, and that the Prince had told her, his Sport having led him within six or seven Leagues off the house, he believed 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 imagined, that the favour Zelide hath granted you is not ordinary, seeing you were obliged 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 yourself received this satisfaction. Tell us, I pray, what is the matter, and what she hath promised or given you, that I may share in it, or join 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 women's wits are more at hand, and serve a surprise best; she advanced to answer for him, and said, Madam, I asked 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 satisfy 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 falter, seeing the Queen press upon her in this manner, and believed, 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 possessed with Joy for what Zelide had said, that he entertained 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 rendered to her Daughter, she thought he must be well content and assured 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 yourself Alcidalis for the misfortunes which threaten you: and take the contentment you have this day received, as the last kindness of Fortune. Expect no more Friendship from her, and content yourself with that of Zelide. The next day the Prince went for Saragosa, and the Queen eight days after. Alcidalis suffered this Absence with more patience than the former; his thoughts being now so sweet and satisfactory, that with them he could not but be happy. But as a fair day is always more fair than the fairest night, and as there is no perfect contentment in darkness: it seemed, 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 entirely relish. He passed some Months with an extreme content, and so perfect a one, that from thence only 'twas easy to guests it could not last, and that this great calm would be followed 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 served her Daughter with more care, and entertained 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 abused 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 Citadel which is secretly undermined, have ordinarily more fear of any other peril than that which threatens them, and are quiet whilst their Grave is digging, and whilst that ruin 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 involved, that if it be scarce credible that they did really happen, it is no less hard to believe, that they could be invented, or be the effects of the strongest imagination.  
It seemed to Fortune, that Arragon and Catalogna were too narrow theatres, 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 Battles. 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 surprised, that they had scarce leisure to bid adieu. But when the Prince declared 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 assured 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 received News from Barcelona, which obliged 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 situation, than for the fertility of its Territory, is one of the most famous in Spain. Zelide wondered, that the Queen having left her Daughter, did not leave her too. And having well considered the Novelty, she judged it was not done without some 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 feared every thing. The Queen having employed 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 entered 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 feared Ambushes. The Queen put herself 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 herself 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 called for her. All her Blood at this instant froze in her Veins. The Queen bid her shut the door, and thus delivered herself.  
'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 prayed me to have a care of you. If this consideration had not engaged me, yet your Beauty, Parts and Virtue would have obliged me to it. And having nourished you thus long, and found in you with advantage all those qualities which endeared 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 she desired. She prayed me to love you as her Daughter, and I have always loved 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 considered the one and the other, as if you were equally mine. It being so, and not one of your actions, or any thing that concerned 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 privilege to deceive and to deny. And I make you Judge, if it be possible the affection he hath for you can ever be advantageous to you. You see, as well as I, all the reasons that will not permit it. You are too wise ever to have hoped 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 Virtue, 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 Virtue 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 virtuous; considerable in Italy, and esteemed of all his Neighbours: He, by his Letters and Messengers, hath long since declared to 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 promised him, on my part, to carry you thither in as many more. Diligence and Secrecy, 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 Country, 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 own to yourself, and that respect you own 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 embraced her; and pretending she would not take a long adve 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 remained in the condition wherein the Queen left her: and doubtless, 'twas the best wherein she found herself 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, 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 remained thus without motion a quarter of an hour: when at last her Spirits, buried under this sudden ruin 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 herself at the Queen's 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 seemed to quiet her. Then, with a serene countenance, turning towards those about her, she spoke some few words, and seeming to receive the Consolations they tendered, she went to her Bed, and prayed 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 removed 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 believed, that Fortune had put her in a condition, wherein it was not in her power to hurt or secure 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 miseries, at least she had not that of seeking remedies, which is one of the greatest torments to wretched persons. Being well resolved of what she had to do; and knowing, within a little, how long her Misfortunes could last, she passed the night in thinking of Alcidalis, and flattered herself with some content, when she considered that signal proof she was about to give him of her affection and courage. Though the Queen's last words, whereby she would have made her believe, that the Prince betrayed her, caused in her some violent transports.  
When the Captain and his Wife thought she was awake, they entered the Cabin, and ask her, if she would not eat; she replied, 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 relapsed to her first sadness, and that it required more time to digest it. But, some hours after, seeing she did not call, they returned and used all Arguments to persuade her to eat: To all which she did not answer, but by an obstinate silence, and by so cold and resolved a look, that she did not seem to hear them. They went out the second time extraordinarily troubled, and began to fear some tragic end of this strange resolution. At night they returned, and with a Niece they had of the age of Zelide they kneeled 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 seemed to be the only benefit left her. Three days passed 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, conjured her to have pity of herself and of them. When Zelide had harkened to them, fetching a sigh, with much pain she sat up in her Bed. Then they knew the extremity to which she was reduced. 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 looked upon one another for some time, at last she broke that Silence which she had so long kept, and spoke 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 resolved 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 myself. 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 begged of me with so many tears? And will you be my Murderers, that were chosen for my Conductors? The Duke of Tarant expects me; but hath never seen me. Here's your Niece, 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 myself? Will not the Duke be more happy to have a Wife that will be content, and who wishes for him, than one that long considered, whether she should choose death or him? and which at last preferred death to his person? But 'tis not mine he loves, seeing it is unknown to him; 'tis my Fortunes, which I now make over to your Niece, 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 herself 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 Mother's 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 Country 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 touched with a scruple of obeying the Queen; are you not more afraid of murdering an Innocent? Can you more easily resolve to kill one of 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 Arragon, 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 seemed to have of me, and by the tears you lately shed, to deliver me out of this misery: and by a ready complying show, 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 persuade 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 refused. Ending this discourse she opened the Cabinet and let the Stones sparkle in their eyes. Which indeed was not one of the weakest means whereof she served herself to persuade them. They were moved 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 Soldier, 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 astonished 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 appeared good ones. He thought that generosity obliged him to secure 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 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 harkened to Zelide, he remained silent a long time: and resolved 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 desired. Zelide, who hitherto in the height of her misfortunes and despair had never dropped a tear, felt herself now stirred with joy, and a pity she had of herself, 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 snatched from the arms of Alcidalis, as of her being delivered from falling into the Dukes. With the help of this Joy she soon recovered her strength; and re-established her health in as few days as she had lost it. They agreed then, she should not show herself: and Erminia their Niece was shut up in a Cabin, and received Lessons to act well the part of Zelide. At last they came near the Shore, and they suffered her, being well instructed, to be seen by the principal Officers of the Galleys, and she rehearsed before them the part she was to play upon a more noble Theatre. Though Zelide saw things well disposed, and the extreme passion her Guardians had to bring about their design, her heart failed her when she saw the Land. In the mean time, that they might not expose the false Zelide to the eyes of the Crowd, which covered the Shore, as soon as she was Landed they put her into a close Chair, pretending her indisposition, and so conveyed her to the Palace: and they advised her, 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 accustomed to be a Duchess. 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 returned, and that Zelide saw the Ship was under Sail, and she at distance from this fatal Shore, which she had so much feared; she was filled 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 feared; and there are wrought her greatest miracles and greatest perfidies. In the mean time, as if there were nothing to be feared, Zelide thanked 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 designed 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 descried 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 fears more, than the encounter of another. This News roused them all, they made all fail possible, and the Night came on, but in the Morning they found them by their side. Then astonishment seized upon them; the most fearful betook themselves to Cries and Tears, and the most resolute to their Arms. And the wisest judged 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 lose 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 feared for their Goods, Lives and Liberty; she, to whom all these things were indifferent, thought of preserving that she esteemed most. After she had faced the danger with a firm and resolved mind, she shut herself 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 discovered by them. After that she prayed her to cut her Hair: and then with Tears in her eyes, seeing what Fortune constrained her to, made her bring a Suit of her Husband's 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 herself, discharged a Broadside; 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 herself amongst the most resolute, and where there was most danger: believing by this means she should find her death, or better disguise herself. The Combat was so unequal it could not last long. The Corsairs quickly boarded the Ship; where having killed ten or twelve of the stoutest, and amongst them the Captain, the rest ask their lives. The Commander of 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, extremely 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 Merchandise: 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 ashamed 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 terror of the Grecian and Italian Coasts, able and extremely valiant; pitiful and humane, more than his Country 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 pleased sometimes to produce rich dispositions, which she instructs and dresses up herself; and bestows upon them, without their study, all necessary lights. When Orchant, which was the name of the Corsaire, viewed his Captives and the prey he had made; the Beauty and Majesty which sparkled in the face of Zelide struck his sight: and ask who she was; she said, she was a Spaniard by Nation, and named herself Zelidan, Cousin to the Captain of the Ship he had taken; that she was sorry she could not follow him; and that she esteemed 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 herself her face and good grace pleaded for her; and her Constancy and Courage were recommendation enough. So that Orchant esteemed 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 deserved 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 Freemen, than in making Slaves: that for his part of the Booty, he would content himself with Zelidan, and leave the rest to his Soldiers: that he might ransom himself when he would; that one gallant Action would be enough to do it; that if the rest of him answered 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 wondered at his discourse, esteeming her Captivity much more supportable. And now having shunned 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'; nor ill, but to be another's. Besides this, she knew no good nor evil in the World; and all things were indifferent to her. Thus she who deserved 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 admired. Besides that the Heavens had bestowed 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 obeyed by the most Savage Animals, and easily gained Authority over reasonable Souls. So that Zelidan, for we must accustom ourselves to call her so, became the Master of his Master. Slaves, Mariners, Soldiers equally loved 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, resolved to oppose his Courage to all sorts of dangers, and to inure himself to those things whereof this Sex does not seem capable.  
They passed 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 signalised herself in all occasions that offered; running where danger was most apparent without Armour, and the most rash remained behind her. There are no enchanted 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 conceived of her became a confirmed opinion, and an esteem solidly established.  
'Twas necessary we should leave Alcidalis, and necessary we leave him no longer. For his first grief could not be described; and at first 'twas impossible to represent all his sighs, tears, rages and suries. Having seen the Queen return without Zelide; and having been eight days without being able to discover what was become of her; he passed 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 considered her in the arms of another, and that his Imagination had presented to him whatever might torment him: Then his tears ceased, and despair seized him; then he lost all sorts of respects and fears; he loudly threatened the Queen; and testified 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 possessed her, or rather rid himself of his miseries by a voluntary death. But at last his body, which for some time had as 'twere nourished itself with poison, sunk under so many evils, and put an end to the transports of his mind. A Fever seized 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 crowded into his mind, were dampt; and he that would pass the Seas and run through the World, was detained in his bed for four Months. A Fever, Love and Jealousy, that is, the greatest Evils of body and mind equally consumed 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 passed her hands: and she had in him so much force and vigour, that against all reason and against his own mind she returned him to health. And now having less of Sickness he had more of Sorrow: and not being able to stay till he had recovered his strength, he left Saragosa, and embarking at the first Port went for Italy with some shadow of Joy, in thinking he scaped the hands of his Enemies and followed the footsteps of Zelide.  
The false Zelide had Fortune more favourable than the other; and her designs prospered better. She had a middling Beauty, and that sort of Wit which is proper for Craft. Seeing the danger of her attempt, she endeavoured by all ways to gain the heart of her Husband, and to fortify herself 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 obliged to it: so that the Beauty, behaviour, and kindness of his Wife easily gained 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 beloved, 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 Jealousy are the two Twins, which are always here born together. Whether then the excess of his affection wrought the effect, or the Air of the Country, or the suspicious humour which years brought along with them; or whether he had notice of Alcidalis passion: his distrust arrived to that point, that he was not safe but when the Duchess was in his sight. And besides, 'twas with impatience, that he suffered her to be seen by any eyes but his own. She, who for another reason feared nothing more than to be seen, easily met his humour: and pretending to please him, said, she equally loved all the effects of his passion; that his fear for her pleased her, seeing 'twas a proof of his Love; however, she would try all ways to satisfy 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 possessed all, when she possessed 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 reduced to a few Chambers, a Gallery, and five or six Women. As the Duke gave her proofs of his Jealousy, 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 accomplished Masterpieces of Art adorned 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 expense he sought out the handsomest and strongest Slaves. And having got a great number, he caused them to be instructed by the best Masters of Italy, in all exercises wherein the Nobility are wont to excel. These were called the Duchess Slaves, and wore her Livery: they had no other mark of Servitude but a Ring of Gold about their necks, with a Chain fastened to it, and a Medal of their Mistresses Arms. Three times a week they entered a spacious Court, which answered to the Windows of her Gallery: and there they exercised. The Duke invented this for two ends; one to entertain the Duchess, who was extremely beloved 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 considered some time, he thought no quality could become him better than to be Zelides Slave; and that the greatness of his Fortune having caused 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 feigning himself to be a Merchant, went to those who governed 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 accomplished person on Earth. At first he was a Scholar to them to whom he might have been Master; and suffered 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 admired by all. Whether he did Ride, Wrestle, or Jump; he showed every where so much address, strength and disposition, that it proceeded to a prodigy. Horses seemed naturally to obey him; and that without any motion he made them understand his mind. If he were challenged at Wrestling, or at the Course; he so easily cast one on the ground, and got ground of the other, that it seemed 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 performed every thing with a marvellous grace, yet it was with so little attention, and in so careless a manner, that 'twas easy to perceive he thought of higher Victories. As oft as he entered the Course, and could be seen by the Duchess, he came first and went away last. In all his Exercises his eyes were still fixed upon the Grates, whence he believed 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 accomplished Princes in the World, was easily so among Slaves. The first day he entered his Beauty and Behaviour drew the Duchess' eyes upon him. Soon after he gained her esteem, and admiration: and having considered him better, she thought she beheld in the gallantness of his port, something extraordinary, and which was not of his present condition. She minded the attention with which he looked toward her. She marked his sighs, the paleness and grief which dwelled 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.  I have always heard you say, Madam, she was not touched with this last passion, and that she had only the curiosity to know a person, who in so low Fortunes showed such high Endowments. But you shall permit me, not to be satisfied with what you say. I have heard you sometimes excuse persons less excusable than she, and I know you are scrupulous to a degree of fearing to offend a person that never was. If you consider the Duke was Old and Jealous; the Duchess young and a Prisoner, and the Prince the most amiable person in the World, you will find, it is not a very rash suspicion to think she was amorous. 
One Evening, as this Slave left the Palace, he felt himself pulled 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 yourself 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.  It could never be imagined how the Duchess, shut up and watched as she was, could find a way to let Alcidalis understand her mind. You, Madam, never gave good account of it: And I remember, Madam, your Mother, who never lost an occasion of saying a handsome thing, praised you for having failed in Invention at this part of the History. And truly 'tis very remarkable, that when you could save Alcidalis in so many Accidents, and keep Zelide untouched amidst Pirates, and bring them both to their Kingdoms after so many wander; your imagination fell short in this occasion, and you could not find a way to send a man a Message. 
Since Alcidalis begun 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 thanked Heaven, which seemed 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 abused: he durst not be confident of his good Fortune; and beginning to hope he began to fear too.  Here, Madam, a more eloquent Writer than I would not fail to say, That all the hours seemed days, and all the days years: And that his amorous impatience made him count the moments; blame the slowness of time, and of the Sun; and accuse all the Heavens. But without saying all this, we may easily imagine the Inquietudes of Alcidalis by the causes he had for it. 
The Day, or rather the Night of the assignation came at last. And before she had well thickened her shadows, he was at the foot of the Tower. 'Twas an Old building joined to the Palace. It's foot was washed by the waves of the Sea. The Prince had provided himself of a Fishing-Boat; which he fastened 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 stayed an hour without seeing any thing: diversely agitated with hopes and fears; which being two contrary passions are, for all that, often found together.  He formed all those Imaginations which another may conceive; but which neither you nor I, Madam, who never knew Love, can relate. 
At last, when he began to despair, and had thoughts as black and dreadful as the Night and Sea, which environed him, a noise he heard from above restored him his lost hopes. He thought he heard some words, which he could not understand; to which having answered by a noise he made below, he heard something fall into the Sea, and perceived it white upon the Water: which having reached to him, he knew 'twas a Ladder of Cord, to which a piece of Linen was tied that he might the better see it. Now Alcidalis suffered himself to be deceived 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 extreme height; without knowing whither he went, of whom, nor how he should be received. He at last finds a Window, where he perceived a person who gave him her hand, and by many turn and wind conducted him to a Chamber, enlightened by three Lamps of Gold, and richly adorned. The Woman bid him sit down a while, and left him. Now considering what had passed, 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 feared nothing so much as not to see her. I cannot tell you the divers thoughts he had; his impatiences, desires, fears, distrusts, suspicions, surprises, alarms. All which cannot be represented upon Paper: and nothing but humane mind is capable of this confusion. He remained thus an hour. At last the same person entered; 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 stayed for. The Prince having thanked her, and prayed her to let him know what that Honour was; after some pause she told him. If it were not easy 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 yourself to it, and to try how you could bear it. But it is to be believed of you, that you will not be surprised, 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 Duchess 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 herself and make it better: and to this purpose she would know who you are. Hereafter show as much discretion and conduct, as you have hitherto shown art and valour. With this she led him to her Mistress' 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 Noonday have ventured to deliver the Duchess from the hands and power of the Duke; trembled here, where he knew there were none but Women. That heart which would fearlessly have confronted a World of Enemies, is filled with fear approaching the only person he loves, and by whom he knows he is beloved. The Chamber was enlightened only by a Torch, and the Duchess was in her bed, with that little light which such erterprises, the shame and astonishment of a young unexperienced person demands. So that if the Prince had been more himself and less surprised, scarce could he have known his error, and the cheat which Fortune put upon him. At first he put himself upon his knee; and having begun to say some words, which were ill pronounced and worse followed, he stopped in the middle of his discourse. The trouble of his mind and a troop of passions pressed 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 opposed 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 amazed, saying it was the Duke, and that he was now in the Duchess' Lodgings. The good Man, little imagining what passed in the Palace, had left it with design to stay three days abroad a Hunting. But whether his Love or Jealousy called him back; or whether he thought it a piece of Courtship to show his impatience and his affection to the Duchess, he returns the same day, and presently hastens to see her.  I am extremely vexed he came so unseasonably. For I would fain have understood, what the Duchess could answer in that astonishment she must needs be in, hearing Alcidalis speak as he did. I find him very troublesome to arrive just now, and if I had made the History, in spite I would have— 
The Duchess 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 entered, carried him to the Window; whence, seeing the treasons of Fortune, he had a mind to precipitate himself, rather than descend.   

FIESCHI'S Conspiracy, Out of Italian.  
THe War raging in Italy between the Emperor Charles the Fifth and Francis the First, King of France, Andrea Doria an experienced Commander in Sea Affairs, followed the Banner of the French. With his Valour and Counsels he sustained 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 happened in the Sack of Genova. But as it is the fatal infelicity of Princes, not to esteem eminent persons whilst they are engaged in their Service, the King by ways little discreet exasperated the mind of Andrea, a Minister so necessary to him at this time. He did not pay him his assigned 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 threaten the Marquis Vasto, and Ascanio Colonna, taken in fight by Philippino Dorea, Lieutenant to Andrea. But that which most pierced 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 Genoveses. The City of Savona had withdrawn itself from the obedience of the Commonwealth; expecting, under the protection of France, to meliorate its condition by the commodiousness of the Port, which furnished them with extraordinary emoluments, to the irreparable damage of the City of Genova.  
Andrea had often complained of this to the King, praying him, that in recompense of his Services, he would restore to his Country what by all right was due to it. The King overcome by the honesty of the Request, had promised Doria to satisfy 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 Genoveses were, and how little he could depend upon that Commonwealth for his War in Italy. For tyrannised by factions it easily changed 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 Genoveses, and greatly advantaged the course of his Enterprise; because the City of Savona being near to Piedmont, Montferrat and Lombardy, it became an opportune Scale, no less for Merchandise than for War. Hence 'twas feared, that in a few years growing in Reputation and Riches, it might not only divert the Trade from the Port of Genova, but rival it with them for the principality of that Sea. Of this Doria, as a singular lover of his Country, sharply complained. 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 slackened his wont diligence in serving him: and directed Philippino how to comport himself in the future. The French, who besieged Naples under Lautrech, quickly found the damage they received 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 entering into Naples with Provisions: And this was the beginning of the ruin of that design. Pope Clement the Seventh understanding how Doria was alienated from the Crown of France, seriously admonished the King by his Legate, to provide speedy remedy for this Evil, by giving satisfaction to a Captain of so much reputation and so powerful at Sea, lest being provoked 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 King's 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 counselled, 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 him. Accordingly necessary Orders were given to Barbigios, who passed 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 recompensed his Services, treated with the Marquis Vasto, his Prisoner, about serving the Emperor; by whom being gladly received, he openly renounced the Friendship of the French King, and returned 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 loved his Country; to wit, the liberty of Genova 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 drowsy King, that willing to correct his past neglects with present solicitousness, he gins 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 Country from the yoke 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 denied; and, which was worse, without first secretly trying by means of Friends how Doria stood inclined, he prostituted the Royal dignity to the ignominy of a Repulse. Which being returned most precise and resolute, it is not to be imagined, how it filled the King's mind with vexation and shame.  
Doria now in the Service of Caesar, with twelve Galleys applied himself to procure the liberty of his Country, which had ever been the sole Object of his thoughts. The Commonwealth at this time was become a prey to the will of the Common people; who putting no difference between private Licence and public Liberty, under the name of the Common good fomented with continual tumults the passions of particulars. And when one Faction found itself weak in its own Forces, having recourse to Strangers, they introduced a new form of Government. Thus one while the Adorni drove out the Fregosis, and anon were driven out by them: Governors from Milan were called, 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 Plasters, which had need of being well closed by Concord. All which Doria considering came before Genova with his Galleys, to give heat to the good will of those, who together with himself desired the Common good: nor was he deceived in his thoughts. For divers Citizens tired with the calamities of past Discord, applied themselves to more wholesome Counsels, desiring a good and firm Union. The City was now governed in the name of the French King by Triultio, who having before acquired the reputation of a valiant and prudent Captain, it begot the more wonder in all men's minds, when they considered 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 Genoveses did tend to Peace, he took no care to disturb them: either because he esteemed it a mere reconciliation of private Enmities between the Nobility and People; or because he relied too much upon the King's Forces and his own Valour: not considering, that Genova put into his hands by civil Discord, might be snatched 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 Enterprise to its end: which he did so happily, that without bloodshed he got the City, driving thence the French Garrison. Being received by the Genoveses with incredible demonstrations of Joy, and persuaded by several to open his bosom to the favours of Fortune, which offered him the Dominion of Liguria, with a mind superior to Worldly happiness, he refused it. Afterwards by a weighty Speech, and worthy the Father of his Country, he exhorted the Citizens at last to know themselves, and for the future to maintain that Liberty which he freely bestowed upon them. The City of Genova obliged by so many benefits desired to show efficacious signs of a true gratitude; wherefore, granting to him and his posterity large Privileges, they erected a Marble Statue, and by certain words engraved in the Base thereof, declared him the Author of the public Liberty. He now grown Old retires himself, and enjoys in the bosom of his Country the fruit of that Victory and quiet which himself had procured. He had with him Giannettino his Cousin, a young Man of great Spirit and known Virtue; and who had merited by his Valour to be his Adopted Son and destined Successor in his Charge at Sea, with the consent of Caesar. Thus, by reason of the quality of this Excellent person, esteemed by all Princes, rich, no less in Fame than in Fortune; and for the Reverence the Ganoveses bore him as the public Benefactor, his House was frequented, not as that of a simple Citizen, but as of some great Prince. These things thus summarily described, were the true causes of Fieschi's Conspiracy. With a memorable Example to all Free Cities of the incredible damage which the Greatness of an eminent Citizen, though never so Virtuous and discreet, is to the Public; 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 envied Genona's public, 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 Milan, 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 received, 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 Spectator 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 entirely reconciled to the Genoveses. 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 suffered 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 countries' 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 Learned and Virtuous, those with whom he most freely conversed were dangerous persons, who employed their skill by Flatteries to nourish in his mind perverse 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 Ancestors, who in their Country 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, Catiline's Conspiracy, and Machiavels Prince. From which Books he did suck in principles 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 conveyed by a powerful Pen, and apt to persuade.  
Those who watched over Advantages to ruin Genova, had penetrated the Qualities of Gio. Luigi, and believed him a fitting Instrument for their important design. They endeavoured 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 Pope's state caused four Galleys 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, spoke to him after this manner:  
If Fortune were propitious to your Virtue, Noble Youth, I might be happy to see you in a condition far above that of a private Citizen. But seeing through the Iniquity of the Times your rewards do not go equal with your merits, take in good part that I pity your condition, and join 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 Theatre opened 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 reduced to a Civil equality, will not endure you other than a mere Citizen. Besides, that Andrea and Giannettin Doria have, under pretence of public Liberty, so firmly rooted their Power, that the greatest public Concord consists in serving their Wills. Thus the Genoveses have chastised 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 Virtue 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 Country, 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 happened 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 reverenced by all the Nobility, what is it which he will not make lawful for his Power? Do you think that his thirst of Rule, provoked by his approaching hopes, will be extinguished 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 extreme 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 Country, he will usurp the Command of it. But let us suppose the Divine goodness prevents these designs, can his present height be endured by a wellborn Citizen? If you have not hitherto tasted of his Insolences, you are obliged to the tenderness of your years, not to his good Manners: but hereafter you will find yourself involved 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, reverenced him, and bowed to him. How much better were it, that awaking your mind to Resolutions worthy of your Country, Family, and Virtue, you should deliver all others and yourself from this Servitude? And can you want Forces, when you please to use them? Before you leave Rome, you shall be furnished with all necessary Aids. I can promise you the assistance of the King of France. In Genova 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 easy 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 raised. In short, all things invite you to Victory: only wants your own determination, not to fight, but to triumph. Consider, 'tis necessary you command or serve; either render yourself formidable to others, or live in perpetual fear.  
Triultio could not have touched his mind in a part more sensible: for having long envied the Greatness of Doria, he looked 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 administered. When he had greedily harkened 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 Galleys; That he should be secured 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 confirmed to him by the King's Order. He gave now good hopes of himself; not only by that alteration which Triultio quickly spied in him, but by words; yet reserving his last Resolution to his return for Genova. Where being arrived, he began more diligently to observe the proceed of Giannettin: for though the splendour of the Family derived itself chief from the person of Andrea; yet because most worship the rising Sun, the eyes of all were turned upon Giannettin. He having increased his natural pride by a Military education, and being reverenced for the Command he had of 20 Galleys, and for the succession in the Admiralship designed him by Caesar, heightened 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 Courtesy those men, which he believed were obliged to him by Interest, he studied more the ostentation of his own power, than others good will. For all this, he was much hated by the popular Faction: and the young Nobility which followed him, were drawn by the profit they hoped to reap from him, and not invited by his manner of treating them. He also used Fieschi but coarsely, which provoked him in such a manner, that he was so far from seeking his Friendship by the ordinary servilities, that he rather indiscreetly betrayed some signs of his evil-will: and to show that he stood in no need of him in that very particular which made him so Famous, he bought the four Galleys 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 conceived 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 Genova. He, by renewing the Treaty and enlarging the Cardinal's Promises, drawn Gio. Luigi at last to an express declaration of his readiness to assist the French Army in reducing Genova to the King's Obedience, upon some Conditions favourable to his own greatness. The Earl now puts his design to Consultation; and three Persons there were which he called to it; Vincenza Calcagno, an old and faithful Servant of his; Raphael Sacco, his Lawyer; and Gio. Battista Verrina, a Citizen of Genova. This last being a near Neighbour of Fieschi's easily obtained his acquaintance, and by the Earls Liberality sustained his declining Fortunes: and had insinuated himself into a participation of his greatest Secrets. He was of a vast Spirit, and bend 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 the hands of the Nobility, excluded him from all hopes of sharing in it. Add to this his slender Fortunes clogged with Debts, a powerful spur to Sensitive minds, which puts them upon a desperate embracing 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 public Peace, desired to hid them in the universal confusion of his Country. For if the designed wickedness were accompanied with Fortune, he should marvellously better his condition: and if it were fatal, he should miscarry, be ruined in the common ruin, and expire in the heat of a great Enterprise, 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 Judgement, but a timorous nature, being used 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 desired should flourish at the expense 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 embraced by the Earl. Gio. Luigi now lays open his mind, with a short, but vehement Speech, declaring, That he was absolutely resolved to attempt some great matter, and that he asked their Advice only about the manner. Notwithstanding which, Calcagno bearing himself upon the tender love he bore to his Master, and long Familiarity, with singular liberty spoke 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 matured, 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 lived in a constant tenor of happiness, and have not seen the threatening 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 defaced by some disastrous event; which will be so much the more intolerable, by how much the less 'tis feared. To introduce a change in the Government of this Commonwealth is a work of so much difficulty, and exposed to such evident danger, that I cannot do so much violence to my own thoughts, as to fancy it secure and easy. For you either design to value yourself upon the Forces of Strangers, or you hold Intelligence with the Citizens. I see no Foreign 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 men's eyes: and Genova being the only Frontier of this Province, is the more jealously looked to. The State of Milan (both the Field of Battle, and the destined prey to the Fortune of the Imperial or French Arms) causes Caesar to watch over Genova as the Bulwark of his Power in Italy. Doria assists him with twenty Galleys; and the Citizens hating the tyranny of the Duke of Milan and King of France, loathe 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 Superior, 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 Battle. After which you will be forced to accommodate yourself to that Fortune which shall be prescribed you by the Conqueror; and nothing remain with you but the infamy of having ungratefully deprived your Country 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 Genoveses, 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 endamage 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 Country, Liberty, Fortunes, Wives and Children? Will they, for your Friendship, slight the Protection of Doria, now reverenced as their Father by so many particular and common Titles? Nor can you make better Judgement of the Common people's inclination towards you. For, the greater the hatred is they profess to 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 yourself 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 changed by the violence of Doria, in which flourished 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 embrace an occasion of renewing the past Tragedies. To which they will be more easily moved, whilst they shall reap the profit, and you the infamy of the Action: unless you can persuade yourself, that the Adorni and Fregosi will yield to you that pre-eminence 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 crushed by a Noble man; the bowels of the Commonwealth wounded by your Arms; the Common Peace overwhelmed by your Fury; their Tyranny restored by your Folly; and keeping aloof from the wickedness you set on foot, (let every thing be called 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 yourself? odious to the Nobility you have betrayed; scorned by the Commonalty, who enjoy the fruits of your Artifices; hated by your Country, which through your means hath lost its Liberty; an Enemy to Caesar, under whose protection we are; not trusted by the King of France, who aimed at the absolute Command of Genova; abhorred 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 own 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 destined you to the loss of Reputation, Life and Estate. You know that Doria looks upon you with an envious Eye; and you have complained 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 encounter an occasion to satisfy his Hatred to you, under pretence of Love to his Country? He will secretly be glad of that resolution which thrusts you forward; and openly taking Arms, with what reasons may he not justify to the World his opposing you? You shall be the Enemy of the public Peace, the Tyrant of public Liberty, the Betrayer of your Country, a Rebel to the Commonwealth, the Catiline of Genova. 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 astonished to think, much more to speak of it. At last, you shall remain oppressed by a Common force conspiring your destruction. Your Lands confiscate, as those of a Traitor; your memory stained and dishonoured in the Annals of Genova; and Giannettin acknowledged the Second Deliverer of his Country and Restorer of Liberty, will build his Glories upon your ruins. The gratitude of the Genoveses will raise up a Statue to him, to accompay that of Andrea, in whose Inscription shall be inserted the Name of Gio. Luigi Fieschi the public Enemy, o'erthrown by Giannettin Doria the public Benefactor. Do not then suffer yourself to be hurried by the impetuousness of your Youth, or resentments to such dangerous Attempts. Be content to be restrained by a pity to yourself, 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 placed in a degree every way so eminent, that you may live envied by Giannettin.  
These words were not heard by Fieschi without some trouble of mind; for having received other proofs of the tender affection of Calcagno, he saw it now accompanied with so many and so powerful Reasons, that he remained not a little altered; which Verrina observing, and considering, that if he let his Thoughts gather force, all was in danger; handsomely, but with a detestable Impiety, he thus opposed Calcagno's Arguments:  
I would to God that the Affairs of the Commonwealth were reduced to such terms, that the Citizens might quietly enjoy their own; you could not then wish yourself in a better condition: for as Calcagno hath well considered, for largeness of Territory, Nobility of Birth, and for Riches you have not your equal in Genova: 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 entangled matters, that you must attempt great things, or perish. Giannettin Doria, who for so many years hath destined to his Covetousness the Command of Genova, 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 Galleys 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 Jealousy 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 Galleys leave the Field; or else you must awaken that Courage which shall be sufficient to oppose him. If you resolve to redeem yourself from the approaching danger with your Infamy, and lead your life as received in gift from him, go, I will not stop you: a more wretched condition the hate of Giannettin could not wish you. But your Virtue 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 Enterprise as Giannettin himself shall envy. Fortune hath placed 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 Enemy's 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 cases is the Whetstone of Fortitude, is likewise the Shield of Innocence. Let the folly of Giannettiu be accused; the Cowardice of your Country and the iniquity of Fortune, which have reduced you to such inevitable straits. You are not injurious to any, whilst to defend yourself 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 another's death; and grants no other defence for your Virtue, than Vice. But why do I say Vice? this is your word Calcagno, and you have learned it in the School of the Vulgar, Strangers to the doctrine of Rule. The Actions of Private persons are styled by this name, not the Erterprises 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 produced Mankind in a perfect equality, and left it to Virtue to attain Supremacy. Whence those are called Princes, who by their Wit and Force knew how to compass a Command over others. I deny not but some will join with Calcagno to chide your Resolution before it be conducted to its end: for dangerous and bold Actions are not celebrated till they have attained 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 called Rashness shall be honoured 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 opposed him; but when he had overthrown his Enemy in the Pharsalian Field, and mastered the Commonwealth, Civil hatred ceased, and he was so sincerely beloved by the Romans, that they severely revenged his death. Let the Genoveses for a time call you Tyrant, and done'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 prepared to fight for it. But such is the disposition of Affairs, that you may rather be wanting to yourself, 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 Enterprise; what Famous Action do you meet with in Ancient or Modern story, that was conducted by smooth and flowery ways? Great Erterprises 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 ruin. 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 ourselves 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 ways to unravel all difficulties; only consent to be Absolute, and embrace 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 possessed 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 endued with Qualities truly Royal, but for all that he hath his weaknesses, inseparable from great Princes. And what Recompense can the French give you worthy of your pains and dangers? perhaps leave you in the Government of Genova, with dependence upon them? But this were to make yourself mercenary in that Country, where Nature hath invested you with part of the Principality: 'tis better you value yourself 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 established your Power in Genova, 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 Competitors, your Family shall be placed in a height to which none of Genova hath attained. 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 Country, and there let them hear the sound of your Victories. To you it belongs now vigorously to encounter what stands in the way of your design. Do it with a Resolution worthy of your Birth and Courage. Deserve that Triumph which the Heavens have destined you. Let the World see you know how to build your own Fortunes. Let my mighty Hopes be surmounted by your Virtue. Secure a Kingdom to your Family, and eternity to your Name.  
Gio. Luigi had never applied his mind to get Genova for himself, but for the Crown of France; contented to lessen the excessive Power of Doria, and to better his own condition under the King's protection: but being covetous of Fame, and in his nature inclined to vast Pretences, 'twas easy 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 confirmed him, who being of the French Faction praised the Conditions offered by Triultio, as fit to be embraced. But Verrina detesting all mixtures as dangerous in a business which called for extreme Resolutions, endeavoured by all ways to remove this obstacle which cooled 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 Genova were no more than two hundred Soldiers; Doria's Galleys though many in number remained useless, for by reason of the Season improper for Navigation they were disarmed; Andrea and Giannettin far from all suspicion of Violence, lived abandoned without Guard public or private; Gio. Luigi might in an instant bring in a good number of Soldiers from the neighbouring Castles, which should surprise the Doria's in their House; at the same time 'twould be easy to master the Galleys: the rest would happily fall in of itself, through the inveterate hatred the Common people bore the Nobility: He offered himself to stir up the Commonalty in favour of the Enterprise, whose minds he had by his endeavours already well disposed. These, and other particulars urged 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 joint Resolution of them all was, that seeing the safety of the Doria's was inseparably linked 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 Galleys he retired to his Castles, where he was wont to exercise the Militia of the Country, 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 used great Art to purchase the Friendship of those among the Nobility, which were styled 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 offered himself with great demonstrations of Courtesy. And being of a lively Wit and a bending Nature, 'tis scarce credible how fortunately he gained their confidence. When he saw that he had mastered their wills, he began as occasion offered, to mock at the Tyranny of the Nobility, as he called 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 beloved even at first sight, and verified in himself what was said of Absalon. Besides, he frequently exercised 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 called to him the Consul of the Silk-weavers, of which Trade there are a great number in Genova, familiarly ask him the condition of his Company; and understanding that they lived in great misery by reason of the badness of Trade, he showed signs of a most tender Compassion toward the Poor men, and said, they were not to be abandoned in a time of so much need; he therefore order 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 the Ancient Custom of his Family to relieve necessitous and afflicted Persons, he could not degenerate from his Ancestors, therefore when they wanted Means to sustain their Families, they might confidently value themselves on his Substance, which they should always find exposed to their Relief, provided they were silent; Secrecy being a main circumstance in Alms. They departed no less comforted by the Relief, than amazed at the Liberality, reputing their Benefactor 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, behaved 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 promised him two thousand Foot to join with what Force he could raise in his own State. He likewise causes one of his Galleys to come to Genova, pretending to send it for the Barbary shore. Nor was Verrina idle all this while, but cunningly gained 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 designed upon, should be invited. But this seemed no less wioked than unsafe; for Andrea would have excused himself by his Age: Besides, it seemed too horrid to give beginning to their design with the Sacrilegious profaning of a Temple and Sacrifice. But because the Reins once let lose 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, Marquis of Massa, and Kinsman of Gio. Luigi, they resolved 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 Bride's Company; and that all of them (violating the right of Hospitality) should be murdered by certain Men concealed 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 showing 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 Soldiers, and the Duke of Piacenza was solicited to send his promised Succours. These diligences, especially of listing Soldiers, could not pass so secretly but the Governor of Milan had some notice of it, and sent to Genova to give it Doria and the Emperor's Ambassador. Andrea notwithstanding, deceived 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 Milan having a confirmation of it from the Court of France, advised him once more seriously to take it into consideration. And certainly, if we did not read of several Great persons, who have been hardly induced to give credit to what they heard was plotting against their safety, the simplicity of Andrea were sharply to be blamed; who in a matter that concerned his life, and the safety of the Commonwealth, lent more belief to the dissembling looks of Gio. Luigi, than to the thing itself; as if it were an unusual thing to put on a Face to serve the Scene; or as if for the safeguard of our Country 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 suffered themselves to be bewitched by this fatal Incredulity in things of the greatest importance, we must needs say, that the Accidents ordered 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 mortify Worldly wisdom, which in Affairs of greatest weight appears lightest. More quicksighted 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 Galleys, did much suspect some important Action depending, and by the Authority which his condition gave him, reproved him. After that, weighing exactly what he heard and saw, he found occasion to augment his conceived 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 concealed his inward thoughts; yet when he came home he was changed into another man, full of profound thoughtfulness, and little less than astonished. Nor did he hid 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 Enterprise 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 resolved 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 another's Secrets is as unworthy a gallant man, as the faithful keeping of them, when deposited, is laudable; and I, who would have promised this, if it were not known to you by so many proofs, have abstained 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 concealed. I read in your disturbed 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 persuade myself that your mind is bend 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 Enterprise, which you commence with inquietudes. To what end do those Counsels tend, which leave you floating in a thousand perplexing Cares? These secret Assembling 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 myself 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 easy to set a House on fire, but with how much sweat, and after how much damage is it extinguished? 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 Virtue: for though what he saith contradicts what he does, yet the principal part of persuasion 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 provoked. 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 Inferior to you for Birth and Place, go in quest of occasions to traduce you. Youth hath not a sweeter food than 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 Ruins, by which bad Men rise, make for them: he does not fear to fall that is not placed on high. You ought to walk warily, for you are obliged to furnish Fame with matter worthy of your Birth.  
This Discourse was heard by Gio. Luigi with impatience, for his mind was elsewhere: He answered 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 Conspirators, there happened an Accident which put them on a necessity of hastening 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 Genova upon some urgent Affair; so that considering a Conspiracy hath not a greater obstacle than Delay, they resolved to execute it the night of the second of January. And now Gio. Luigi gives out, that he will send abroad one of his Galleys against the Pirates. And under this colour he brought in the Soldiers 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 fettered, as Criminals destined to the Ore: others entered singly at several Gates, and 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 Genova, Gio. Luigi called home to him certain Soldiers of the City Garrison, whereof some were his own Vassals, others had obtained their Places by his means; then he goes to Andrea's House, where he stayed late, showing 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 hindered by his Men. And further, he advises him not to be surprised, 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 Soldiers he had need of, and set such as he esteemed most Faithful and Valiant at the Gates to admit all that came, but not to suffer any go out. He dwelled 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 Sentinels were to be set, he who commanded the Garrison missed some of his Soldiers, and found they were gone to Gio. Luigi's House; so that suspecting some pernicious design, he advised the Senators who were at the Palace. And now began to appear the fruit of Gio. Luigi's Dissimulation and Caution: for Giannettin possessed with what he had heard concerning the Galley, stifled their growing Fears by telling them, That those Soldiers, or Vassals, or Servants of the Earl, were employed 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 Veglis 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 stillness of the Evening, enlightened 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 returned. 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 astonished to see the House full of Arms and Armed men, and looked upon one another, when Gio. Luigi his Countenance altogether changed (whether with horror of the approaching Parricide, or with rage against Giannettin, which hitherto violently smothered 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 delivered 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 ruin me. Too sad a Spectacle is drawn in my mind by the fear of my falling Country, and oppressed Countrymen. 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 arrived at their last Precipice; 'tis necessary we go meet our misery to sustain it. Dangers generously encountered, 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 Genova, who were lately absolute Moderators of all Liguria, now stripped 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 Country more barbarous than Strangers, he arms his heart with such a contumacious Pride as cannot be overcome by Modesty, nor scaped by Humility. He keeps, as you see, your Sea besieged with twenty Galleys; he passes up and down the City surrounded with the Nobility, who by Andrea's favour, possessed 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 Public 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 aimed at. Why then do we lie buried in Sloth, my Countrymen? why do we remain fearful Spectitours of our own Miseries? For what Enterprise do we reserve our Courage, if in the utmost desolation of our Country we unhappily abandon ourselves? It is no longer time to complain of them, but to be revenged 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 Cowardice. The impunity of past Crimes is pregnant of new, and too much dissimulation of the Oppressed provokes the minds of Oppressors 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 snatched from you by Giannettins Officers, your Families destroyed, your Lives betrayed, your Wives and Children dishonoured, and all those Villainies committed, which may justly be feared in a Tyranny bred out of the ruin of your Country, nourished with the Public hatred, grown up with the Injuries of the Citizens, established 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 flattered with Idleness: and as I count it my Honour, that the Common Enemy designs to join my death with the destruction of the Commonwealth, so I willingly consecrate my life to the conservation of its Liberty; and I should be unworthy of it, did I prise it above my Country. Only I would discover in you such a freeness of Soul as is, if not worthy of your Virtue, at least correspondent to your danger. Wherefore either Captain or Soldier, which you will for my part; if you lead, I'll 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 Courageous, 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 yourselves 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 forced to admire Valour in those whom they despised; 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 Enterprise so well begun. The Gates are in the power of Soldiers by me corrupted: the Galleys, at a sign given, will fall into the hands of such as are bold and able to keep them: In the City fifteen hundred Artisans ready Armed expect us: In the Suburbs by this time are arrived two thousand Foot from Piacenza, and as many more of my own Soldiers. 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 obscured 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 levelled at his breast. I vow, Companions, 'tis necessary to fight, or die: That Blood which ungratefully is denied 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 Country, 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 encompassed on all sides with Armed men, were silent awhile; but at last, swayed more by the fear of the present danger, than by the horror of the future wickedness, appeared 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 astonished at the wickedness of the Fact joined with the extreme 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 slain the Honour of your Family by so unworthy an Action. By these my Tears I conjure you, not to forget yourself, me, your Country, and God. To what Precipice are you hastening? 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 Traitor? Can you find in your heart to abandon me a prey to the Licence of Soldiers, 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, hindered by her Tears, and interrupted by the Earl, who seeing Pansa prepared to second her, cut off all in saying, Do not, my Dear Wife; lend so bad Omens to my Enterprise, but sustain your mind with better hopes. I go whither I am called by my Fate. Prepare your mind for all Events. My Affairs are reduced 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 Soldiers 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 accompanied with the Nobility, taking great care that none of them slipped away. Being come to the Town, he sent Cornelio his Natural Brother with a Squadron of Soldiers to possess themselves of the Gate del Arco; which they did, the Guard consisting but of a few, being easily oppressed. Heartened 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 Armed men in the Port, did wound the Air with a confused 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 served by naked Galleys, to hinder the damage 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 Armed 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 perished rather in a puddle of Muddy water, than in the Sea, oppressed 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, destroyed the proud Machine of a Conspiracy, which had been long building with a great deal of Artifice, and secured by so much Force: driving back upon the heads of the guilty those Thunderbolts, which they barbarously darted at the bosom of their miserable Country, and so many innocent Citizens. For all this the Galley was taken and secured by the Conspirators. 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 Soldiers, 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 happened aboard the Galley at Play, or by some other Accident, rapt by his Destiny to encounter death, accompanied with one Servant and a Page, goes toward the Gate, which he believed was kept by the wont Guard, and with his usual fierceness increased then by his anger, he calls to have it opened. The Voice being known by the Conspirators they readily opened it; but he was scarce stepped in, when with a tempest of Blows he was cruelly murdered. At the very same point of time (as some observed) that Gio. Luigi, the sole Author of his death, perished 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 Murderers 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 Public Liberty, and from whose wrath they might justly expect a signal Revenge, not only for his private Injuries, but their public Rebellion. But they abstained perhaps by reason of the Confusion, which a wicked Action is wont to cause in the minds of Bad men; or perhaps hindered by Girolamo the Brother of Gio. Luigi, who having thus dispatched Giannettin, a young Gentleman, fierce and of resolute Counsels, and his Companions having, as he believed, seized the Galleys and subdued the City, did not much fear Andrea, a man of Eighty years, infirm of Body and stripped of his Forces; nor perhaps, on the other side, was he willing the Soldiers greedy of Rapine, and altogether intent upon the prey, should dissipate and spoil those precious Movables, which he would reserve entire 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, enquired 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 extreme danger, the Galleys in the Power of the Conspirators, the People seditiously crying out Liberty, and calling upon the name of Fieschi; nothing any where to be seen, but Slaughter, or heard, but threaten of the Nobility, and his own life. Andrea not astonished, but overcome by a pity to his falling Country, resolved to remain a voluntary prey to those Furies; saying, It was not fit he should live after the ruin of his Country, 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 Domestics hastened his flight, telling him, 'Twas necessary he should withdraw; that he ought to reserve the last act of his Honoured life for the Common Service; that he should therefore be content to live, to get new 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 Virtue: That he ought to consider, that upon the safety of his Person did depend the Hopes of his Country; which oppressed 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 Public wounds, which he could not hope to do now in Genova: And that it was not a flight, but a charge his afflicted Country 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 Genova.  
Amidst these many and fortunate Achievements of the Conspirators, Gio. Luigi being missing every one called upon him; but through the obstinate Silence of every body in giving Tidings of him, there entered 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 joined 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 abhorred that disorderly Insurrection; or whether they did not like, that a Nobleman backed 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 Enterprise; or lastly, remembering the continued and grievous Excesses lately committed, they hated that manner of Plebeian Government, which casting the Supreme Dignities upon the Vilest of the People, the Public business was managed with small Decorum; and the most difficult matters falling into the hands of persons rough and uncapable, Resolutions were formed 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 amazed Nobility would have run to the Palace, but feared the plundering of their own Houses: Caesar's Ambassador would have left Genova, lest he should in his own person expose the Dignity of his Prince to some outrage; but being persuaded 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 Senators, and concluded, with them to send fifty Soldiers 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 feared, to withdraw himself from the danger by flying to Marseille. The rest of the Conspirators seeing neither him nor G. Luigi, one the Head, the other the Heart of the Conspiracy, were not entirely satisfied of Girolamo, who unexperienced 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 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 fly. Of so much moment is that good conceit which a Captain acquires amongst his Soldiers. But an Accident, which in reason ought to have mortified the rashness of Girolamo, extremely heightened it; though not long after having inspired him with an inconsiderate Ambition, it served t ruin him. The certain News of Gio. Luigi's death was spread amongst the Conspirators, 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 flattered at hand with unexpected hopes; and by how much sharper the Spur is that puts us upon acting for our own profit, than for another's benefit. The Senators and other Citizens assembled in the Palace, were not wanting to assist in this extreme necessity of their Country: 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 advised 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 private Conference with Gio. Luigi, when it might be ●ad; he refused to go. So that they now made election of other Gentlemen, who met with Girolamo and enquired for the Earl, that they might deliver to him what they had in Commission. To which Girolamo answered, 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 Genoveses 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 ordered to assemble as many of the Common People and of the Guard as they could, to drive the remainder of the Conspirators out of the City, or to suppress them in it. But there was no need of fight, for the Common people, which at name of Liberty were called 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, turned 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 picked up to oppose him, knew not which way to turn himself; but as the best, bend his course toward the Gate del Arco. But in the Palace every one took heart, and some advised that they should set upon the Squadron of Fieschi already put into disorder, and not vilify 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 the Affairs of the Commonwealth, now as it were in harbour. For by Public 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 departed 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 Genova, going with his Servants to Montobbio. Verrina, Calcagno and Sacco, seeing the Affairs of their Companions totally ruined, 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 deferred 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 implored 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.   

AN Historical Transition varied: BY MASCARDI.  
THe History this.  
At the same time that Hannibal wasted Italy with his Army, and threatened 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, opened 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 untried, by which he might forceably draw him out of the bowels of Italy. So that, etc. (2). The Carthaginians, who for so many years had been used to hear good News from their Armies, were the more astonished at the tidings which came from Spain. For Scipio, etc. (3) But the confidence which the Carthaginians drew from their continual Successes, lessened every day by reason of News which came from Spain. Seeing that Scipio, etc. (4) But the Reports of Scipio's Victories abated the force, and drowned the noise of Hannibal's applause in Carthage. (5) In the mean while, the Advice which came from Spain to Carthage did not only terrify the City, but divided the minds of the Senators: for, some of them, considering the marvellous progress of Scipio so near to the bowels of their Empire, etc. (6) All Hannibals Victories could not give perfect consolation to the Commonwealth of Carthage, seeing a powerful Army of Romans hover over them, commanded by Scipio, a valiant Captain. Who in Spain, etc. (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 sustained in Italy. (8) Never was there a time wherein the power of Fortune more clearly appeared in matters of War: for when the Affairs of Carthage over the Romans appeared best established, than they began to totter by the Virtue of Scipio. Who in Spain, etc. (9) The Commonwealth, taking their eyes off the losses they had received by the sury of Hannibal; and considering the Actions and Virtue of Scipio, assumed new Courage. For the valiant Consul, etc. (10) Fortune at length reconciled to the Romans, on a sudden returned to favour their Empire, which hitherto she had wounded with such mortal strokes. For Scipio, etc. (11) In the mean time, Scipio, knowing that the burden of the falling Empire lay upon his Shoulders, did in Spain, etc. (12) But the calamities of the Romans in Italy were as so many sharp spurs to the mind of Scipio; who, resolved to sustain his Country by his Valour, did, etc. (13) In the meantime, the felicity of Hannibal being arrived to its highest point, threatened (according to the course of humane things) a sudden fall. For Scipio, etc. (14) Amidst so many and satal losses of Armies and Territories in Italy, the Romans were succoured by the Conquests of Scipio in Spain. Who, etc. (15) Scipio, in the mean time, resolved to snatch out of Hannibal's hands the rich prey of the Roman Empire, did in Spain, etc. (16) The Roman generosity never appeared more manifestly in any occasion: for, not discouraged with so many losses sustained at home, they designed the destruction of their Enemies even in the utmost parts of Spain. Where Scipio, etc. (17) The fall of the Roman Empire seemed inevitable through so many dreadful and repeated strokes, if the Valour of Scipio had not come in to its relief. Who in Spain did, etc. (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 Virtue of Scipio. Who in Spain, etc. (19) In this miserable state of Affairs, the oppressed City comforted itself with the News brought them from Spain concerning the proceed of Scipio. Who, etc. (20.) The fierceness of Hannibal could not have been restrained by a more potent Bridle than that of the notable progress of Scipio. Who in Spain, etc. (21) In the mean time Hannibal, used 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, etc. (22) Hannibal could not so perfectly rejoice over his Acquists in Italy, but that he found a greater occasion of displeasure in the loss of Spain. Where Scipio, etc. (23) But Spain, which had been to Hannibal and all his Family a large Theatre of Fame, became now to them a necessary occasion of grief and infamy. For Scipio, etc. (24) But it was fatal to Hannibal, that the same Provinces, which served 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, etc. (25) In the mean time, Spain, which was to Hannibal the beginning of his Reputation, being possessed now by Scipio, was considered by him as the beginning of his ruin. (26) But Hannibal could not now hope his felicity should be lasting, whilst Scipio with a fortunate current of Affairs victoriously over-ran Spain. (27) Amidst these fortunate events of Hannibal in Italy, Scipio courageously revenged the public 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 rejoice, being conquered by the Valour of Scipio. Who, etc. (29) In the mean while Scipio, who designed to vanquish Hannibal in Africa, proceeded in his Conquest of Spain, thereby to smooth his way to an entire Victory. (30) The People of Rome now understood effectually the worth of a generous and prudent Commander. For Scipio by his Valour in Spain served to beat down the Pride, and afterwards the Reputation of Hannibal, gained 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 Virtue of a good Captain cannot mend. For in the extreme peril of the Commonwealth, Scipio carrying his Victories through Spain, was the occasion of, etc. (32) But in fine, so long as the War lasts, the Conqueror cannot be so secure, as not to fear a Revolution, which of● comes from whence we least dream of it, as it happened to Hannibal, who securely reposing upon his Conquests in Italy, saw his Fortune equalled and overcome by the Valour of Scipio. Who in Spain, etc. (33) At this time Hannibal thought he had secured 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, etc. (34) But Hannibal, bewitched with his own good Fortune, foolishly measured things by his late Prosperities; and could not foresee by prudence those Miseries, to which he was destined by the Valour of Scipio Warring in Spain, etc.   

TO CLEOPATRA, Persuading her to kill herself. Out of Italian.  
IF your Misfortunes were more supportable, or your heart less generous, I would not prompt you to those Remedies which, being extreme, are due only to extreme 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 resolved she must no longer Reign. They who can outlive Empire, never deserved it. And what motives are wanting to determine you? You have hitherto owned a Fortune more fruitful than your Nile; your Genius invoked more than the gods of Egypt; your height of happiness more astonishing than that of your Pyramids; 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 followed; as if your flight were more worthy to be attended than others Triumphs. You have reigned, 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 expired Commanding, and so abandoned 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 taste of miseries, next to that is to know how to end them. If you be not followed 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 yourself 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 Conqueror to be re-instated in your Throne, would you accept from his hand that which before you owed only to the bounty of Heaven, and so become twice a slave, to your Enemy's force, and to his courtesy? Would you re-ascend, to fall again from that height whence you have already fallen? What can you enjoy, which you have not enjoyed? 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 produced new Treasures, not only for 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 Sceptre? and are you not cloyed? How many have killed themselves, being wearied in a tedious repetition of the same happiness? He hath lived enough, that hath perfectly enjoyed. 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 aught of your first estate remains for you: only rests those miseries, which are not to be allayed with thoughts of not deserving them; for who would not accompany, or will not follow Antony, merits worse. Perhaps you rely 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 veil with which he would have shadowed his Pride was too transparent: he was content you should fall at his feet with the tremble of a sick, as well as of an unfortunate person: he suffered you to embrace 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 feigned 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 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 scaped 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 show your self, not as once your Antony designed to present you, but in Servile habit, a slave amidst a throng of Slaves; your Hair dishevelled, perhaps shaved; Barefoot, going before or following the Chariot of your proud Lord; pointed at by Children, mocked by the Licentious Soldier, 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 Emperors— upon a Featherbed; See, how with down cast eye she is come to teach our Virgin's modesty. And is all this supportable? Have you the heart to expose yourself to the outrages of the wronged Octavia? No breast more true to hatred than a Woman's, no Woman more cruel than a Rival. How often hath she preferred her Vows to Heaven, that she might with her own hands tear out those eyes of yours, whose wounding influence murdered 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 usurped 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 dissolved Pearl, when she appoints you a draught of Wormwood: commanding you to put her into that dress which catched the heart of Antony. In fine, I see, and with horror consider the Scorns, the Abuses, with which a great, a provoked 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 revenged herself on him that betrayed her; you in not dying, betray him that loved you. She remained a Queen, you have lost your Crown. Or if you would take a lesson of freedom out of that Rome, whither you are a destined Slave; consider Lucrece, and see if the loss of a Kingdom requires as much as the loss of an opinion. If that public 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 deceived. 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 thyself, seemed a sufficient recompense for the loss of half the World; thou never thought'st, I say, that she had a heart capable of Servitude. Thou hast not scaped 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 enraged Octavia, or whether she should now snatch an Antidote from Death against the malice of her Fortune, and unite herself for ever to thy blessed Shade. Call to mind your Antony, when stained with the blood of those Veins his own bold hand had opened; when he threw himself into your embraces, and seemed to live no other life than what you breathed into him by your last kisses; when with an undaunted courage he fronted his Fate, and taught you those steps which the unfortunately Magnanimous aught to tread. You then filled his breast with mighty hopes, imprecated the worst of Roman Slavery, if you did not follow him, whilst he embraced you as if he had hugged Victory in his arms, and with an inviting smile bid you hasten alter him, and expired. And will you deceive the honoured Ashes of that mighty Hero, which from their Urn 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 yourself now, you do it to bestow yourself on me; if afterwards, 'tis to steal yourself from others. Give that life up to your Love, which shortly will be usurped 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 lived free, and may die free; by your Household 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 numbered amongst her Deities?  
FINIS.   


The Sublime Character; Out of Tasso, Lib. 4.  
THe dreary Trumpet blew a dreadful blast,  
And rumbled through the Lands and Kingdoms under;  
Through Wastness wide it roared, and hollows vast,  
And filled the Deep with horror, fear and wonder.  
Not half so dreadful noise the Tempests cast,  
That fall from Skies with storms of Hail and Thunder:  
Nor half so loud the whistling Winds do sing,  
Broke from the Earthen prisons of their King.   

The Temperate. Lib. 14.  
SO in the Twilight doth sometimes appear  
A Nymph, a Goddess, or a Fairy Queen:  
And though no Siren, but a Spirit this were;  
Yet by her Beauty see'md it, she had been  
One of those Sister's false, which haunted near  
The Tyrrhene shores, and kept those Water's sheen.  
Like theirs, her Face, her Voice was, and her sound:  
And thus she sung, and pleased both Skies and Ground;  
Ye Happy Youths, whom April fresh, and May,  
Attire in flow'ring green of Lusty age,  
For glory Vain, and Virtues idle ray,  
Do not your tender Limbs to toil engage.   

The Humble. Lib. 7.  
MY Son, quoth he, this poor estate of ours  
Is ever safe from storm of Warlike broil:  
This Wilderness doth us in safety keep,  
No thundering Drum, no Trumpet breaks our sleep.  
Haply just Heavens defence and Shield of Right  
Doth love the innocence of simple Swains.  
The Thunderbolts on highest Mountains light;  
Seldom or never strike the lower Plains:  
So Kings have cause to fear Bellona's might;  
Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner gains;  
Nor ever greedy Soldier was enticed  
By Poverty neglected and despised.    

Errata.  
Page 2. line 27. read Pericles, p. 3. l. 34. attack, p. 12. l. 20. Chamaleon, p. 17. l: 1. that, p. 19 l. 2. toss, p. 23. l. 6. Titian, p. 29. l. 7. Chapebain, p. 58. l. 14. Abydos. p. 101. l. 29. Stralsound, p. 130. l. 9 Writers, who.