LUCIAN's GHOST: OR, DIALOGUES Between the Dead, wandering in the Elyzian Shades.  
BEING Certain Satyrical remarks upon the vain ostentatious humours of several Learned and Philosophical Men and Women, as well Ancient as Modern.  
Composed first in French, and now paraphrased into English, by a Person of Quality.  
LONDON, Printed for James Norris, at the King's Arms without Temple-Bar. 1684.   

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO LUCIAN IN THE ELYZIAN FIELDS.  
Illustrious Ghost,  
IT is but Justice, that having borrowed an Idea, which doth of right belong to, you, I should at least make my Acknowledgements, and pay my Homage for it to you, who do so justly merit it. That Person to whom an Author is most indebted, is the most proper Hero for his Epistle Dedicatory; 'tis him alone he ought to Praise, and choose for his Protector. Perhaps I may be accounted bold and rash, for having dared to tread in your Paths, but I should with much more reason have merited those Appellations, if I only had pursued the Traces of my own Fancy, and I may justly hope to have this advantage to make my own course Metal pass currently in the World, which so advantageously bears your Image and Character; and I am bold to say that if my Dialogues have but the least success, they'll do you more Honour than your own, and show that so Excellent a design needs no overcurious management. I Relied so much upon the firmness, and stability of the Foundation, that I thought a small part on't might serve for so mean a superstructure. I have therefore left out Plato, Charon, Cerberus, and such Infernal company, who are so frequently Introduced in these Entertainments. You have already made the best Remarks on the choicest Subjects, as on the vain and insignificant fear of Death, the Affected Bravery and Resolution of some Philosophers, which they Assumed when they were just giving up their Last, and the Ridiculous misfortunes of young Gentlemen who died before those old Dotards whose Estates they Gaped after; so that there are only Trifles Left for me: yet since the design is yours it cannot be unsuccesful, and I make an Offering to you of that as the only thing that merits your Acceptance. I have also been bold to imitate you in the end and Intentions of my conversations, by moralising all my dialogues after your example, else what need had there been to have gone to Hell for company? If they had talked their Ribaldry without design, living Mortals might have served my Turn as well. Besides, it's no difficult matter to suppose the dead to make Reflections on the Follies of the Living, since they have been so well furnished, not only by long Experience, but by a calm and undisturbed Peace and Leasure, and behold the Affairs of the world with such Indifferency as gives 'em not concern in the consequences and Events of 'em, and therefore most fitting to make their observations. You thought the Dead were no great Talkers, and therefore made all their Dialogues short and pithy, and I have also made you my pattern in this particular as carrying much Reason and probability. The dead are Masters of so much Wit, that they can presently discern the main scope and Intent of a Discourse without wind and circumlocutions. The living only are those who wanting sense to understand one another's meanings do wrangle and dispute, and like the blind do stumble in that Road they can't see; yet I am persuaded that their Characters are not so much altered to forsake all their former opinions, which they embraced with so much Eagerness in the world; wherefore I have so far complied with the mode and custom as to draw 'em in the same Colours now they are dead, by which they were represented to us when they were living. You thought it not improper to raise Imaginary Ghosts, and to attribute the glory of some Adventures to others, who never merited 'em. But I have no reason to assume this Privilege, since History has furnished me with so many true Relations, that I have no need of having recourse to Fiction for succour. But be you not surprised that I make the Dead so frequently to converse about the Affairs of the upper world which happened so long after they had quitted it, because so much Company is still coming thence who bring 'em fresh Intelligence. Renowned Shade, I doubt not but your Candour is as great as was your Wit, and that you will easily pardon the Imperfections perfections of the Living, but especially his who has no other pretensions than to imitate so excellent a Copy as yours.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 13. line 10. for the whole read our. pag. 41. lin. 24. for Orator r. Poet. p. 44. l. 12. deal of. p. 86. for Ambitious r. Ambition's. p. 88 l. 18. r. most sensibly. p. 91. l. 4. r. had been. p. 91. l. 14. for sate r. sets. p. 96. l. 6. deal that.   

THE CONTENTS.  

Dialogues of the Ancients.  
I. Alexander. Phryne. A Comparison between Beauty and Greatness.  
II. Milo. Smindarides. On Delicacy.  
III. Dido. Stratonice. On that Amour which Virgil falsely attributes to Dido.  
iv Anacreon. Aristotle. On Philosophy.  
V Homer. Aesop. On the Mysteries which are veiled in Homer 's Works.  
VI Athenais. Icasia. On the Fantasticalness of Fortune. Dialogues of the Ancients with the Moderns.  
I. Augustus. Peter Aretine. On Praises.  
II. Sapph. Laura. Whether it be most proper for the Man or Woman to make the first Courtship.  
III. Socrates. Montaigne. Whether the Ancient or Modern Ages were most Virtuous.  
iv The Emperor Adrian. Margaret of Austria. What Deaths are most generous.  
V Erasistratus. Harvey. Of what advantage the Modern Discoveries are in Natural Philosophy and Physic.  
VI erens ice. Cosme II. de Medicis. On the Immortality of one's Name.   

Dialogues of the Moderns.  
I. Anne of Britain. Marry of England. A Comparison between Love and Ambition.  
II. Charles V. Erasmus. Whether there be any thing on which a Man ought to value himself.  
III. Q. Elizabeth. Duke d'Alenzon. On the Emptiness of Pleasures.  
iv William de Cabestan. Albert Frederick of Brandenburg. On Folly.  
V Agnes Sorel. Roxilana. On the Power of Women.  
VI Joan of Naples. Anselm. On the Eager desire that Men have to know what will be.    

LUCIAN's GHOST: OR, DIALOGUES Between the Dead, etc.  

DIALOGUE I. Between Alexander and Phryne.  Phryne. 
ALL the The bans of my time can tell you, I offered at my own Expense to Rebuild the Walls of Thebes, which you had Demolished, provided only they would set up this Inscription on 'em, Alexander the Great Razed these Walls, but Phryne the Courtesan Reared them up again.  Alex. 
It seems than you were extremely afraid, lest succeeding Ages might be ignorant, how well you thrived in your Vocation.  Phr. 
I have been Eminent, and all extraordinary persons, of what Profession soever, are guilty of so much vanity, as to covet to Eternize their Names by Monuments and Inscriptions.  Alex. 
'Tis true, Rhodope did the same before you, and heaped together so much Money by the same profession, as served to Erect one of the stateliest Pyramids of Egypt. And I remember, being in company tother day with some Modern Ladies (who had, like you, no mean opinion of their Beauty) to whom she making a Relation of her Victories, and the Monument she had Reared to perpetuate their Memory. These discontented Shades began to lament the Age wherein they lived, when the most Charming were unable to raise such Trophies to their Conquests.  Phr. 
But still you must acknowledge, I have this advantage over Rhodope, That in Re-building the Walls of Thebes, I am placed in Competition with you, the great Conqueror of the Universe; That the World might know my Beauty had Repaired those Ruins which your Valour made.  Alex. 
So, you have drawn a parallel between two things which was ne'er thought on before: It seems than you were very well pleased with yourself, for knowing how to manage so many Intrigues so much to your own advantage.  Phr. 
And you were no less satisfied to have lain the better part of the World in Heaps of Rubbish. But how had you been deceived, if there had been a Phryne in every Town you Conquered, when you could have left no marks of your fury behind you?  Alex. 
Were I to live my life once over again, I would be the same Alexander, and the same great Conqueror.  Phr. 
And I would be the same Little Conqueror again. Beauty by right of Nature presides o'er men, whereas Valour is indebted to Force and Power for all its Empire. The Fair are Victors every where, which Kings and Emperors cannot pretend to: But more clearly to convince you, I grant your Father Philip was a Valiant man, and so were you; yet neither of you were able to stop the mouth of the Orator Demosthenes from declaiming against you all his life. Yet there was another Phryne besides myself (I think the very name is happy) who being ready to lose her Cause, which was of no small consequence, and her Advocate having showered down all his Eloquence in vain, she bethought herself of a more powerful Argument, and more suitable to the present extremity of her Affairs: She only unveiled her Face, at whose Lustre the Court was so surprised, that whereas before they were just ready to give sentence against her, all of a sudden they changed their opinions. From whence you may observe, that though the Terror of your Arms, for many years, could not make one Orator hold his peace, yet the Charms of one handsome Face in one moment silenced the loudest Advocates, and corrupted a whole Areopagite.  Alex. 
What? though you have called another Phryne to your Aid, I don't think that the Cause of Alexander is so weak; 'twere strange indeed if—  Phr. 
I know well enough what you are going to say, that Greece, Asia, Persia, and the Indies, were mighty Conquests. Nevertheless, if I should divest you of that Glory, which by Right belongs not to you; If I should give to all your Soldiers and Captains, and even to Chance itself what properly is their due, can you imagine but you will be a loser? But a handsome Woman lets no one partake in the Honour of her Conquests, and is therefore beholding to no one but herself: Believe me, a fair Woman has no reason to complain of Nature for having made her so.  Alex. 
It seems than you are very positive in your opinion: But can you think to stretch the number of yours beyond the Glory of my Conquests?  Phr. 
Yes, without vanity I do; yet I must needs declare, that I have as far surpassed the bare Character and ordinary pretensions of a handsome Woman, as you have done that of a prudent General; for you and I have gained too many Victories e'er to take such measures; had I entertained but two or three Amours, It had been no more than what's customary, and merits not to be regarded: But to be able to rebuild the Walls of Thebes, by the Number and Riches of my Gallants, is Transcendent, and surpasses all the Rules and Measures of my Sex. So, on the other side, if you had only Conquered Greece, with some of the Neighbouring Islands, and perhaps some small part of the Lesser Asia, so as to be able to reduce 'em within the compass of one Monarchy, it had been only rational and discreet: But to be always on the March, and yet not knowing whither; To be always Taking Towns, without knowing wherefore; and to be still Enterprizing without design: This is what the most thinking sort of men call Rash and Extravagant.  Alex. 
Let these thinking men say what they please; had I confined my Valour and Fortune within the compass of their Politics, my Name and Memory would have been quite forgotten by succeeding Ages.  Phr. 
And so had mine, had I used the same wise Conduct in the distribution of my Favours. For whoever designs to become Eminent, may be satisfied, that the most rational methods are not always the most proper.   

DIALOGUE II. Between Milo & Smindarides.  Smind. 
YOu think you have gained a great deal of Honour, because at the Olympic Games you were able to carry an Ox upon your shoulders.  Mile. 
'Twas certainly a very gallant Action, and had the Applauses of all Greece; the Fame on't reached even the Remote Crotonia, my own Native Country, which has been so Eminent for Wrestlers; but your Town of Sybaris has been derided by every body, because of the Effeminacy of its Inhabitants, who Banished all their Cocks, because their Crowing disturbed their Rest; and invited their Guests to Feasts, a year before they made 'em, that they might have time to provide every thing which was delicate and grateful to the palate.  Smind. 
You make yourself very merry with the Sybarites: But thou dull Crotonian art not sensible, that when thou boastest thou art able to carry an Ox, thou ownest that thou art not unlike one?  Milo. 
And can you believe yourself a man, when you have complained to have past whole nights without Repose, only because one of the Rose-leaves of which your bed was made, was doubled?  Smind. 
'Tis true, I acknowledge myself a man of that delicacy. But wherefore does it seem so strange to you?  Milo. 
Pray, how is it possible it should seem otherwise?  Smind. 
What? have you never seen a Lover, who has received many Favours from his Mistress, and to whom he has been no less Assiduous in his Services? yet how concerned he is in the very possession of his happiness, lest Gratuity should have the Ascendant in the heart of his Mistress above her Inclinations?  Milo. 
No truly, I ne'er knew any such Lover; yet granting, I had—  Smind. 
Or have you never heard of some Renowned Conqueror, who on his return home from some glorious Expedition, yet did not find that satisfaction in the Triumph the World imagined, because he thought himself indebted more to Fortune, than either his Valour or good Conduct, and all his designs succeeded upon false and ill taken measures?  Milo. 
No, no; I never heard of any such Warrior: But once again, what would you conclude from hence?  Smind. 
That this Lover, and this Conqueror, and almost all Mankind, though they lie on Beds of Roses, yet the folding but of one Leaf might be enough to disturb their rest. A very small uneasiness is sufficient to destroy our pleasures; and these are our Beds of Roses, where 'twill be a matter of some difficulty to make all the Leaves lie smooth and easy.  Milo. 
I must confess, I am not very knowing in these matters; but in my opinion, you, your Imaginary Lover, and your Conqueror, and every body else of this temper, do yourselves a great deal of wrong by being so overnice and delicate.  Smind. 
Ah Milo! Men of wit are no Crotonians, as thou art, but Sybarites like me.  Milo. 
Now I guess what you would be at; That nature having made 'em of a more delicate frame than ordinary, they would enjoy too many pleasures, if the fineness and subtlety of their Reason did not divest 'em of those that were superfluous.  Smind. 
You're mistaken in your Guesses; men of wit have no pleasures that are superfluous.  Milo. 
Then they are fools to take so much pains to destroy their own happiness.  Smind. 
Behold the misery of the whole Creation; Mankind only does enjoy this fineness of temper, which is produced by the brisk and and lively motion of the blood and spirits: Every body is satisfied with himself, when he has it; and he that has it not, is still in pursuit after it; yet it diminishes our pleasures, and makes 'em flat and dull, which of their own natures are insipid enough. How miserable therefore is the condition of humane nature, that's furnished but with so few delights, and yet our subtle reason mars 'em all in the enjoyment.   

DIALOGUE III. Between Dido and Stratonice.  Dido. 
ALas! my Stratonice, how unfortunate am I? you must needs have heard how I lived the mirror of Chastity, and proved so constant to my first Vows, that I chose rather to burn alive, and sacrifice myself to the shade of my first Husband, than endure a second. Yet I could not secure myself from the Censure of evil Tongues as to my very death, which was the Crown and Ornament of my life. It has pleased a certain Poet, called Virgil, to change me (who always had the reputation of a wise and prudent Matron) into a young Coquet, who let herself be Charmed with the good Mien of a stranger, the first day she saw him; and in fine, he has turned the whole History of my Life into a Romance. Yet he would not rob me of my last Funeral Pyle: But can you guests the Reason he gives, why I cast myself into it? not to avoid a second Marriage, but despair of seeing myself forsaken by the handsome stranger.  Straton. 
On my word such feigned Relations may prove of very ill consequence to the World, and we shall have but few Women die Martyrs to Conjugal Fidelity, if every Capricious Poet may take the liberty of saying what he pleases of 'em, after they are dead; perhaps Virgil has not done you so much injury, though as you imagine, and has only disobliged you by discovering some Intrigue which you hoped would be concealed.  Dido. 
Had there been any probability in the Amour, which the Poet would make me entertain, I should not so much complain of him. But he gives me Aeneas for my Lover, a man that left the World Three hundred years before I came into it.  Straton. 
I must confess, that what you say is something; yet there is so great a Resemblance in the several Stories of your Lives, that you seem very much to be made the one for the other; you were both constrained to forsake your native Lands, and try your Fortunes in Foreign Kingdoms. He was a Widower, and you a Widow; so that the Agreement of your Loves might well Answer that of your Fates. 'Tis true, you were born Three hundred years after him; yet the Poet had so much Reason to make you meet and Love, that he might very well dispense with Three hundred years, and thought it not of consequence enough to spoil so plausible an Amour.  Dido. 
What sort of Reasoning is this? are not Three hundred years always Three hundred years? and how can two persons living at this distance meet and love?  Straton. 
'Twas in this very point that Virgil hath most showed his wit; he was a man that understood the world, and well knew that in such Amorous Entertainments, men judge not of the truth of the Relation by the speciousness of its appearance, but sometimes by the very improbability of the Story.  Dido. 
I am not well satisfied that he has fixed his handsome Mysteries, and plausible Romances, on me.  Straton. 
Why? has he Ridiculed you, and made you speak impertinently any where?  Dido. 
Neither; 'Tis my Character which gives his Poem all its beauty; and though he has belied me, yet there is something Divine in his very Fiction; and had he been obliged to have drawn me with my native Honesty, his Aeneids would have lost very much of their Lustre.  Straton. 
Wherefore then do you complain so much? Though he has sullied your Virtue which you so much relied on, yet in return he has given you Wit and Beauty, which perhaps you never could pretend to.  Dido. 
What then? is that a sufficient recompense?  Straton. 
I know not what temper you were of; but I'm sure most women would rather have their Virtue sullied, than either their Wit or Beauty; and I do ingenuously acknowledge to you, it was my temper. There came a Painter to the Court of the King of Syria, my Husband, who on some occasion I had disobliged; and to revenge himself on me, Painted me in the Embraces of a Common Soldier; and having exposed the Picture, fled; my Subjects, zealous for my Honour, would publicly have burnt it; but because he had drawn me so admirably well (though the motions he gave it were more to the advantage of my Beauty than Virtue) I preserved it from the flames, and sent kindly for the Painter, and pardoned him: Now if you had been of my mind, you should have dealt with Virgil after the same manner.  Dido. 
If Wit and Beauty were the most considerable Qualifications of a Lady, it were not then amiss.  Straton. 
I can't decide to which the precedency is due; but in Common Conversation, if the discourse be of a Woman, who is a stranger to any of the company; the first question is, whether she be handsome; the second, if she have Wit; and it rarely happens that any body gives himself the trouble to ask a third.   

DIALOGUE iv Between Anacreon & Aristotle.  Arist. 
I Can not have believed that a Sonnet-maker should have the confidence to compare himself with a Philosopher, and one of my Reputation too.  Anac. 
You would make the name of a Philosopher sound very great; I can assure you my Songs have purchased me the title of the wise Anacreon; and I'm sure there's no Phisopher can pretend to a better Epithet.  Arist. 
Those that gave it you, either did it only out of Ceremony and Compliment, or else they knew not what they said: For what have you e'er done to merit that Character?  Anacr. 
Why? I have drank, and sang, and been very amorous, and so I gained the title of Wise for my reward; whereas you, for all those infinite pains you have taken, have got no other than that of the Philosopher. How many nights have you watched to no other purpose, than to amuse the world with thorny Questions in your dialectics? how many huge Volumes have you composed on such obscure and intricate Subjects, that I question very much whether you yourself could understand your own Writings?  Arist. 
Indeed you have found out a very commodious and easy way to be thought wise, and purchase more honour by your Lute and your Bottle, than the greatest men in the World could do by all their labour and industry.  Anacr. 
You pretend, I think, to Rally; but I'll maintain, 'tis more difficult to drink and sing, as I have, than to play the Philosopher, like you; for to drink and sing aright, one ought to have his mind calm and quiet, and free from all the Gusts of Passion, not to aim at that which is out of one's reach, and to lay hold on Time always when 'tis in ones possession; and in a word, there are so many disorders to be regulated e'er a man can arrive to this pitch and good humour, (though there be no great need of Logic) yet 'twill cost him some pains before he can attain it. But 'tis possible for a man to be a Philosopher with much less trouble and difficulty; he need not despoil himself neither of his Ambition, nor his Avarice; he may make his appearance at the Court of Alexander the Great, and receive Presents to the value of Five hundred thousand Crowns, on pretence of making Philosophical Experiments; yet contrary to the Intention of the Donor, reserve the greatest part to his own private use; but true Philosophy is very opposite to such practices.  Arist. 
Certainly you have had a very ill Character given of me by some body, that you are so much prejudiced; but I'll still maintain, a man's no longer so without his reason; and there can be nothing more glorious, than to instruct Mankind in the search of Nature, and to unveil all those Riddles and Difficulties which can be proposed.  Anacr. 
Do but observe how those men put their false Glosses on things, and turn all up-side-down. Philosophy is in itself a very admirable thing, and may be of great advantage to Mankind, if rightly made use of; yet because 'tis a little uneasy to their humour, in that they are obliged to apply it to themselves, in subduing of their passions; they have therefore mounted it up unto Heaven to observe the motion of the Stars, or else they make it walk on the Earth, to make their fantastical Remarks on every trifling Object; and, in fine, they are very careful to employ it on any thing that is remote from themselves. Nevertheless they would purchase to themselves the title of Philosophers at this easy rate, though they are only in pursuit of natural Causes.  Arist. 
And what more suitable name can be given to 'em?  Anacr. 
Philosophy has relation only to Man, the lesser World, without having any prospect to the greater. 'Tis the part of an Astronomer to Contemplate the Stars, the Naturalist to study Nature, but the Philosopher himself alone. But alas! this is too hard a Province for any of these pretenders, therefore they ought to content themselves with the bare title of an Astronomer or a Naturalist, without assuming that of a Philosopher, for my part I never did desire to amuse myself with their Airy Speculations, and in my opinion there is not so much of true Philosophy to be found in some of their Books, which bear that specious Title in the Frontespiece, as there is in one of my Songs which you despise. I'll instance you in one.  

If Gold could bribe my Fate,  
To spin out Life beyond its date;  
I'd heap up shining Oar  
Till my crammed Chests could hold no more.  
Then give it all to Destiny,  
At its approach to set me free.  
But since it has no such power,  
To stem the Fleeting hours,  
I'll smooth'em all with Love & Wine,  
Which do so equally combine,  
To make 'em happy whilst they're mine.   Arist. 
Well, since you'll acknowledge that only to be the true Philosophy which regards the regulating our Manners: You may find in my Treatises of Morality such Rules as far surpass your Songs, and that obscurity which you reproach me so with (and perhaps not without some reason, in some of my other more subtle Books) yet 'tis not to be found in these. And 'tis the vogue of the world that nothing can be more clear and fine.  Anacr. 
How you abuse yourself! The Controversy is not how to define the Passions, and divide 'em with that exactness as they say you have done, but to subdue 'em. Men easily become Votaries to that Philosophy which only obliges 'em to consider the evils of their Nature without any prospect to their cure. They have found out a Secret of being Moral Philosophers with the same ease they can be Astronomers. How can one forbear laughing to hear men for money preach Contempt of Riches, and errand Cowards ready to fall together by the Ears about the Definition of Magnanimity?   

DIALOGUE V Between Homer and Aesop.  Homer. 
TRULY all those Fables which you have recited to me, cannot be enough admired; there had need be a great deal of Art to disguise the most useful Instructions, that Morality can give us in such Facetious Tales, and to cover the severity of its Precepts with such easy and delightful Shadows.  Aesop. 
It does not a little please me to be praised for Excelling in that Art by him who was so great a Master in't.  Homer. 
Who I? for my part I never pretended to it.  Aesop. 
What? did not you conceal the greatest Mysteries in your Poems?  Homer. 
Alas! not I.  Aesop. 
Yet all the Wits of the Age wherein I lived did maintain it, and there was nothing in your Iliads or Odysseys to which they did not give the finest Allegories in the world, they would needs have it that neither Divinity, Natural Philosophy, nay the Mathematics too contained any thing that was excellent or curious but what was veiled in your Poems, yet there was still some difficulty in the disclosing of 'em, for where one would attribute to 'em a moral sense, another would a natural, yet they all agreed in this that you had known and said every thing, and there only wanted a capacity to discover it.  Homer. 
I did imagine that there would be some people, who would pretend to find out wit where 'twas never meant: and I writ my Fables with the same success as he that prophesies of Future Ages, where posterity takes care to find out the meaning and fulfil it.  Aesop. 
It seems you relied very much on the wit and candour of your Readers to find out Allegories where you never meant 'em, what would you have done had they taken 'em in the Literal sense?  Homer. 
Why truly I should not have thought it so great a misfortune.  Aesop. 
What? that your Gods should wound and mangle one another, and Jupiter the Thunderer at an Assembly of the Deities threaten to beat the mighty Juno? that the Warrior Mars should bellow so loud as ten thousand men, when he was wounded by Diomedes? and instead of taking the revenge of an Hero, and cutting all the Greeks in pieces, go crying to Jupiter to make complaint of his Wound? all this had been very fine without an Allegory?  Homer. 
And why not? You may imagine that the wit of Man searches only after Truth, but be not deceived, Falsity and Humane Invention sympathise extremely. If you have Truth to tell, you had need disguise it in a Fable to make it relish: but if Fiction only be your Province there's no need of intermixing Truth, 'twill better please without it, so that what's true dare not appear in its own native colours, but is constrained to borrow of some gaudy Fable to make it be received, whereas whatever is Fictitious need assume no other than its own. Man's wit and fancy being the place of its birth as well as of its abode, and to which Truth is always a Stranger. I'll tell you moreover, had I put my Invention upon the stretch, and almost cracked my Brains to find out Allegories and Allusions, it might well have been that men would have swallowed the Fable without having any prospect to the Figure, and that's the reason that the Stories of my Gods and Heroes were not found so ridiculous.  Aesop. 
Oh! you make me tremble, than I fear 'tis believed that my Beasts did really speak, as I made 'em in my Fables.  Homer. 
This Fear of yours is mighty pleasant.  Aesop. 
Why? if it were really believed as you say, that the Gods had those discourses together, only because you related it, why might it not be credited with the same ease, that my Beasts spoke because I said it?  Homer. 
Oh! The case is not the same, for men would very easily believe that the Gods are as great Fools as they are, yet they won't allow Beasts to be so wise.   

DIALOGUE VI Between Athenais and Icasia.  Icasia. 
SInce you are willing to know the principal Adventures of my Life, I'll tell it you in short. The Emperor under whom we lived had an inclination to Marry, and to make the better choice of an Empress, he issued out his Proclamation to give notice, that if any Woman thought her Beauty capable of raising her to a Throne, she should on a prefixed day make her appearance at Constantinople, and (God knows) there were no small number of pretenders; among the rest I was one, who had so good an opinion of myself, that I thought my Youth and Beauty, the liveliness of my Eyes, with the sweetness of my Air, and handsomeness of my Mien, might not without some reason raise my hopes to the Empire. On the meeting of this handsome Assembly we all surveyed each others Faces not without some uneasiness, and I observed when they came to mine they fixed their Eyes with Envy and Emulation. At length the Emperor came into the Aslembly, and having taken several turns between our Beautiful ranks, when he came to me (just as I wished) he stopped, and beholding me with a loving Air, Indeed, says he, these Women are dangerous Creatures, being capable of doing so much harm; I straight believed I needed only show a little wit to crown all my hopes, so between hope and fear I made this quick Reply. But, Sir, Women in recompense can and have often done much good. But this unhappy Answer destroyed all my pretensions, for the Emperor fancied it so witty, he dared not espouse me.  Athen. 
Certainly this Emperor was of a very strange humour so much to fear a witty Woman, and I doubt he had but little wit himself because he found so much in your Reply; but to deal frankly, I think you had no such great reason to be angry with yourself.  Ica. 
So the Fates would have it, that your wit alone should make you Empress, and the very appearance on't defeat me. You were not only witty but a Philosopher too, and yet you could Espouse the Emperor Theodosius the younger.  Athen. 
If I should have had so sad an Example as yours before my Eyes, I should have been a little frighted tho'; for after my Father had bred me a Scholar, and given me all the advantages of Education, he disinherited me, supposing that my knowledge in the Sciences was a very ample Fortune, and to speak the truth, I believed so too. But now I see my error, and that I ran a very great risk of making no other Fortune but what my bare Philosophy could give me.  Icasia. 
See now what use may be made of this Example, 'twould be pleasant if some person on the like occasion, who knowing my story should make this advantage of it, as not to show her wit, though there were ne'er so fair an opportunity for it.  Athen. 
I would not answer for her, that her strategeme should succeed, since 'twas designed. 'Tis those follies we commit by chance that make us happy: have you never heard the Story of the Painter who drew a Bunch of Grapes so natural and fine that he deceived the very Birds, who as soon as e'er they saw 'em exposed, flew to taste 'em? You may judge what reputation he got by this piece, they were painted in the hand of a little Country Boy, who was drawn in the same piece. It happened that some person skilful in that Art, commended the painting of the Grapes, which were so naturally drawn as to allure the Birds, but not the Boy because he did fright them from 'em. And certainly his observation was very rational; yet if the Painter had remembered to have drawn the Boy with the same exactness, he had never gained that honour by his Grapes.  Ica. 
Well, I am satisfied, though we know how to take the justest measures, yet we could not assure ourselves of their success: and this instance of the Painter might well make us tremble, lest, like him, we had not made some necessary fault in the management of our affairs to make 'em prosperous. There's nothing certain in the world above, since Fortune takes such care to give different successes to the same Action; it baffles all their humane policy, and obliges Mankind to live without either Rule or Order.    

Dialogues of the Ancients and Moderns.  

DIALOGUE I. Between Augustus and Peter Aretine.  P. Aret. 
YES, I was one of the most eminent Wits of the Age, and Pensioner to the most considerable Princes in Europe.  Aug. 
Then you were still obliged to write very much to their Advantage.  P. Aret. 
Not at all: I received Gifts and Presents from all of 'em, and that would never have been, had I made it my only business to write Panegyrics. They were warring continually one with the other, and as some were the conquerors, others were distressed, so that I could never commend'em all.  Aug. 
What did you then?  P. Aret. 
I Lampooned 'em, and though I could not crowd 'em all into one Panegyric, yet I could do it well enough in one satire. The terror of my name had reached so far, that the greatest Princes paid me a constant Tribute, and their Purses still compounded for their Follies. The Emperor Charles V (whom undoubtedly you have heard of here below) having made a very unsuccessful War on the coast of afric, on his return home made me a Present of a Golden Chain, which I received but coldly, and made the Bearer this Reply, That I thought it was not of sufficient value to compound for so great a Folly.  Aug. 
Then you had found out a new method to enrich yourself.  P. Aret. 
I think I had reason to hope to raise my Fortune on others Follies as being the most sure and certain foundation.  Aug. 
Notwithstanding all you can say to the contrary, the Art of praising is much the surer and the better way.  Aret. 
Oh Lord, Sir, I never had Impudence enough to commend any body.  Aug. 
Yet you had enough to Libel every body.  P. Aret. 
But your parallel will not hold, there's no necessity of despising those we put in Satyrs, but to lash 'em now and then for their Follies, to teach 'em more discretion, whereas weak or extravagant praises are a Libel in themselves, and reflect more upon the person they would seem to honour than the sharpest Satyrs. It seems as if they never merited the one nor had sense to understand the other. With what impudence could Virgil tell you, that after your Translation among the Deities, it was uncertain what charge you would please to undertake, whether you would take on yourself the care of the Nether World once again, or else become a Watery God, by Espousing one of the Daughters of Thetis, and receive for her Dowry the dominion of the Seas, because of the Honour of your Alliance; or whether you should be placed in the Skies near to the crooked and double Constellation Scorpio, and for the honour of your neighbourhood be made of a more straight and regular Figure.  Aug. 
You need not so much wonder at the Impudence of Virgil, for Praises are like Allegories, not always taken in the literal meaning; and if there be any deficiency, the kindness of that person to whom they are addressed helps out the Modesty of the Panegyric, but it often happens Prince's merit Honours which are never paid 'em.  P. Aret. 
Then you relied upon the word of the Poet, and were in hopes to Espouse one of the Sea-nymphs, or else to have your Apartment assigned you in the Zodiac.  Aug. 
No, no; there must be always something abated in Praises of this kind, but yet not all, and one may at least receive this satisfaction from such Extravagancies, to believe one's self above all ordinary Praises, and 'tis Merit alone that made the Orator surpass all the bounds of nature.  P. Aret. 
Well, though I should allow their vanity to be guilty of all the Excess imaginable in the Extolling of their Heroes; but to commend at different times for those Actions which are directly opposite one to another, I think 'tis the height of Impudence; as for instance: If you proved bloody and unmerciful to those you Conquered, then there had been nothing so glorious, as to revenge yourself on those who dared to oppose you: but if on the contrary, mildness appeared in your Nature, and you were ready to forgive 'em, than the scene is quite changed, and the mercy of a mild and gentle Prince shall far surpass the revenge of a bloody and inhuman. So that one part of your Life must be commended at the expense of the other, therefore choose you which you will for the Character of a Hero, and I can bring you almost equal Arguments for either.  Aug. 
I think there's no need to take so near a view, 'tis enough to the Advantage of Princes that all their Actions are capable of Praises, and when they receive 'em for those which are so opposite, 'tis a sign they have more than one sort of Merit.  P. Aret. 
What? did you ne'er reflect on those Eulogies they heaped on you, and was there not need of some Art to refine 'em, to make you believe they were directed to you rather than to those of your rank and quality? Princes are not distinguished by the Praises that are given 'em, and not only Heroes, but more ordinary persons lay claim to 'em, but yet posterity makes this difference by confirming those that are given to some, and abolishing 'em to others.  Aug. 
Then you'll grant at least that I received none but what I merited, since succeeding Ages as well as that wherein I lived have confirmed 'em. But yet I think I have reason to complain as being always looked upon the most perfect Model for Princes, they are often therefore resembled to me, and I am wronged by the Comparison.  P. Aret. 
Be comforted and let this be the occasion of your Complaints no longer, for according to all the relations which the more modern Dead have given us of Charles II. now Monarch of the British Isles, his will be esteemed a more perfect Model; and so much I can foresee, that Future Ages when they'll undertake to commend their Princes, will think they can do 'em no greater honour, than by comparing 'em to this wisest and best of Kings.  Aug. 
Well then; don't you think that those who are honoured with the Comparison won't hear it with pleasure?  P. Aret. 
'Tis not improbable, for men are naturally so greedy of Praises, that they'll dispense with Justice, Truth and reason for to gain 'em.  Aug. 
It seems than you would quite exterminate all Praises, and if only the good must have 'em, there would be but very few Panegyrists.  P. Aret. 
Yes, there would be some few without interest and design who would undertake it. And 'tis they who properly ought to do it; so your Virgil handsomely commended Cato, when he called him Precedent at the Assembly of honest men, in the Elysian Fields, because Cato himself was dead, and the Poet could pretend to no reward: But 'twas not so well done when he flattered you so much in the beginning of his Georgics, when, if I am not mistaken, he received a Pension for it.  Aug. 
Then it seems all I gave on that score was thrown away.  P. Aret. 
'Tis no great matter; you had better done like one of your Successors, who as soon as he was seated in the Empire, forbade all the Poets to make Verses on him.  Aug. 
I must own he had more reason than I: True Praises are not those are given us, but those we merit.   

DIALOGUE II. Between Sapph and Laura.  Laura. 
'TIS true, we two have equally felt Love's passion, neither did we banish the Muses to solace it: but yet with this difference; you were best pleased to compose Madrigals on your Lovers, but I to have 'em presented me by mine.  Sapph. 
What then? that's to say, I loved as much as you could be beloved.  Laura. 
That's no wonder, for I know Women are more susceptible of that gentle passion than Men; but that which surprised me most was, that instead of the Defendant you became the Aggressor, and by the charms of your Poems endeavoured to inspire your Lovers with the same passion that you felt when you writ 'em.  Sap. 
I was sensible of those Fetters that humane policy and ill custom had imposed on our Sex, and was therefore resolved to throw 'em off: for I always thought the Man's part, which is to make the Courtship, was much more easy than ours to receive it.  Laura. 
In my opinion we have no reason to complain against the common custom of making Love, and if there be any advantage it lies of our side; whenever we are Courted we can yield ourselves Captives when we please; but they that attaque us are not always Conquerors when they would.  Sap. 
You forget that men in their Courtships pursue their inclinations, but we to whom they're made done't always with the like satisfaction.  Laura. 
Then you count those sweet attaques they make on us, and so often repeated for nothing, and how much they esteem the conquest of one Heart.  Sap. 
And do you account that nothing to resist with pain the power of so many charms? they behold with pleasure the successful progress which they make, whilst we are angry with ourselves and them too, that our resistance has so much success.  Laura. 
Yet at last after all their Pains, and when we can defend ourselves no longer, they'll yet acknowledge themselves indebted to us for the Surrender.  Sap. 
That hinders not, but what's their Victory, is our Defeat; they taste no other Pleasure in Love, than to Triumph in the yielding of the beloved, and they account themselves no otherwise happy Lovers, but as they are Conquerors.  Laura. 
What? would you introduce a Custom, that Women should Court the Men?  Sap. 
What need is there of that Formality, That the Man must always be the Attacker, and the Women make a Coy Resistance, when yet they Love each other as much as Heart can Wish?  Laura. 
Oh! Matters would go too quick then, Love is so pleasing a Traffic, & yet so quickly dies in the purchase, that I think we do well in what we can to prolong it. If we did receive it always when 'twas offered, what would become of all those delightful Pains, that Lovers take to please; those little uneasinesses our Sex do feel when they Reproach themselves for not having pleased enough, and all those Intrancing Joys which Lovers find, & in a Word, that agreeable mixture of Pains & Pleasure which do make up Love? 'twould Vanish ever 'twas Born, and nothing would be more Inspid than the divinest Passion.  Sap. 
Methinks there is a great Resemblance between Love and War; where those have the advantage, who make the Enemy's Country the Seat of the War. You yourself confessed, but now that our Sex was most susceptible of that Passion, and should therefore know how to manage the braver Part.  Laura. 
Yes, but I Fear they would Defend themselves too well, and since some Resistance, in the management of this Passion, is so necessary, & only so much to make the Victor relish the Conquest, without Defeating of the Passion; and one ought not to be so weak, as to yield at first Summons, nor yet so stubborn as to hold out for ever, I think 'tis only our Province, and I question whether Men would know so well how to manage it. One that has Wit, may reason on any other Subject, as well as that of Love; but 'twill be found that 'tis best for all things to remain in the same Order that they were, and your pretended Reformations do often Terminate in the greatest Confusion.   

DIALOGUE III. Between Socrates and Montaigne.  Mont. 
MOST Divine Socrates, I Rejoice to see you, I have made it my Business, from the first moment of my Arrival hither, to find you out. I writ a Book which is almost every where filled with your Praises. I should now desire to have a more Intimate acquaintance with you, that I might Learn of yourself, how that Virtue became so Natural to you, and all its Motions so easy, and yet in an Age, wherein you had no Example.  Socrat. 
I am glad I have met with a Man in the nether World, who seems to be a Philosopher, and since you are newly Arrived here from above, and 'tis so long since I have seen any Person here, for there are very few fond of my Conversation. I hope you won't take it ill, that I ask you some News; as how the upper World goes, and whether it be'nt much changed from what it was?  Mont. 
Oh! Extremely, you would not be able to know it.  Socrat. 
I am glad to hear it, for I always thought that 'twould become better and wiser at length than 'twas in my time.  Mont. 
No, you are mistaken, 'tis more Foolish and Corrupted than ever it was, and on this occasion 'twas, I so much desired to see you, to know the History of that Golden Age, wherein you Lived, when Honesty and Justice seemed to Reign.  Socrat. 
And I on the contrary expected to hear Miracles of the latter Ages. What? are not the folly's of Antiquity yet amended?  Mont. 
I believe you only slight Antiquity, because you yourself were one of the Ancients; one can't enough bewail the Miseries of the present Age, wherein every thing is degenerated, and grown worse.  Socrat. 
Is it possible? Things in my time went ill enough, yet I still believed that Mankind would take up at length, and grow wise by the Experience of many Years.  Mont. 
But we are convinced by that of the contrary, for Men are like Birds who are caught in the same Snare, in which their Predecessors were before 'em; there's no Body comes into the World clean, & unspotted, but is as much an Heir to the Follies of his Father as his Estate.  Socrat. 
That's because they don't attempt their own Freedom, for I should think the World might grow wiser as it is more advanced in Years, and more Moderate than in its Youth.  Mont. 
Men of all Ages have Naturally the same Inclinations, over which Reason has no greater Power at one time, than at another; so that wherever there are Men, there are the same madness and follies.  Socrat. 
And granting this, what reason had you to conclude that past Ages were wiser than the present?  Mont. 
Oh Socrates! you had a more particular, and refined way of reasoning, than the rest of Mankind, and knew by the Justness and weight of your Arguments, how to lead Men in that Path that you had Chalked out for 'em; 'twas from thence you gained the Title of Successful Midwife of your Thoughts, because you never suffered any to miscarry: for my part, I must confess to you, I never could effect any thing, but what was contrary to my first design, yet I know not how to grant you this, for now there are none of those Vigorous and Noble Souls which they had in former times, as that of Aristides, Photion, Pericles and Socrates.  Socrat. 
What should be the reason on't? is Nature's Fountain quite run dry, that it can produce no more such Men? why should it be productive of all things else, and yet so barren of reasonable Men? can you Instance me in any of the Works of Nature which are degenerated? and therefore why should Man?  Mont. 
I know not, but we have been convinced by woeful Experience it is so; it seems that Nature only gave us Images of some few Men, to let us know her Power, and what she could do, if she pleased, but I'm sure, she was negligent enough in the rest of her Composures.  Socrat. 
Always observe, Antiquity is singular in this, that whereas all other distances do diminish the Object, yet that of time makes it seem much bigger; had you known Aristides, Photion, Pericles, and myself, (since you are pleased to Rank me with 'em,) you would have found that in your own Age, there would have been some that might resemble us: Antiquity is so much advanced because Men are Prejudiced against the present Age, and therefore they would say any thing to discredit it, and so are very well pleased to exalt their Ancestors, so they may depress their Contemporaries. When we Lived, we also esteemed our Ancestors much more than they deserved, and our Posterity deals just so with us. But I believe if our Ancestors, we and our Posterity, could be beheld at the same time, by an Indifferent Eye, the prospect would be found to be very much the same.  Mont. 
I always thought that every thing was in Motion, and that every Age had produced different Humours, and Characters of men. Have there not been some wise, and other ignorant Ages? some that have been heavy, and others more refined? some more serious, and others more trifling, and Fantastical?  Socrat. 
'Tis true, there have.  Mont. 
And wherefore by the same reason, may not some Ages have been more Virtuous, and others more Vicious?  Socrat. 
The consequence does not follow, for though the Habit change the Figure, the Body still continues as it was. Wit, Bravery, Knowledge, Ignorance, the serious, or the Trifling Humour are not essential to the Man, but may be put off or on, like Clothes. But the Heart of Man that never changes, and 'tis that which distinguishes him. This is an Age of Ignoramus, but it may be the Mode of the next to be more learned. This is an Interest Age, yet I believe the contrary will ne'er succeed; perhaps in the vast Number of Men, that may be born in the space of an Hundred Years, Nature may produce Twenty or Thirty of Wit and Sense, who are equally dispersed all the World over, yet there's no no where so many of 'em to be found as to make their Virtue and Honesty become the Mode.  Mont. 
Is Nature always then the same? and makes the same Distribution of 'em in every Age? why may not one be blest with many more than others?  Socrat. 
Because Nature always Acts by Rule, though we are Ignorant of its Motions.   

DIALOGUE iv Between the Emperor Adrian, and Margaret of Austria.  M. Austr. 
WHAT ails you, you are in such a heat?  Adrian. 
I have had a contest but even now with Cato of Utica about the manner of our Deaths, and I endeavoured to show that in the last Scene of my Life, I approved myself more a Philosopher than he.  M. Austr. 
Methinks you were a little Confident though, to compare your Death with his; What could be more Glorious, than first, to put his Family in order at Utica, to provide for the safety of his Friends, and then to kill himself as desirous to die rather with the Liberty of his Country, than to fall into the hands of the Conqueror?  Adrian. 
If you take but a nearer view on't, you may observe there were many things amiss. First of all, he was so vainglorious in his Preparation, that there was scarce any Body in all Utica but knew his design. Secondly, he was forced to read over some Dialogues of Plato, about the Immortality of the Soul, before he had courage enough to put it in Execution. And lastly, the thoughts on't had put him so out of Humour, that looking for his Sword under his Beds-head, where he had designedly laid it, (which was taken thence by one of his Servants, who feared lest despair might make him attempt something on himself,) but not finding it there, he calls for him in Rage, and gave him with his Fist so severe a Blow on the Mouth, as beat out several of his Teeth, and wounded his own Hand.  M. Austr. 
I can't deny but 'twas a very barbarous stroke, and was a little scandalous to his philosophical death.  Adrian. 
You can't imagine what a noise he made about his Sword, how he reproached his Son and his Domestics, as if they designed to bind him Hand and Foot, and deliver him to Caesar, and stormed at 'em at that rate, as made 'em all quit his Chamber, to kill himself.  M. Austr. 
What need was there of making all that noise about it? had he waited but one day longer he might have done it calmly and quietly, for there is nothing easier than to die when one has a mind to it, but all those measures he had taken were founded upon his resolution of doing it that day, and had he deferred it but one day longer, he might have failed of putting his design in execution.  Adrian. 
You speak very rationally, and I see you are capable of judging what deaths are most Glorious.  M. Austr. 
Yet 'tis reported that when Cato had his Sword again, and every body left him, he fell asleep and snored; methinks this was very pleasant.  Adrian. 
What Story is this? but just before he made a noise as if he were undone, then beat his Servant, and yet in this heat to fall asleep is something strange; besides, his Wound troubled him so much, as not to suffer him to take any rest, for he himself but just before professed he could scarce support the pain of it, and made his Physician dress it a little before he killed himself; yet at last when his Sword was brought him, at Midnight he read Plato's Dialogues twice over, and I can't think he had the courage to sleep after that, and his snoring was no more than dissimulation, that his Servants who were listening at the Door might report it to his advantage.  M. Austr. 
You do ill to be so severe a Critic on his death, which still had something in't that was glorious; but how could you pretend to prefer yours to his, for, if I mistake not, you died quietly in your Bed, and there was nothing in't that was remarkable?  Adrian. 
What! was not that remarkable to make these Verses just as I was breathing out my last? 
Adieu my little Soul, my dearest delight,  
To what far Country dost thou take thy flight?  
Trembling and naked thou'lt alone be left,  
And of thy Body's clothing quite bereft.  
What will become of all thy Jollity,  
When thou art gone, I know not where, from me?  Cato in my mind treated Death too seriously, but I made it my diversion, and 'tis on this account that I do pretend mine to have surpassed his. 'Tis much easier to Brave one's fate than 'tis to Rally at it; and to entertain it kindly when it comes to our relief, than when we have no occasion for it.  M. Austr. 
I'll allow you died more decently than Cato, yet 'twas my misfortune never to hear of those Verses which were the ornament on't.  Adrian. 
See how the world's imposed on, because Cato tore out his own Entrails rather than fall into the hands of his Enemies, yet such an action shines so in Story, that every body that beholds it is dazzled with its lustre: but let a man die calmly, and in such good humour to droll on death itself, yet our dull Historians ne'er regard it.  M. Austr. 
Alas! there can be nothing truer than what you say; for I myself when I thought I should have died, took my farewell of the World more handsomely than you, and yet't has made but little noise in it.  Adrian. 
How! what say you?  M. Austr. 
I was Daughter to an Emperor, and betrothed to a King's Son, who after the death of his Father sent me back again with disgrace to my Friends without ever consummating the Marriage, and not long after I was contracted to another King's Son, and on my Voyage to his Country there arose so dreadful a Storm that I was in apparent danger of my life, yet I was calm enough to write my own Epitaph, which was this. 
Margr'et that Royal Damsel here is laid,  
Who twice was Married and yet died a Maid.  I must confess I died not then, yet what's the same, I thought I should. Cato's firmness was extravagant in its kind, and so was your Jollity in another, but mine was the only natural and easy; he was too serious, you to vain, and I the only rational person.  Adrian. 
What! do you reproach me then, that I had too little concern for death?  M. Austr. 
Yes, you seemed as if you slighted its approaches, yet I doubt you took as much pains to dissemble your resentments, as Cato did to rip up his Bowels. I expected without fear to be shipwrecked every moment, and yet in cold blood I made my own Epitaph. If there had not been something natural in my story the world might have made some difficulty in believing it, or at least that I did it out of extravagancy or fear; but at the same time I was a poor Maid, and though twice contracted, was like to be so unfortunate as to die one: and you may observe that I regretted the severity of my Fate, and 'tis that which makes my story appear so natural, and from whence it borrows all its lustre: your Verses, if you observe, speak nothing but what seems strained and affected, whereas mine easily represent my fortune without art or dissimulation.  Adrian. 
On my word, I ne'er could have believed, that the trouble of dying with your Virginity on your hands, would have proved so glorious.  M. Austr. 
You may make yourself as merry with me as you please, yet my death, if it may be so called, hath this advantage over yours and Cato's, that as you lived with the reputation of Philosophers, so in honour you were obliged to die, and if you had but dared to fear it, the world might have been very severe on you on that occasion; but for my part I might have trembled at the apprehension of drowning, and made my cries reach the Heavens, and no body e'er esteem me the less for it, yet I was composed enough to write my own Elegy.  Adrian. 
Between you and I, was it not made on Land?  M. Austr. 
That trifling evasion of yours is a little uncivil. I made no difficulty of believing you.  Adrian. 
I own myself subdued by your reasons, and shall henceforward be of your opinion, That that virtue is greatest and most commendable which surpasses not the bounds of nature.   

DIALOGUE V Between Erasistratus, and Harvey.  Era. 
YOU tell me wonders: What? that the Blood Circulates in the Body? that the Veins carry it to the Heart, and the Arteries receive it from thence, to convey it to the exterior Parts?  Har. 
I have demonstrated it by so many Experiments, that now there is no one doubts it.  Era. 
Then we Ancient Physicians were very much deceived, when we attributed to the Blood only, a slow and gentle Motion, from the Heart to the Extremity of the Parts. The World has reason to be much obliged to you, for abolishing this old mistake.  Har. 
I am satisfied it has, and not only for that, but by putting 'em into a Method, of making all those modern discoveries in Anatomy, which so much Illustrate the Art of Physic; the Motion of the Blood was no sooner discovered, but immediately there were new Canales, new-Pipes, and new Repositories found out for it. It seemed as if the whole Frame and Machine of Man's Body were taken in Pieces and cast over anew. What Advantage the modern Physicians have over you, who pretended to cure the Diseases of that Body ye had so little knowledge of?  Era. 
I grant you, that the Moderns are something better Naturalists than we, but yet I do deny that they are better Physicians. I should desire very much to see how you or any of 'em, would have managed such a Patient as Antiochus in his Quartane Ague. You must needs have heard of my Success in that Case, and how I discovered by the brisker Motion of his Pulse in the presence of Stratonice, that he was enamoured of that Beautiful Queen, and that his Disease proceeded from that Violence he did himself in Endeavouring to conceal his Passion: yet I performed that difficult Cure without the knowledge of the Circulation of the Blood, whereas had you been in my Place, you would have found yourself extremely puzzled with all your Inventions, your new Pipes and Canales would have served you then but to little purpose; the Disease was in the Heart, and therefore 'twas of more Importance to know that.  Har. 
That's not always necessary to be known, neither are all those that are sick Enamoured of their Mothers-in-law, as was Antiochus. I doubt not but for lack of this knowledge of the Circulation of the Blood you let many of your Patients die on your Hands.  Era. 
Then you believe your new Discoveries are of great use and benefit to the World?  Har. 
Without doubt they are.  Era. 
Then pray Answer me one question, what's the reason the Dead come crowding hither as thick as e'er they did?  Har. 
Oh! if they die now, 'tis commonly the Fault of the Patient; not of the Physicians.  Era. 
Therefore your modern discoveries do conduce very little to the Cure.  Har. 
Perhaps they han't leisure to make those advantages of our discoveries as they might, but 'tis probable in a little time we may see more surprising Effects.  Era. 
On my word, all things remain in the same Station where they were, there's a certain measure of necessary knowledge which Men do easily attain to, and they are so far obliged to Nature for inspiring 'em with that which is so much to their advantage. Men were very unhappy, if they were always beholding to the slow and often unsuccesful Motions of their reason, for all they know, and those things that are not of the like necessity, are discovered by degrees and long pursuit of many Years.  Har. 
Why may not a skilful Anatomist make the same advantage of the perfect knowledge of the Machine of a Man's body, as an Artist doth of a Clock or Watch, and by the insight that he has of its springs and wheels best know how to regulate its Motions when they are disordered? but if it be of so little use, as you would have it, men strive in vain, to advance that Science, and 'twere much better if 'twere let alone.  Era. 
Oh no! then there would be much diverting knowledge lost; but for any use there's in't, I think to discover some new conduit in the body, or some new Star in the Heavens is much the same. We cannot break great Nature's rule who has Ordained, that men must mutually succeed one another, which can be done by no other way but Death. Mankind may make defences, and seem to combat with diseases, till they come to the brink of Fate, but neither the newest discoveries in Anatomy, nor a search into the Closest recesses of the Body, can ever make Mankind pass over that, Nature will still be Conqueror and Death will put an end to all their Pretensions.   

DIALOGUE VI Between Berenice. Cosme. II. de Medicis.  C. de med. 
I am told by the modern Wits lately come hither, some news, which troubles me; you know Galilaeus, who was my Mathematician, had discovered certain Planets which move about Jupiter, and in honour to me called 'em the Medicis, that they are now known no more by that Name, but called the Satellites, it must needs be that the World is grown ill natured to rob me of that honour which is my due.  Beren. 
I never knew a more remarkable instance of its Malice.  C. de med. 
You may speak without concern, nor have you the same reason to complain as I, you made a vow to cut off your hair, if your Husband Ptolemy returned Victor, from I know not what Wars, which he afterwards did, and you to perform your vow, made an offering of your hair in the Temple of Venus; but the next Day a certain Mathematician stole it thence, and Published that 'twas taken up to Heaven, and placed amongst the Stars, and to this Day one of the Constellations goes by the Name of Berenice's hair they might as well call the Stars after a Prince's name, as a Woman's Locks; yet you are remembered in the Skies; and I am forgotten.  Beren. 
Were it in my Power to present you with my Heavenly Locks, I should be very willing to part with 'em, for your satisfaction, and yet have no reason to upbraid you with the greatness of the Obligation.  C. de med, 
I should esteem it very considerable to be assured, my name should live as well as yours.  Beren. 
Alas! if all the Constellations were called by my name, what should I be the better? they are placed above in the Heavens, whilst I am here below. Men know not how to Rob Death of's due, and yet they would make two or three Syllables survive; this is a very pleasant evasion, were it not as well that they and their names died together?  C. de med. 
I am not of your mind, we naturally desire to die but as little as may be, and after Death itself, we endeavour to preserve our lives on some Marble-stone or Monument.  Beren. 
Why? those very things which seem to give us Immortality, do also at length die themselves. On what ' Object would you fix your name? neither City, Town, nor Empire could answer your desire.  C. de med. 
'Twas well contrived then to give it to the Stars, for they always last.  Beren. 
Nor there could you be secure, the Stars themselves being Subject to the same Fate of changes and revolutions, and if we can believe Astronomers, new ones rise, and the old do disappear, and it may come to pass at length that my Locks may also vanish; or if we knew how to fix it on something that was more permanent, our names as well as that whereon it was set, might suffer a Grammatical Death by the change of words and letters, enough to puzzle the greatest antiquaries to find 'em out. Sometime since there were two of the Dead who disputed one with another with some heat, and I observing on't desired to know who they were; and what was the grounds of their Controversy, and I was told that one was Constantine the Great, and the other was an Heathen Emperor, and that their past greatness was the Subject of their quarrel. Constantine said he had been Emperor of Constantinople, and to give it the Preference, said it was situated upon three Seas, the Euxine, the Thracian Bosphorus, and the Propontis; The Heathen Emperor said he was so of Stambould, which has as advantageous a situation, on the black Sea, the Straight, and the Marmorean. Constantine was surprised at the resemblance between Constantinople and Stambould, but after he had exactly informed himself of the situation of the place, he was much more so, when he found it was the very same, which he knew not because of the alteration of the name, and cried out, Alas! I might as well have left it it's ancient name of Byzantium, for who can find the name of Constantine in Stambould, I doubt 'tis therefore drawing near its utmost Period.  C. de med. 
I am somewhat satisfied, and resolve hence forward to be more patiented, and since we cannot free ourselves from death, not to be concerned about our names which is of so much less Consequence.    

Modern Dialogues.  

DIALOGUE I. Between Anne of Britain and Mary of England.  Anne of B. 
CErtainly you were very well pleased with my death, for I was no sooner dead, but you crossed the Seas to Espouse Lewis the Twelfth my Husband, to seat yourself in that Throne which I had but just forsaken, but yet you enjoyed it not long; and your youth and beauty, which so much charmed the King, hastened his death and your departure.  Marry of E. 
'Tis true, my Royalty did no sooner appear but it vanished.  Anne of B. 
Yet after that you became Duchess of Suffolk, that was a great fall from Queen of France: thanks to Heaven for my better Fate. When Charles the Eighth, my former Husband, died, I preserved my Quality by espousing his Successor, which was a singular instance of my good Fortune.  Marry of E. 
Believe me, I never envied it.  Anne of B. 
No? I conceive well what 'tis to be Duchess of Suffolk after being Queen of France.  Marry of E. 
But I loved the Duke of Suffolk.  Anne of B. 
That's no matter: when one has relished once the sweetness of a Throne, all other pleasures become insipid.  Marry of E. 
I grant it: excepting those of Love, you have no reason to be angry with me for succeeding in your Title, since had it been in my power, I would have assumed no other than that of Duchess, which I so quickly did when I was discharged from being Queen of France.  An. of B. 
Can you have thoughts so mean?  Marry of E. 
The uneasinesses of Ambition could never suit my temper; Love is Nature's gift, and like all its other Bounties is calm and quiet, and easy to attain to; but Ambition, like its Parent the Fancy, is restless and unquiet, and never possesses itself of any thing but with pain and difficulty.  Anne of B. 
What? has not Nature inspired Mankind with Ambition as well as Love?  Marry of E. 
We must needs own Ambition to be the product of the Imagination, whose stamp and character it bears; for like that 'tis stormy and unquiet, full of fantastic projects, and sets up bounds to itself it never reaches.  Anne of B. 
But unhappy Love arrives at it too soon.  Marry of E. 
The joys of Love do often make us happy, and frequently we taste its pleasures, whereas that of Ambition affords but little satisfaction to its greatest Votaries; and though we might suppose that they often reap fresh delights, which were still like their Laurel green and flourishing, yet still greatness is only made for few; but Nature's gifts are all diffusive and free as the Air and Sun, and all the world do love, or if any are exempted from this great rule, 'tis only they who place their happiness on the top pinnacle of Honour: some mighty King who can have an hundred thousand men to await his pleasure, yet he can't assure himself the conquest of one Heart, and the person of some private Man shall be more taking than all His greatness: so that he often parts with the simple and innocent pleasures of his life as the purchase of his Royalty.  Anne of B. 
Those exemptions they have as due to their condition, do not derogate from their happiness, when we see their will is not only obeyed but even prevented, by all those services and cares which are offered to 'em, and on whom depends the raising of so many Fortunes. I think 'tis indifferent to know whether they are esteemed for their Person or their Quality. You say ambitious Joys are only made for few, and 'tis that which makes me like it; those that rule have so many advantages above other Men, that though they lose some of those little pleasures which are common to the world, yet they are sufficiently recompensed by the number of the rest.  Marry of E. 
You may judge of the loss they generally suffer by th' sweetness of the pleasure which they sometimes find in the enjoyment. I'll tell you a story I lately heard here of an English Princess (who reigned long and happy in that Kingdom without ever being Married:) When some Dutch Ambassadors had their first Audience, it happened that there was a handsome young Man of the Retinue, who as soon as e'er he saw the Queen applied himself to those that were near him, and said something with a low voice, but yet with such an Air that the Queen could easily divine what he meant (for Women have an admirable Instinct that way) and it proved that there was more wit in those two or three words of that dull Hollander, than in the whole Harangue of the Ambassadors; for as soon as they were dismissed the Presence, she being willing to satisfy herself so far as to know whether she had guessed the truth, asked what that young Man said, but was answered with much respect that they dared not repeat it to her; but at length she made use of her authority, and commanded 'em to tell her, and than 'twas only that he thought her Majesty a very handsome Woman, with other such dull expressions, which yet had sense enough to please the Queen; and the event on't was, that when the Ambassadors had their last Audience she made the young Dutchman a considerable Present. Observe therefore how in the midst of all her Royalty and Greatness the pleasure of being thought handsome did sensibly affect her.  Anne of B. 
But yet she never parted with her Crown, for all those Imaginary pleasures; that which is too simple and easy suits not with our natures, 'tis not enough that pleasures tickle the imagination, but they must transport it too, hence it is that the innocent lives of amorous Swains, which Poets paint with so much elegancy, are not where to be found but in their Poems, 'tis too soft e'er to succeed so far as to be put in practice.  Marry of E. 
Then what's the reason that the prospect of the most glorious Court affords not so much pleasure as the bare Idoea of this pastoral life? unless it be that men are most naturally inclined and delighted with its innocency.  Anne of B. 
So that your calm and easy pleasures consist only in those Chimeras which are formed by an idle fancy.  Marry of E. 
No, No, for tho' some people are of so distempered a palate that they relish not those Joys at first, yet in the end they do. After the imagination is tired in the pursuit of such false and fleeting objects, it fixes itself at last on those that are true.   

DIALOGUE II. Between Charles Vth. and Erasmus.  Erasm. 
DOUBT it not, had I got hither among the dead, but one minute before you, I should have disputed the preeminence.  Charles. 
What? a Grammarian, a Scholar, and to push your pretensions as high as they can reach? a man of wit, to contend with me, who was so glorious in my life, as to see myself master of the better part of Europe?  Erasm. 
You may add America to the rest of your Dominions, and yet I shall have as little reason to submit to you. What was the source and fountain of all this greatness, but blind Chance, which so wonderfully united so many different parts into one Empire? If Ferdinand your Grandfather had been a man of honour, What pretensions could you have had to any part of Italy? If other Princes had had but sense enough to have believed the Antipodes, Columbus would ne'er have applied himself to him, nor America of the number of your Conquests; what would have become of your Spanish Rhodomontade? That the son ne'er sat in your Territorie's? If on the death of the Duke of Burgundy Lewis the 11th. had but reflected on what he did, Maximilian had ne'er been Instated in that Dukedom, nor you in the Low Countries? If the Reputation of Henry of Castle, your great Uncle had not been scandalous among the women as to his manhood, as the Virtue of his wife something doubtful, his Daughter might have been well enough thought Legitimate, and you had been deprived of the kingdom of Castille.  Charles V. 
Oh! you put me into a fright, than it seems I might have lost Castille, the Low Countries, America, or Italy.  Erasm. 
Mock not, you know not how to own these Truths, but at your own cost, for as well the Impotency of your Uncle as the levity of your Aunt, did contribute to your greatness; therefore see, how beautiful a Fabric that is, which is built upon no other Foundation, than that of Chance.  Charles V. 
I know not how to sustain so severe a scrutiny as yours, and acknowledge that your wit makes all my Grandeur disappear.  Erasm. 
Yet these are the qualities you so much pride yourself upon, of which I have with so much ease despoiled you. You may have heard the story of Simon the Athenian, who having taken many Persian captives, exposed 'em naked to be sold, they on one hand, and their clothes on another's, which being very rich and gaudy, every body crowded to purchase 'em, whilst the poor Persians were not regarded: On my word the same which happened to those Persians would to others also, if their personal merit could but be separated from that, for which they are indebted to Fortune.  Charles V. 
What is this personal merit, which you so much value yourself upon?  Erasm. 
Is that a question to ask? 'tis that which is in ourselves, and has no dependence on any thing without us, such as wit, learning, etc.  Charles V. 
And can a man with reason glory so much in these?  Erasm. 
Without doubt, they're not the gifts of Fortune, like nobility and riches.  Charles V. 
That were strange indeed, what done't the learned possess their knowledge, as men do their estates by succession? done't you as much inherit the wisdom of the Ancients as we do the possessions of our Fathers? Hence it is that the learned with the same veneration do regard their Opinions, as we do the Mansion-houses of our forefathers, and commonly relinquish them with the same difficulty.  Erasm. 
No, for great men are born heirs to their father's Fortunes, but Scholars by their Birth inherit no part of their learning; 'tis not derived to us by succession, but acquired by industry.  Charles V. 
Well then, the goods of Fortune are preserved with the same difficulty, as those of the mind are first acquired; and there's as much on't to be met with in the common affairs of the world as in the deepest speculations of the closet.  Erasm. 
We don't speak of sciences but of wit alone which has no dependence upon Chance.  Charles V. 
What does it not depend on a certain conformation of the brain? and is there not as much of Chance inbeing born a possessor of this happy disposition, as there is inbeing born the son of a King? You had the good Fortune to be a witty man, yet ask a naturalist the reason why you were not as well dull and blockish, and he'll answer you, that the Fibres of your brain were of a more delicate contexture than ordinary, and some other swall matter which the most discerning Anatomist has not yet discovered. Yet these witty gentlemen think they have reason to prefer themselves before all others, as being so independent upon Chance.  Erasm. 
Therefore by your reckoning the rich and the witty are equally deserving.  Charles V. 
I must confess 'tis better luck to be born witty than rich, yet 'tis Fortune only to which they are both indebted.  Erasm. 
Then every thing falls out by chance.  Charles V. 
Yes, all that happens we know not why: you shall be Judge if I have not laid open Mankind more than you, who would only take from 'em the Advantages of their Fortune, whereas I have that of their Wit too: Therefore if Men would but first assure themselves, that any thing is their proper Right before they are proud on't, there would be no more vanity in the world.   

DIALOGUE III. Between Queen Elizabeth and Duke of Alenzon.  D. Alen. 
WHY did you flatter me so long with hopes of marriage, when you were resolved ne'er to consummate it?  Q. Eliz. 
You were not the only deluded person, there were others also who had as fair pretensions. I was the Penelope of my age, there was You, the Duke of Anjou your brother, the Archduke and the King of Sweden were all pretenders, and would have been willing to have made yourselves masters of an Island, much more considerable than that of Ithaca; I kept you in Chase for many Years, and when you had given me sufficient diversion I dismissed you.  D. Alen. 
Here are some among the dead, that will not allow that just resemblance between you and Penople in every thing, but we seldom light on such comparisons as hold good in every point.  Q. Eliz. 
If you had more wit, and less obstinacy—  D. Alen. 
Well well, to be serious, do but observe what Rhodomontades you made of your Virginity, witness that vast continent in America, which you named Virginia in memory of one of the most doubtful of all your qualities, but yet this Country was in t'other world, and so 'twas well enough; but to return to the subject of our debate, give me but a reason of your mysterious conduct in all your projects of matrimony, was it that your Father Harry the Eighth's six marriages, was a lesson for you not to Marry at all, as the constant Roving of Charles the Fifth, taught his Son Philip the Second never to stir out of Madrid?  Q. Eliz. 
I might make that my pretence which you have furnished me with, and seem to dislike it, because my father spent all his life in marrying, and unmarrying, in divorcing himself from some, and cutting others heads off. But the true reason of this my Conduct, was because I found more pleasure in forming designs, and making preparation, than in putting 'em in Execution, for the expectation is always more than the enjoyment; and as soon as Objects forsake the fancy where they have their being vanish into nothing: when you came into England to Court me, we had Balls, Masks, and Entertainments, nay it proceeded so far that I presented you with a Ring, and so much on't was pleasant, as consisting only in the Idea, and Image of marriage, but when these grew stolen, I preserved myself as I was, and sent you home again.  D. Alen. 
Then your maxims, and mine suited not well together, for mine reached at something more substantial than Chimaeras.  Q. Eliz. 
All the pleasures of our lives consist in such imaginary fancies. Now I see you were not sensible of the greatest happiness of your life till 'twas too late.  D. Alen. 
What satisfaction could I receive in all my life, to whom nothing e'er succeeded? I thought four times I should have been a King, first of Poland, afterwards of England, then of Flanders, and last of all of France, which did of right belong to me, but the end of all my hopes was nothing.  Q. El. 
See how much happiery ou were than you dreamt of, you were always feasted with hopes and imagination without having 'em destroyed by reality and enjoyment, for you did nothing all your life but make preparations for a Crown as I did for Matrimony.  D. Alen. 
But I believe as a real marriage would have done you no injury, so a substantial Crown would have much better pleased me.  Q. Eliz. 
Pleasures have not solidity enough to endure the touch, but vanish like fairy money in the handling, or not unlike to marshy ground where men must tread but gently lest they sink.   

DIALOGUE iv Between William de Cabestan and Albert Frederick of Brandenburg.  A. de Bra. 
I Like you so much the better for having been as very a Fool as myself: pray let me know the History of your Folly, and how it first began.  W. de Cab. 
I was a Poet of Provance, and much esteemed by the age wherein I lived, which was the occasion of all my misfortunes. It happened I fell in Love with a certain Lady, to whom my Poems had done no small honour, and she relished 'em so well, that she envied any other should have the like advantage; so to assure herself of the fidelity of my Muse, she gave me, some cursed drink which turned my brains, and put me out of condition e'er of Rhyming more.  A. de Bran. 
How many Years have you been dead?  W. de Cab. 
I think it may be much about four hundred.  A. de Bran. 
Certainly Poets were very scarce in that age, when they put that value on 'em as to poison 'em after such a manner. Had it been your fortune to have lived in mine, you might have made your Poems on all the Beauties of the times, without fear of being poisoned for the matter.  W. de Cab. 
I know it, for of all the wits that have come hither since, I have heard none complain of my destiny. But pray inform me how you became a fool?  A. de Bran. 
After a very grave, and rational manner, there was a certain King became so only at the sight of an Apparation in a Forest, which was no great matter, but what I saw was much more terrible.  W. de Cab. 
What did you see?  A. de Bran. 
Why, all the Ceremony and preparation for marriage; I was wedded to Mary Eleanour of Cleaves, and during all the marriage Feast, I made such serious and Judicious Reflections upon Matrimony, that from that time I quite lost my wits.  W. de Cab. 
Had you never any Intervals of reason in your Distraction?  A. de Bran. 
Yes.  W. de Cab. 
So much the worse, 'twas my misery to have my senses quite returned again at last.  A. de Bran. 
I should ne'er have looked on that as a misfortune.  W. de Cab. 
When one's once a fool 'tis best to be entirely so, 'tis only your half-witted fools who have the returns of wit and folly, and who happen to be so by Chance, whose number is very inconsiderable; but those who are so by course of Nature and cracked in their Cradles, with whom the world's so thronged, are always fools, and and are so fortunate as ne'er to admit of any cure.  A. de Bran. 
For my part I always thought that the lightest touches of folly were best.  W. de Cab. 
Oh! than I find you never understood the use on't, for it hides a very melancholy prospect from us, that of ourselves; and as one would never suffer such uneasiness if one could help it, so neither would we any return of reason which should cause it.  A. de Bran. 
You say well, but you shall ne'er persuade me that there are any other sort of fools in the world, but those that are like you and I; some men speak reason, else it had been no great matter to lose one's wits, and those that are Frantic could not be distinguished from Men of Sense.  W. de Cab. 
The Frantic are only fools of another kind, but the common follies of the world, though they are ne'er so extravagant, yet being of the same nature like Atoms of a resembling figure, do very easily combine, and fasten the link of humane society, witness the vain desire of Immortality, false glory, and many other such like Principles on which men's Actions all are founded; but the Frantic are a certain sort of fools which can't be brought into order, neither will their folly's suit with those of others, and therefore are not fit for the ordinary Commerce of Life.  A. de Bran. 
Madmen have so little wit as to treat every body like Madmen and themselves, but men of sense do not so.  W. de Cab. 
You're mistaken, all men point at one another, and know not how to prevent that, which is so ordained by nature; The solitary Man laughs at the Courtier, yet never goes to Court, to let him know it. The Courtier too despises him, and yet never seeks to find him out in his retreat: If there were any party that was generally acknowledged to be most rational, all the world would embrace it, and the crowd were not to be endured; 'tis better therefore that men's Fancies were divided, so as not to hinder one another in their imaginary pursuits, and continue still to laugh at one another.  A. de Bran. 
With all your reasonings, I take you for a fool still, and I believe the Lady's Potion has not done working in your Head.  W. de Cab. 
Observe what Notion one fool has of another. True wisdom distinguishes its possessors, but the Opinion of it equals every body, and yields as much content and satisfaction.   

DIALOGUE V Between Agnes Sorel and Roxilana.  A. Sorel. 
TO speak the truth, I can't comprehend your Turkish Gallantry, where your Lovers need only Will, and without farther ceremony Enjoy: you make use of none of those feigned and engaging Resistances (Love's most powerful & attractive charm) neither do men make their approaches with that gentle submission and care to please as they ought, so that your Sultan's and Sultana's are insensible of the greatest Joys of Love.  Roxil. 
Why? the Turkish Emperors, who are extremely jealous of their Power for some reasons of State, won't submit to use that refined way of Courtship; they fear lest those Beauties who have naturally too great a power over Men, might by that means usurp upon their Souls, and so intermeddle in State-affairs.  A. Sorel. 
Perhaps that had not been so great a misfortune as they imagined; and often Love is not only delightful in itself, but also of advantage to that which seems to have no dependence on't; I myself was Mistress to a King of France, and the absolute Dominion which I had over him was the saving of my Country: you might have heard what extremity France was reduced to in the time of Charles the Seventh, and how by the successful valour of the English 'twas almost brought to nothing.  Roxil. 
Oh, yes; that Story made no small noise here, how that France was saved by a Woman: were you that Person then?  A. Sorel. 
No, you're mistaken, you mean another; the King (who loved me) was just resolved to quit his Kingdom to the Conqueror, and retire for his Safety to the Mountains; but to defeat his design I contrived this Strategeme. I ordered a certain ginger to come to me (whom I had privately managed before) to tell me my Fortune in the presence of the King, and after he had seemed to have considered very well of my Nativity, The Stars (said he) are the greatest cheats in Nature, or else you will inspire some great Monarch with a long and lasting passion; upon which I applied myself to the King, and told him, that I hoped he would not take it ill if I went to the English Court, because he no longer would be King, and I lay under a necessity of fulfilling my Destiny. The fear of losing me made him once more resolve to be King of France, and from that time he began to be successful: France has therefore reason to be obliged to Love, and treat that kindly which was its preservation.  Roxil. 
'Tis true, but to return to the Maid: We have been therefore much deceived in Story, which gives that honour to a Country Girl, which of Right belongs to a Court Lady, and the King's Mistress.  A. Sorel. 
There has been such a Maid who by the Bravery of her Actions and Speeches animated the fainting Soldiers, but 'twas I that first inspired the King; she did him no small service with her Sword, but he was indebted to my Charms for his Delivery: and in fine, you can have no longer reason to doubt of the good Service I did my fainting Country, when 'tis so manifest by the testimony of one of the Successors of Charles the Seventh in these Verses. 
What Cloistered Nun or praying Hermit dare  
With you most beauteous Agnes to compare?  
Your Charms have saved your King and Country too,  
And that was more than all their Prayers could do.  Now what say you Roxilana; if I had only been a Sultana like you, and had no more power of Charles the Seventh than you had over your Sultan's we had been all undone.  Roxil. 
I admire at your vanity, to value yourself so much on so small an action: What difficulty was there for you a free Woman and Mistress of yourself to assume so much power over your Lover? But I had the courage to throw off all subjection to the Sultan, though I were his Slave; you made Charles the Seventh a King against his will, and I made Solyman against his will my Husband.  A. Sorel. 
How so? they say the Sultan's never Marry.  Roxil. 
'Tis true; yet it came into mine Head to espouse Solyman (though he had so often satisfied his passion before, and to effect my design I contrived this Strategeme: First I built many Mosques and Religious Houses, and performed some other actions of Piety and Devotion, and having so done, I dissembled a profound Melancholy: The Sultan a thousand times desired to know the cause of it, to whom I replied after the Ceremony on't was over, that the Doctors of the Law had told me all my works of Piety would be of no advantage to myself because a Slave had performed 'em, and all I had done was for my Lord Solyman. Whereupon he presently made me Free, that I might reap the benefit of my own works; afterwards when he would have taken his former freedom with me, I told him with a grave and serious Air, I thought he had no power on the person of a Free Woman. Solyman who was of a nice and tender Conscience went immediately to consult with a Doctor of the Law (whom I had secretly managed before) and had this Answer returned him; That he must have a care how he treated me any longer as a Slave, he himself having made me Free, and there was no way left of Enjoying me but Marriage. Upon this he was more Amorous than ever, and, contrary to the custom of all his Predecessors, Married me.  A. Sorel. 
I must acknowledge that was pleasant, to catch those in that Net which they are so cautious to avoid.  Roxil. 
Man is not that headstrong Animal we fancy, and when he is caught by th' passions, 'tis an easy matter to lead him any where. Were I to live but once again, and had assigned me the most Imperious of 'em all to manage, I would make him be my humblest Vassal, provided only I had much Wit, some Beauty, and but a little Love.   

DIALOGUE VI Between Joan of Naples and Anselm.  J. of Nap. 
WHat, can't you let me know my Fortune? surely you han't forgot your Astrology that you were so great an Artist in i'th' tother World?  Ansel. 
Whence should I take my observations? there's neither Stars nor Heaven here.  J. of Nap. 
'Tis no matter, I'll dispense with you from observing all the rules of your Art so exactly.  Ansel. 
That were pleasant, for a Man that's dead to turn ginger; But what would you desire to know?  J. of Nap. 
Something in relation to myself.  Ansel. 
Good! why you are dead, and will be always so, and your Affairs and condition here will always remain in the same posture, and that's the sum of all that I can tell you.  J. of Nap. 
That's it which gives me all my trouble, I am well enough assured there's nothing new can happen here, yet if you would but foretell me something, the thoughts on't would divert me. You cannot Imagine how melancholy it is to have a prospect still of the same Fortune: Come, one little Prediction I beseech you, be it what it will.  Ansel. 
Could one believe that you should suffer the same uneasinesses here that you did above? there they are never satisfied with the present, and are always anticipating the Future; we should be wiser now we are here.  J. of Nap. 
If men do so, 'tis not without reason; the present time is but an instant, and 'twere great pity to bond one's life but with that one point, and take no delightful prospect beyond that; is it not much better to enjoy the future with the present, than that alone which creates all the pleasures of Avarice?  Ansel. 
And what's the event on't? they borrow so much from the future by their hopes and fancies, that when it becomes the present they find it so rifled and deflowered that they know not how to relish it: And though the pleasure's dead, yet their Impatiences are not so. 'Tis the great concern of Men to know what will be; and therefore the Astrologers are so hunted after to inform 'em, who tell 'em, with a great deal of Confidence, that there are hot and cold Signs, Male and Female; that some Planets are good, and others hurtful; and that some are neither one nor tother, but are so complaisant to conform themselves according to the humour of the Company they are found in; yet all these Follies are very well received, because they are in hopes by them to be brought to the knowledge of the future.  J. of Nap. 
What? do they let us know nothing then? I wonder that you who were my ginger should speak so ill of your own Art.  Ansel. 
Hark ye! the Dead don't use to lie, I abused you with that very Art which I professed, and you so much esteemed.  J. of Nap. 
Oh! but I won't believe you: how could you foretell me then that I should be four times married? and what probability was there that any rational person would let herself be so often caught in the same Noose? therefore I am certain you read my Destiny in the Stars.  Ansel. 
I'll assure ye I consulted the Stars much less than your Inclinations, and though some of our Predictions come to pass, yet this is no proof of the Infallibility of the Art. I could bring you to one of our Fraternity, who can tell you a very pleasant Story on this Subject. This Man was a professed ginger, and relied as little upon his own Art as ever I did; yet to satisfy himself whether there was any certainty in it or not, he dedicated one whole day to make his Observations, whether the particular Actions of it could any ways answer to his Rules, and it happened that he foretold many things which were far more strange than your four Marriages, which mightily surprised him: but afterwards more narrowly examining his Astronomical Tables, on which his Predictions were grounded, he found 'em to be all false and imperfect; and if they had been rightly made, he should have been obliged to have foretold the quite contrary.  J. of Nap. 
If this be true I'm forry I knew it not in t'other World, that we might have been no longer cheated with these Impostors.  Ansel. 
There are Stories enough in the World to their disadvantage, and yet the Art continues still in vogue. Men are so Infatuated with a desire of knowing what's to come, that they will by no means suffer themselves to be disabused, with pleasure they sacrifice their All to a future hopes; yet when it comes to their possession, they straight fly from it as if spiteful Nature had so ordained, that Mankind should ne'er enjoy those goods they have, nor think of making themselves happy the present moment, but still refer it to that which is to come, as if at its Arrival, it would not be like the former.  J. of Nap. 
I own 'tis still the same, yet 'tis not good that one should think so.  Ansel. 
I shall make you understand the folly of this fond Opinion, by the Relation of a Fable: There was a Man that was thirsty, and sitting at a Fountainhead, refused to taste the Waters, because he hoped at length they would become more clear and pure, the Waters still continued running, yet still the same; which made him wait as formerly in expectation. But at last the Fountain became dry, and when he would, there was nothing left for him to drink.  J. of Nap. 
I believe this story might not only be applied to me, but to all the dead, and our Glass of Life is quite run out, before we know what use to make of it. But what then? methinks 'tis Expectation makes the greatest Blessing, and there is something of pleasure not only in the hope, but in the fear of what's to come: would you have a Man live in the world, as we do here, where the present and the future are all alike?  Ansel. 
Man's Life were very pleasant indeed, if all the happiness on't consisted in the prospect of distant and imaginary Objects. What pleasure can it be to aspire at that which can be ne'er enjoyed, and pursue a shadow which can ne'er be Caught?   
FINIS.   

A Catalogue of new Books Printed for, and sold by James Norris; at the King's Arms without Temple-Bar. 1684.  

1. MAssinello, or a satire against the Association, and the Guildhall Riot, Quarto.  
2. Eromena, or the Noble stranger, a curious Novel, Octavo.  
3. Tractatus adversus Reprobationis absolutae decretum, nova methodo & succentissimo compendio adornatus & in duos Libros digestus, Octavo.  
4. An Idea of Happiness, in a Letter to a Friend, enquiring wherein the greatest happiness attainable by Man in this Life does consist, Quarto.  
5. A Murnival of Knaves, or Whiggism plainly displayed, and, if not grown shameless, Burlesqued out of Countenance, Quarto.  
6. The accomplished Lady, or deserving Gentlewoman; being a Vindication of Innocent and Harmless Females from the Aspersions of Malicious Men; wherein are contained many Eminent examples of the Constancy, Chastity, Prudence, Policy, Valour, Learning, etc. wherein they have not only equalled, but excelled many of the contrary Sex, Twelve.  
7. Patriae Parricida, or the History of the horrid Conspiracy of Catiline, against the Commonwealth of Rome, in English, Octavo.  
8. Core Redivivus, in a Sermon Preached at Christ-Church Tabernacle, in London, upon Sunday, September the 9th. 1683. being a day of Public Thanksgiving for the late Deliverance of his sacred Majesty's Person and Government, from the Treasonable Rebellion and Fanatic Conspiracy, Quarto.  
9 Rome's Rarities, or the Pope's Cabinet unlocked and exposed to view, being a true and faithful account of the Blasphemy, Treason, Massacres, Murders, Lechery, Whoredom, Buggery, Sodomy, Debauchery, Pious Frauds, etc. of the Romish-Church, from the Pope himself to the Priest, or inferior Clergy, Octavo.