A DISCOURSE UPON THE PASSIONS.  
In Two Parts.  
Written Originally in FRENCH.  
Englished by R.W. Esq  
LONDON, Printed by Tho. Newcomb, for Hen. Herringman, at the Anchor on the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange. 1661.   

THE CHARACTERS Of the PASSIONS.  
Written in French  
BY THE Sieur de la CHAMBRE, Physician to the Lord Chancellor of FRANCE.  
Translated into English.  
LONDON, Printed by Tho. Newcomb, for JOHN HOLDEN, at the Anchor in the New-Exchange. 1650.   

TO The Lord SEGVIER, Chancellor of FRANCE.  
MY LORD,  
IT is nothing strange to you, to see the effects and disorders which the Passions cause, since the Justice you dispense is most commonly employed in hearing and condemning of them. But it is a most unheard-of thing to crave your protection for them, that they might even be authorized by you; and that your name should be used to make them pass in Public, and give them a general approbation. Yet, my Lord, it is what I this day do; in dedicating this Work unto you, I make you the protector of the excesses I therein present; even in some sort I speak you to be the Author of them, since your commands were the cause of their production: and, by a boldness without example, I use the illustrious name of The Seguiers, to be the prop of Vices; and I bring them to light with such advantages, wherewith Virtue would esteem herself highly honoured. It is true, they are not of the nature of those which corrupt Manners, or which fear the severity of the Laws; these are but their Images and Figures, which may be received as those of Monsters and of Tyrants, and which ought to be no less pleasing to sight, than the pictures of conquered persons use to be to their Conquerors. But although hereby my Temerity becomes less odious, yet I perceive it is nothing less excusable, and that you will ever blame me for having profaned your Name, mixing it with so many defaults; for having exposed to your eyes things the Art of which is not much less vicious than their Matter; and for having thought that I could have told you some new thing on a Subject in which you are ignorant of nothing but the ill usage: yet if your Greatness please to remember, that you are the object of all my thoughts, that I can make nothing but it must bear the marks of your benefits, and that even the Tempests which I here show, are the effects of the Calm and Tranquillity you have procured me; you will then perceive that it is as well out of Necessity as Election, that I consecrate this little Work unto you; and that finding myself obliged to publish the resentment I have of the extreme favours which you have heaped on me, I ought to leave in the violent Passions a way to express that which I love to be all my life;  
My Lord, Of your Greatness, The most humble, most obedient, and most faithful servant, La Chambre.   

Advertisement TO THE READER.  
HAving already spoken of those Passions which respect Good. We were obliged to examine those who have Ill for their Object. But because the Soul may two ways consider Ill; and that it is sometimes an Enemy, which she combats, and sometimes flies; according to those two several designs, she also forms two Ranks of different Passions. The one of which may be called the Courageous, and the other the Timorous. For since Courage is nothing but a Power of the Soul, which employs the forces of the Animal to stop or overcome Evils, We need not doubt but those Passions which serve those purposes are conducted by the same Power; and that consequently they ought not to be otherwise called, then Courageous. Even as Such as dare not expect the Enemy, may certainly be concluded Timorous.  
When the Soul indeed thinks herself weaker than the Ill, She endeavours to shun the encounter, and according to the motions she makes to estrange herself from it, she forms Hatred, Aversion, Grief, Fear, and Despair. But when she thinks herself sufficiently strong to overcome it, or at least to bear its assaults, than she raiseth up Boldness, Anger, and Constancy; which are the Courageous Passions, whose Nature and Characters We shall now examine. But perhaps, Reader, the Preposition we have made and established as the Principle of all the differences of these Passions, will beget a very reasonable doubt, which thou wouldst willingly have cleared before thou interest on the Subject. For if the Soul thinks itself stronger or weaker than the Ills, she must compare her forces with theirs; and consequently she must Reason; forasmuch as without reasoning we cannot compare one thing with another. So that the Soul of Beasts which is susceptible of these Passions must be obliged to reason, when she would make use of them; And so she would become Reasonable. And so Reason would no longer be that difference which distinguisheth Man from other Animals.  
Wouldst thou but content thyself with Resolutions which are commonly given in the Schools upon such like differences, I could easily resolve this, saying that in these encounters she forms no true Reasonings, that they are only gross and imperfect images of it, and that they are the effects of that instinct which God hath given to all Animals to enlighten them, and guide them in their actions, But because this answer is not capable to satisfy such Minds who would clearly discern things, and that the word Instinct seems to be in the rank of those terms wherewith our Ignorance flatters itself, and under which she thinks to find shelter, I thought fit to satisfy thy curiosity, and even to give some light to those things of which I am hereafter to speak; and therefore obliged myself more exactly to inquire what the Nature of this Instinct, which makes such a noise, and which so few understand, was; and to observe how far the knowledge of the sensible Soul can reach: and last of all to show thee that there accrues no great Inconvenience in believing that Beasts reason.  
And doubtless this was the place where we ought to examine these Noble & famous questions, which contain the Principles of all the Souls motions, and which may serve for a Preface and groundwork for all what we have to say of those Passions, who have Ill for their object. Yet this Discourse being somewhat overlong, and the difficulty of the subjects treated therein requiring a great assiduity of Mind, I thought it not fit to place these thorns at the entrance into the work, which perhaps might have disgusted thee to have proceeded, or might have tired thee before thou wert arrived in the way wherein I would have engaged thee; I therefore leave it at this time: yet if thy curiosity desires satisfaction in things of that Nature, The Discourse of the Reason of Beasts is already printed, which yet for our mutual satisfaction, I shall entreat thee not to undertake the reading of, unless thou wilt perform it at once, and without interruption. It's a Discourse whose parts are so linked together, that they cannot be divided without diminishing the force and grace which the whole pretends to.  
As for the rest, wonder not if in the Pictures of the Passions I present, thou findest some touches of virtues and vices; and if (for example) in the description of Boldness thou encountrest actions which seem to belong to valour and generosity. I consider Passion in its nature and in its essence; and as it is a motion of the Soul every where, where I know this Motion to be, I also acknowledge the Passion. So that virtue being nothing but a regulated motion, and a Passion moderated by Reason, and since a moderated Passion is still a Passion, Discoursing in general of the Passions, I may speak of those which are under Virtue's direction, aswell as those which are directed by Vice.   

The Stationer to the Reader.  
THe Gentleman whose pastime it was to English these Characters, as they had pleased him, so he judged they could not but be grateful to an ingenuous Reader; and therefore commended them to the Press. And to show how far he was from the new vanity of erecting his Statue in the front, he thought fit rather to use the practice of Painters, who, how well soever they may have copied Masterpieces, never set their names but to Originals; that as he pretends no Praise, he may thereby frustrate Censure. Yet he is confident of his Author's merit, and that this Work of his will move love and delight in all but those who are possessed with malignant Passions; they indeed may quarrel with Love, oppose Desire, vex Joy, frown on Laughter, and even put Hope out of patience: but against such, Laughter alone will be sufficient. And for the rest, if the English Channel run too near the French Coast, and that some may think the Translation overfraught with Gallicisms; perhaps they are such as themselves in their ordinary discourse often use with affectation. But from them the Passions take about, and steer their course to the Ladies, acknowledging them the only Admirals of these Seas; to whom, whether they come safe, or are shipwrecked, they of right belong, since none do more powerfully cause, or more sensibly suffer them; to whose fair hands I am obliged to present them, and from whom alone they promise themselves protection.  
March 10. 1649. JOHN HOLDEN.   

A Necessary Advertisement To the READER.  
WHat I here present, is but a small part of a Great Design, wherein I intent to examine the Passions, the Virtues and the Vices, the Manners and Customs of People; the several inclinations of Men, their tempers, the features of their faces: in a word, in which I pretend to show thee what is most excellent and most rare in Physics, Morality, and in Politics. I know thou already thinkest that my undertaking is full of Temerity, that it is beyond my strength, and that there is no likelihood I should ever accomplish a Work, the least pieces whereof have startled the greatest men of the former times▪ But I entreat thee, Reader, to consider that I am but at the beginning of it, and that I shall not proceed without the knowledge of thy opinion and further advice therein. For if this Essay please thee not, and if thou believest that so rich a matter requires more expert and more cunning hands than mine, I am ready to quit the Work, and to finish it where I commenced it: I shall at least have the satisfaction to have endeavoured to please thee, and to have found for thy divertisement a design which may pass for the greatest and the fairest which was ever conceived, had it been but performed. And that I may give thee a more particular knowledge thereof, I will show thee the Platform, and make it appear that ill Architects may have fair Capriccio's, and may sometimes form noble Designs.  
What I then proposed to myself, was, to present thee with The Art to know Men; which contains Five general Rules. The first is founded on the Characters of the Passions, of the Virtues and the Vices; and shows that those who naturally have the same air which accompanies the Passions or Actions of Virtue or Vice, are also naturally inclined to the same Passions, and to the same Actions. The second is drawn from the resemblance Men have with other Creatures; and teacheth us, that those who have any part like to those of beasts, have also the inclinations they have. The third is grounded on the beauty of the Sex; and shows that men who have any thing of a feminine beauty, are naturally effeminate; and that those women who have any touch of a manly beauty, participate also of manly inclinations. The fourth is drawn from the likeness which the men of one Climate have with that of another. So those who have short noses, thick lips, curled hair, and a tawny skin, as the Moors have, are subject to the same vices to which they are inclined. The fifth and last may be called Syllogistick, because that without using particular signs, which usually design the Manners of persons, it discovers them by discourse and reasonings: which is done by two principal means: The first is the knowledge of Tempers: for without knowing the signs of the inclination a man hath to be angry, so as we know that he is choleric, it will suffice to speak him to be inclined to that Passion. The second is the most ingenuous, and is drawn from the connexion and concatenation which the Passions and the Habits have amongst themselves. So when we know a man is fearful, we may assure ourselves that he is inclined to Avarice, that he is cunning and dissembling, that he usually speaks sofily and submissively, that he is suspicious, incredulous, an ill friend, and the like. And although we do not observe particular signs of all these later qualities, yet we believe they are found in him, because we know the principle whence they deduce their origine.  
These are the first strokes which design the Platform of the Great Work we intent. For as all those Rules are grounded on the relation which Men have with other things, its impossible to apply them well, without the knowledge of those very things. And it is bootless to say that any man is inclined to such a Passion, because he bears the Character thereof, unless we know what the Character thereof is. We must therefore make as many Discourses as there are grounds for these general Rules; and divide the whole Work into seven parts.  
The I shall treat of the Characters of the Passions, of Virtues and of Vices.  
The TWO of the nature of the creatures which may be useful to this knowledge.  
The III of the beauty of men and women, and of the inclinations which follow them.  
The IV of the difference of the bodies and manners of people.  
The V of Tempers, and of the effects which they cause in the Mind and on the Body.  
The VI of the connexion which the Passions and the Habits have amongst themselves.  
The VII shall reduce in order all the signs which shall have been drawn from these great Springs; shall teach their use; and finally, shall show The art to know Men.  
Now, Reader, you may perceive why I have undertaken the Characters of the Passions, and why I make it my first entry, and the Frontispiece of my Work. But because I therein observe a very particular Order, I thought it fit to acquaint thee with the Reasons which obliged me to follow it.  
I suppose then the Passions are motions of the Appetite, by which the Soul seeks to draw near Good, and to shun Ill; and that there are two Appetites in Man, The Sensitive, and the Intellectual, which is the Will. All the actions of the Sensitive Appetite are called Passions, forasmuch as the Mind is agitated by them, and that the body suffers and sensibly changeth in its motions. But all the actions of the Will, although they are Motions, bear not the name of Passions: For there are two kinds of them; some, which are not for him who acts, but for another; as all actions are, whether just or unjust. Others, which are only for him who acts them; as Love, Hate, Pride, and other Motions of the Will. The first are simply called Actions, or Operations; the other are called Passions, by reason of the likeness they have with the motions of the Appetite. In effect, the motions the Will makes for the good or ill which concerns it, are altogether like those of the Appetite, if we did not consider the alteration of the body which accompanies the later, and which is no part of the essence of the Passion, being but the effect. For the Will loves and hates, rejoiceth and grieveth, fears and hopes in the same manner as the Appetite, and hath with it its Concupiscible and Irascible part. However, Humane Passions, whether they be raised in the Will, or whether they are form in the Sensitive Appetite, are of two kinds: for some are Simple, which are not to be found, but either in the Concupiscible part, or in the Irascible: others are Mixed, and proceed from both together.  
The Simple ones which come from the Concupiscible part, respect the Good or the Ill, without considering whether there be either a difficulty in their pursuit, or flight from them; and are, Love, Hate, Desire, Aversion, Pleasure, Grief.  
Those which belong to the Irascible, consider the difficulties there are, whether it be in the pursuit of good, or flight of Ill; and are, Hope, Despair, Boldness, Fear, Anger.  
The most considerable of the Mixed Passions are, Shame, Impudence, Pity, Indignation, Envy, Emulation, Jealousy, Repentance, Astonishment. For, Shame is a mixture of Grief and Fear, caused by Infamy: Impudence proceeds from the Pleasure and Boldness we take in doing of dishonest things. Indignation comes from Anger and Grief, that we see Good or Ill happen to those who are unworthy of it. Pity proceeds from the sorrow we feel for other men's mischiefs, and the apprehension we have of falling into the same affliction. Envy comes from Grief, and from Despair of possessing the Good which happens to another. Emulation springs from the regret we have not to enjoy those perfections which we find in others, and from the hope to attain them. Jealousy is a confusion of Love, of Hate, of Fear, and of Despair. Repentance is bred from the sorrow we feel for having done ill, and out of a hope of pardon. Lastly, Astonishment is mixed with Surprise, Fear, Grief, and Despair; as I shall make it appear in the Characters of every of those Passions.  
According to this Method, I shall first treat of the Simple Passions, and afterwards of the Mixt. And because that amongst the Simple Passions there are some which tend towards Good, others which assault Ill, and others which flee from it; I thought it more fit, in stead of ranking them, as is commonly done, with their contraries, to examine them after this Order, because that they naturally keep it in their production, and that those of one gender commonly are of a company; and because their motions having a great agreement together, make one the other the better known; and so form Ideas more perfectly of every Passion, then if we mixed them with their contraries. You shall therefore here have those Passions which have Good for their object, to wit, Love, joy, Laughter, Desire, & Hope. For I do not consider Laughter as a pure corporal effect; but I comprehend therein the emotion of the Mind which causeth it; and, out of that respect, it may pass for a particular Passion, and for a species of joy.. But stick not at this: It is indifferent for my design, whether it be one, or but the effect of one. There are many things which I examine not with the severity of the Schools. Sometimes I distinguish those they have not separated; and I often confound those which they believe to be different: Yet it never happens, but when I am obliged thereto by the necessity of the Subject, which suffers me not always to enlarge myself; or for the want in our Language, which in Dogmatical Discourses is often poor and barren: In many places you may observe where I betray the purity and elegancy thereof in Physickterms not yet approved, which yet I have been constrained to use.  
Besides, every Passion shall be divided into four principal parts. The first shall give you the Description thereof: The second shall show its Nature: The third, the motion it causeth in the Spirits and in the Humours: The fourth shall discover the Causes of all these effects. There shall also be a fifth in Love, wherein I shall inquire the nature of Beauty in general, and why it causeth Love. Perhaps in that and divers other places, you will not find the satisfaction you promised yourself, and I may be blamed for having obscured those things which seem most apparent, by difficulties which were before unknown. But before you condemn me, remember that those things which we think were best understood, are often those we least know; that the best part of ourselves is unknown to us; that we are ignorant of their nature, and of their motions; and that it is very difficult to penetrate those depths wherein there is to be found nothing but a very great obscurity. Yet have I thither brought all the light I could possible; and if I am not deceived, it is great enough to show thee all those new Observations, I believe, I have taken. If they are right, I assure myself that thou wilt no less esteem them, than those new lately discovered Stars, since our interest is greater to know ourselves, than the things which are without us. If I have not succeeded herein, yet it is very much that I have showed the way, and marked the places which are to be followed. It is not that I believe I am the first who have observed the want we had of a full knowledge of the Passions. There have been so many great Spirits who have wrought on this Subject, that it is impossible but they must have made better discoveries than I, of what was to be added. But as they are actions common to the Mind and to the Body, and Physic and Moral Philosophy must help one the other to discourse exactly of them; it happened that those who have undertaken it, could never employ them both; and that those who could have done it, have had other designs, which have hindered them from discovering to us the nature of these things, whose good or ill use causeth all the felicity or mischief of our lives. In effect, if they are well regulated, they form the Virtues, and preserve Health: but if they grow to excess, they are the source whence the disorders of the Soul and of the Body deduce their origine. And whoever would consider the great number of Sicknesses which momentanily assault the life of Man, and the several ways whereby she customarily loseth herself, will find but few whose first cause was not some one of the Passions of the Mind. So that we may say, that the most profitable parts of Wisdom and Physic have not hitherto been discovered; and that if I have endeavoured to give them any part of my cares, and of my small labour, I have not so much strayed from my Duty and my Profession as some may imagine. To conclude, what success soever my Undertaking have, it in my opinion deserves some approbation, or at least excuse: and indeed, Reader, I must have both, to oblige me to pursue it. In a word, if thy judgement be favourable, it will afford me both very much glory, and very much pains.   

ERRATA.  
In the Epistle dedicatory, page ult. line 6. for leave, read learn. l. 8. for love, read have.  
In the Book, p. 7. l. 14. for ever, read even. P. 13. l. 25. for Maintica, read Maintion. P. 32. l. 4. for other, read others. P. 48. l. 22. for enlights, read enlightens. P. 99 l. ult. for diffent, read different. P. 103. an accent upon Catoché. P. 133. It would be, etc. P. 149. l. 24. for thicks, read thickens. P. 192. l. 14. for ardours, read orders. P. 226. l. 27. for graceful, read grateful. P. 260. l. 25. for ventures, read reenters P. 272. l. 2 for general, read generous, P. 282. l. 21. for Theorictus, read Theocritus.   

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PASSIONS.  

CHAP. I. What the Characters of the PASSIONS are in general.  
NATURE having destined Man for a civil life, thought it not sufficient to have given him a tongue to discover his intentions; but she would also imprint on his forehead, and in his eyes, the images of his thoughts; that if his speech happened to belie his heart, his face should give the lie to his speech. In effect how secret soever the motions of his soul are, what care soever he takes to hid them, they are no sooner form but they appear in his face; and the disquiet they cause is sometimes so great that they may be truly called tempests, which are more violent at Shore then out at Sea: And that he who advised a man to consult his glass in his anger, had reason to believe that the Passions are better known in the eyes, then in the soul itself. But that which is more wonderful, those actions which spring from virtue and vice, discover themselves in the same manner: And although the goodness or malignity they have, seem to have nothing to do with the body, yet they leave with it, I know not what kind of images: And even the soul not perceiving what it doth, disposeth the parts in such a manner, that by the plight and posture which they take, we may judge whether its actions are good or ill; Neither can the understanding work so secretly but the senses must perceive it: If it elevate its thoughts, if it recollect itself, the looks grow fixed, the car hears not; in fine, there is a general suspension of sense, and motion: And whether it be that at the same time the soul cannot intent such different functions, or that the inferior part respects, and will not divert its Mistress, we know that this is employed when the other operates not. It's a most certain thing that the body changeth and varies itself, when the soul is moved, and that this performs almost no actions but it imprints the marks thereof, which we may call Characters, since they are the effects of them, and that they bear their image and figure.  
Now, because the first Rule of Physionomy is grounded on these Characters, and that it maketh use of them to discover inclinations, assuring us, that those who naturally have the same air, and the same countenance which accompanies their moral actions, are inclined to the same actions; The design which we have undertaken makes us here propose the particular Characters of all the Passions, and after them of Virtues, and Vices: But first we must know wherein these Characters consist and what are the causes of them.  
The Characters of Passions, and of habits, being the marks of the motions, and designs of the soul, are also its effects, as is already said; but because there are also two sorts of effects, those which are performed in the soul, and those which are effected in the body; there are also two kinds of Characters; the one Moral, the other Corporal. For if you consider a man in anger, Violence appears in all his actions; his words are full of threats and injuries; he cries out, he runs, he strikes; reason and remonstrances offend him, and he knows no friends but those who favour his passion. On the other side, his countenance is inflamed, his eyes sparkle, he wrinkles his forehead, his words are fierce, his voice is terrible, his looks are frightful, and his whole behaviour is furious. These than are two kinds of effects, and two sorts of Characters; the one whereof consists in moral actions, and the other in the change and alteration of the body.  
Now we must see what these actions are, and what this change is; for all moral actions cannot be used for Characters; otherwise, some would be Characters of themselves, since Passions, and Virtues, are moral actions.  
To take away this difficulty, you must observe that the essence of human actions consists in the inward emotion which the object forms in the appetite; and that all those things which are done in pursuance thereof, are but as rivulets running from the same spring. So anger is nothing but a desire of Vengeance; and in the pursuit of that emotion, the soul produceth exterior actions, which may serve to this purpose; as threaten, blows, and other violences, which we call Characters because they express and discover the alteration and interior motion of the appetite.  
But there is also another thing to be here considered; and it is that when we speak of Passions, of Virtues, and of Vices, we are not to conceive them as qualities, or simple actions; but as complete qualities and actions which are accompanied by many others, and yet, which all tend to one principal end which the soul proposeth. For although love, (to speak properly) is but a simple emotion of the soul, by which it unites itself to that which is lovely; Yet we do not therein form its whole Idea; we consider it as a Passion that hath beauty for its object, and which to possess it, employs desire, hope, delight, etc. In the same manner, Justice is a steadfast will to render to every one what belongs to him. But to effect it, she makes use of Prudence, which makes her consider the quality of persons, the time, the place, and all other circumstances. She makes use of Temperance, and of strength, to moderate those passions which often traverse her design; and although they are actions which precisely concern her not, yet she forbears not to appropriate them, because they conduce to her principal end. Now all these borrowed, and posterior actions are also a part of moral Characters; because they design the passion, or principal habit, which is the spring, and first cause whence they are derived.  
It's far more difficult, to say wherein the Corporal Characters consist, and what intention nature hath in forming them. We see, that every passion carries I know not what air on the face; that virtue sheds into its actions a certain grace, and an agreeable aspect, which is not to be found amongst the vicious; but as we have always called it The I know not what, it seems that we are thereby taught, that it could not be said what it was. For I suppose, (as it is true) that the Characters we seek, are nothing but the air of which we have but now spoken. Now this is found in so many different things, that it's almost impossible to observe what of common they have whereupon we may establish its essence; for it most commonly happens in the motion of the parts, and some have believed that this air was nothing but that motion. But it's certain, there is a sixth and natural air wherein the parts move not, and which is no effect of the souls emotions. So that it would be more likely, that this air were nothing but a certain relation of the parts amongst themselves; which happens from the situation they take when they move, or when they rest: But nether is this sufficient, since the colour which that relation compriseth not, partly gives the air to the face; and that ruddiness is one of the principal Characters of shame, as paleness is of fear; this ever increaseth the difficulty, since that in defining beauty, we say that its a just proportion of the parts accompanied with a pleasing colour, and with a grace; and that colour and grace are esteemed as two different things. For grace is nothing but a pleasing air; nay even custom, often applies it to what it is not, when we say a man hath an ill grace; and in this case, grace is the same with air: That we may know then what this marvellous air is, where the serenity, and the storms of the mind appear, we are first to observe, that the air of persons is discovered in their pictures; that the grace of a fair face is expressed by colours, and that consequently, there must be somewhat of fixed, and which flies not away, since there are none but stable and permanent things, which painting hath power over; and that of all visible objects, there is only motion, which subjects not itself to the pencil. Now it is impossible to find any thing stable, common to living things, and their pictures, besides the figure and colour of the parts. So that it seems this air is to be there placed. But because there is yet another thing in the grace, which the art of painting cannot attain to, and that there is a certain vivacity, which can never be fixed on the cloth; we must with reason believe that motion serves also to this grace; it's that which renders the beauty lively and piercing; without which its sad, dead, and without attraction. We cannot (in effect) doubt but that the motion of the parts gives something to this vivacity, since 'tis a part of its perfection. But because that after it hath ceased, there is yet I know not what which remains on the face, and that we see a certain splendour shine in the eyes, which depends neither upon their figure, motion nor colour; we must necessarily add to all this a certain secret influence, which being sent into the eyes disperseth itself over the parts of the face; and without doubt, after having well enquired what it may be, we shall find it to be the spirits which the soul continually sends into those parts, which leave there the brightness of the natural light they have; and indeed there are faces which near seem well, and afar off appear very ill coloured, because the spirits animate it not, and that the splendour they give is so weak that the species of it cannot reach far, and so they leave those of the colour more withered. This grace than is in the colour, in the figure, in the motion of the parts, and of the spirits. And yet this doth not say that all these things are this grace: For were they in other subjects than man, they would not please; and green which is the most perfect of all colours, would cause a frightful deformity, were it on a face. It must then be, that as sounds are not pleasing of themselves, but as they are in a certain proportion; so all these things are pleasing to the sight but only because they have a certain relation, and a certain agreement, which pleaseth the eyes, and contents the mind.  
To know this concordance, you are to understand that there are two sorts of beauties in man; The Intelligible, and the Sensible. The first is but the interior perfection, the just connexion of all faculties necessary for a man to perform the functions whereto he is designed; and the sensible beauty consists in the disposition which the Organs ought to have to serve these faculties. So that what renders the figure, the colour and the motion agreeable, is the fitness which those things have with the nature of man. For how fair soever the colour be, how perfect soever the figure of the parts are, how regular soever the motions are, if they are not conformable to his nature, they produce neither a beauty nor a grace; on the contrary, they cause a deformity, and render the body unseemly. Now although there be but God alone who knows the principle of this conformity, and why the forms have more inclination for one figure, colour, or some other accident then for another: yet there are in our soul secret seeds of this knowledge, which is the cause she pleaseth herself in these objects without knowing the reason; in the same manner as she finds them displeasing, when that conformity and proportion which they ought to have is wanting.  
Some will perhaps say, that I here confound grace with beauty, placing grace in the proportion of the parts, and in the colour, which in the ordinary definition of beauty are separated from grace. But I believe there is no inconvenience herein, and that its true that all that is fair is pleasing, and that the proportion of parts being fair, must needs please the sight, and that therefore they are graceful.  
And indeed the ancients who in these things were wiser than we, made not this difference, and always placed the graces where beauty was: For although Aristotle says, that little ones might be called pretty and pleasing, but that they were not to be esteemed fair; 'tis that he spoke of an entire and perfect beauty, which is not to be found in little bodies, for as much as they want that just proportion which belongs to the perfection of man.  
Yet there is some ground for the difference which hath been since made between beauty and grace; for as the matter and the form enter into the composition of man, we have placed beauty in the figure and in the colour which belongs to the matter, and grace in the motions which are effects of the soul: not that grace is not in the colour and in the figure; or that beauty is not in the motions; but because she is more excellent in these, by reason that the soul who is the principle thereof, is more perfect than the matter, and that action is the last perfection of things. Beauty which ought to be the most agreeable, hath been called by the name of grace, although in effect it ought to be common to all that is fair; and that the colour, figure and motion which have all their beauties, ought also to have every one their particular graces.  
But to return to our subject; the grace is a kind of air and means; nothing more but that conformity and proportion whereof we have spoken. For when the air is accompanied with this proportion, its pleasing; so that this air in general is in all those things which have a grace, and it may be defined, A certain exterior and sensible quality which is bred from the colour, figure, and motion of the parts. And if we add that these things are proportionable, and conformable to the perfection of man, it will be the definition of grace.  
We are notwithstanding to observe that the air appears more in one of these three things in some encounters then in the rest: For that which is fixed and natural, is chief in the figure and situation of the parts. That which accompanies the passions, depends most from the motion and the colour; that of virtuous actions is sometimes in rest, because reason hinders those motions which would not befit the moderation and quiet she seeks: such is the grave and modest Mine, such is the countenance of a man who meditates and thinks on great matters: And it may be that even vices which are in excess, have an active and turbulent air; and those which are in the defect, have quite the contrary: so a hot and precipitate man is always in action, and the lazy is : besides the air appears sometime more in one part then in another; and although it be more remarkable in the face then in any other place, yet there is one which belongs to walking, another in the carriage of the arms, and another of the whole body. The French hath been more happy to express those differences than any other language, whatsoever. Not content to say l'Air & la Grace, Air and Grace, it adds la Mine, lafoy countenance, le Maintica, le Geste, & le Port, which as near as we can render them, are, The Mine, the Presence, the Behaviour, the Carriage, and the Port. The Mine chief belongs to the face, the port to the gate, the carriage and the behaviour to the arms; the Air, the Grace, and the Presence to the whole body. And as the Port, and the Gesture, or Carriage, denote motion, so the Mine, the Behaviour, and the Presence apply themselves best to rest: but the air and the grace are common to both of them. However it be, the air which is in Passions, and in moral actions, principally comes from motion; but you must know what the cause of this motion is: For upon this knowledge depends the greatest part of what we are to say; and because it will better appear in the passions, we will therefore by them begin the enquiry.  
We have already said, and we shall often be obliged to repeat, that Passions are nothing but the emotions of the appetite, by which the soul moves towards good, and estrangeth itself from evil; and as she hath divers organs which may be used to that end, she also employs them, and moves according to her intention: Now the Spirits without question are the first she makes use of, being the most agile, and which take their birth from the same place where she forms her designs; so that we need not wonder that they are the first to execute them, since they seem to be the first who have the knowledge of them.  
The soul than sends forth the spirits, and scatters them over all the exterior parts, either to acquire good, or to oppose ill: But when this is too powerful, and she is sensible that she is not strong enough to resist it, she retires them in and brings them back to the heart. Now this flux and reflux brings two great changes, because the humours being drawn along with them, their arrival swells and agitates the parts, and paints them of the same colour of which themselves are: on the contrary, their flight makes them fail, look pale, and renders them .  
Perhaps it would not be unprofitable to examine whether every passion hath a particular motion of the spirits; and whether anger moves them otherwise then shame, love, joy, or the rest which carries them outwardly: Whether Fear retire them inwardly after another manner than Hate, Aversion or Grief. For if this were true, and that we could know these differences, we could with the more facility discover the causes of the alterations they produce. For my part, I believe that since in every Passion the appetite hath an emotion and a particular end, the means it useth aught also to be particular; and that the motion of the spirits must be conformable to the intention it hath, and to the agitation it gives itself: and therefore that that is done in one passion, is different from those which are done in others. So that its very likely that in one they cast themselves with impetuosity, and high boilings like torrents: and in another slide as sweetly as rivers, that some make them overflow their banks, others restrain them in their bounds: that now their course is direct, and presently again irregular. Lastly, That we may say love dilates them, desire shoots them forth, Joy sheds them abroad, Hope holds them fast, boldness drives them, and that anger throws them forth in great boiling gulps, and so of the rest, as we shall more particularly see in the discourse of the Passions; although to speak Truth, our spirit is not clear-sighted enough to discern exactly all these differences, and that in this case the window of Momus were very necessary for it. How ever it be, the soul is not content after this manner only to agitate the spirits and the humours in the passions: she also causeth those parts to move which are capable of a voluntary motion, as being those which are the most powerful to seek and embrace good, and to repel or fly evil; and to speak truth, this motion of the spirits is often a succour very useless to the soul, and which serves rather to show her precipitation and blindness then to obtain what she proposed to herself; for when they cast themselves into the face, she fancies to herself that it is she herself that runs thither; and when they retire themselves to the heart, it's she also who hides herself there, although she be already at the place where she would arrive, and that she abandons not that wheene she thinks to estrang herself; and what benefit is it to a Creature for the spirits and the blood to go to the encounter of an agreeable object, since neither the soul nor the body come nearer to it, nor are any more united to it, and that the senses only are they which ought to make this union? we may say the same of the resistance she would make to those ills which present themselves; for what relation is there betwixt the spirits and an injury, and what effect can they make to drive back an ill which most commonly is only in opinion, which sometimes is no more or which even is not yet made?  
But it is not thus with voluntary motion; for indeed here the hands draw and take what's useful, the body is carried towards what is lovely; it truly keeps a distance from what's ill, and flies or drives away what incommodates it.  
It's true that there are some of these motions where the soul deceives itself aswel as in that of the spirits: how many lost steps, ridiculous postures and idle words are there in Passions? to what use are these several motions of the head, those different figures which the forehead, the eyes, the nose, and the mouth form? There may be some relation with the design which the soul proposed, since its certain that in shame she casts down the eyes, as if she would hid herself, that she lifts them up in Anger as if that served to repel an injury, and that in scorn she lifts up the nose as if she would drive away what she disdains. But it's easy to perceive that herein also she deceives herself, and that the blindness and trouble in which she is, causeth her to use means which benefit her nothing to the obtaining of what she desires.  
'Tis not that she is therefore to be condemned in all these motions; there are many which happen without any design of hers; which although they are not against her intention, yet she is not the cause of them, 'tis but by a certain necessity that they follow those motions which the soul inwardly excites; for we cannot with reason say, that she proposeth in anger the hindrance of respiration and of speech, the inflammation of the face, and the sparkling of the eyes. But these are effects which follow the agitation of the spirits, which impetuously cast themselves on the exterior parts as we shall say hereafter.  
By this discourse we may not only perceive what the causes of those motions which the Passions excite are, but also which those are which make moral Characters, and which make the corporal. For those which the soul employs by a clear and distinct knowledge to obtain the end she pretends in every Passion, make the moral Characters; and those which she useth by a pure instinct, or which happen without any intention of hers, form the corporal Characters. For these latter are of two sorts, the one are by the command of the soul, the other are by necessity, as you will see more particularly in the following discourses.   

CHAP. II. The Characters of Love.  
LOVE is not only the Spring of all the Passions, but even of all the good and of all the ill which happens to men; without it there would be no Sciences in the world; Virtue would be without followers, and Civil society would be but an imaginary good; it is that which breeds in us the desire of fair things, and makes us possess them, and by a wonderful incantation changeth and transformeth us into them: to it we own all the good things we possess, it may give us those which we want, and if it drive not from us the ills which necessarily accompany this life, at least it sweetens them, nay and even renders them pleasing, & makes them the instruments of our felicity.  
But this is it also that corrupts virtue, ruins society, and renders art despicable. And if it hath truly brought into the world these excellent things, it seems it is only to drive them out again. That noble vigour which incites the mind to fair actions, that divine fire wherewith they say the soul is clothed, and which naturally raiseth it towards Heaven, languisheth and dies under the weight of base and terrestrial things, upon which this Passion fixeth it. In short its this that forms all the tempests which agitate our life there would be no grief, no fear, nor no despair; were there no love; and who ever will nearly consider all the passions, will easily believe that they are but several motions which it causeth, and different figures which it assumes.  
Now as there are but few objects which can reach the soul, which are not able to move this passion: And whereas Riches, Honour, Pleasure, and in a word all Goods whether false or true may raise it, we will not here disimbroile this Chaos, and our design gives us not leave to speak of any other kind of love but that which beauty begets in the appetite.  
Neither is it a slight enterprise, notwith standing the helps those great men of the times past have given us, and what endeavour soever we have already made to discover its origine, yet are we constrained to confess that there is somewhat in it which is divine, whereto our spirit cannot attain; and the same poverty which we find as they say at its birth, happens also in our thoughts when we would speak of it; so that were it necessary to observe all the effects thereof, we might sooner count the waves of the sea, than the motions it causeth in the soul: neither doth heat produce or corrupt more things in the world, than love causeth both good and evil actions.  
In effect its the instrument of that divine Art which Nature hath provided to preserve her most excellent works; without it long since we had no more spoken of Families, of Peoples, or of Commonwealths; and those which were esteemed the most flourishing, had been but the Assemblies of a sort of wild & savage beasts, had not love sweetened and civilzed them; for it's it that forms us to a civil life, which is the true life of men, since thereby we become liberal, courteous, and generous; it teacheth us to be discreet, obedient, and faithful; it renders us abundant, eloquent, and ingenious; and for that same cause the wisest man among the ancients formerly, said that he was ignorant in all things but in the art of love, forasmuch as he esteemed that love is the school of honour and virtue, and that wheresoever it reigns it brings peace, abundance and Felicity. And indeed had it not been altered by men, it had never produced any othereffects but those, and we had not been obliged to have added to its Eulogies, the crimes of which it is accused, and the ills which at all times it hath done through the whole world: but as the fire how pure soever it be, raiseth stinking and dangerous fumes if it take in a corrupted matter, you are not to wonder if this divine flame being bred amongst those vices wherewith the nature of man is infected, produceth only filthy desires, forms only evil designs, and if instead of the good things it ought to bring mankind, it cause only troubles, anxiety and misfortunes.  
We have not undertaken here to give an account of all its disorders, neither will we slain this discourse with the blood and the infamy it hath brought into Families and States, nor with the sacrileges wherewith it hath violated the most sacred things; it will be sufficient to say, that its the most dangerous enemy wisdom can have: For as much as of all those passions which may disturb her, there is only love against whom she hath no defence; those which enter nimbly and impetuously into the mind, are but almost of a moment's continuance, and reason finds its excuse in their precipitation; those others which move slowly by little and little, she perceives them coming and can either stop their passage, or in that weak condition drive them away. But love slides in so secretly that its impossible to observe its entry, or its progress, like a masked enemy it advanceth and seizeth on all the principal parts of the soul, before it is discovered, when there is no means to be found to get him out; then he triumphs, and wisdom and reason must become his slaves: and 'tis what in my opinion the ancients would have said when they feigned Love sometimes to be the Father of the gods, and sometimes that he was a Daemon which causeth them to descend from Heaven to Earth: Because its certain that this passion hath mastered the wisest men in the world, and that it was not without cause that Lais once vaunted to have seen more Philosophers with her, then of any other kind of men. But let us leave these subjects for lovers to entertain their complaints withal, and without interessing ourselves either in the praise or dispraise of love, let's consider from the Port where we are, the storms it raiseth in the soul and in the body.  
The first wound that beauty gives the soul, is almost insensible, and although the poison of love be already in her, and that it's even dispersed through all her parts, yet doth she not believe herself sick, or at least thinks not her mischief so great. For as we do not give to Bees the name they bear, but only when they have a sting and wings: so neither is love called love but when he hath his arrows and can fly, that's to say when he is pungent and unquiet. At first we take it for a simple liking, or a complacency we bear to so lovely a Person with whose presence we are pleased, of whom we delight to discourse, whose remembrance is sweet; and the desires we have to see and entertain her, are so calm that wisdom with all its severity cannot condemn them, even she approves them, and passeth them for civilities and necessary duties: but they are not long at a stand, they by little and little increase, and at last by the frequent agitatiou of the Soul, they kindle that fire which was there hid, and cause that flame to increase which burns and devours it; then this pleasing image which never presented itself to the mind but with sweetness and respect, becomes insolent and imperious; it enters every moment, or more fully to express it, it never leaves it, it mixeth with its most serious thoughts, it troubles the most pleasing, and profanes the most sacred, it even slides into our dreams and by an insufferable perfidiousness, it shows itself in them severe and cruel, when there is nothing to be feared, or abuseth us with a vain hope when we ought truly to despair; then love who before was but a child, becomes the Father of all the passions, but a cruel Father, who hath no sooner produced one, but he stiffles it to make room for an other, which he spares no less than the former; at once he causeth a hundred kinds of desires and designs to live and die; and to see Hope and Dispair, Boldness and Fear, joy and grief, which he causeth continually to succeed one another, Despite and Anger, which he makes to flash out every moment, & the mixture of all these passions; its impossible but you must fancy some great tempest where the fury of the wind raiseth, throws down and confounds the waves, where lightning and thunder breaks the clouds, where light and darkness, heaven and earth, seem to return to their first confusion.  
But as there are times when storms are more violent and more common, there are also encounters wherein this tempest of Love is stronger, and more frequent. The chief in my opinion are, the presence, and the absence of the beloved person, her love, and her hate, and the concurrence of a rival; and we may say, that these are the five acts wherein all the accidents and all the intricacies of this Passion are represented; at least if there are others, they pass behind the curtain, and out of the spectator's sight.  
If it happen then that a lover be absent from his beloved object, disquiet and fretting pursue him everywhere, he hath no friends but are importunate, the divertisements which were most pleasing to him are troublesome; in short there is nothing in his life which displeaseth him not, but silence and solitude, as if he were possessed with those strange diseases which makes us hate the light and men; he loves nothing but darkness and deserts, there he entertains the woods, the brooks, the winds, and the stars, they have nothing as he fancies but what is conformable to the humour of her he loves, and to the pains he suffers; he calls them insensible as she is, and finds them like him in perpetual agitation, and after having a long time tormented his spirit with such like Chimaeras, he gins to think of those happy moments when he shall again see that desirable object that he may speak to her, and give her an account of his sighs and of the tears he shed in her absence; sometimes he meditates the complaints wherewith he must soften her rigour, the thanks with which he will receive her favours, and the vows wherewith he will confirm his servitude; sometimes he puts pen to paper, he writes, blots out, tears, and if he have any thoughts which may securely stay on the paper, they are those only which witness the excess of his love and fidelity; and than what artifices doth he not employ to procure the delivery of his letters? what extravagances doth he not commit when he receives any, or even when any thing that hath but touched the person he loves comes to his hands? he keeps them always joined to his eyes or to his lips, he makes them his idols, and would not change them for Sceptres and Diadems; to conclude, we may say that absence is the true night of lovers, not only because their Sun as they say illuminates them no more, but also because that all their pleasures are but as in a dream, and at that time all their ills are irritated and augmented.  
But let's consider the day which follows this night, 'tis infallibly the presence of the person beloved; indeed a lover calls it no other, who believes that when he comes near it, all the beauty in the world is discovered to his eyes; he finds a new heat dispersed through his soul, and a certain mixture of joy & astonishment causeth him so pleasant a trouble that he is ravished therewith and as it were out of himself: then how proud, bold or eloquent soever he be, he must humble himself, be afraid and lose his speech; it avails him nothing to have prepared his courage and his discourse, they prove but so many dreams and fantasies which vanish at the sight of this light; nothing but his eyes can speak for him which witness by their looks what an excess of pleasure and respect this meeting affords him; but what ever is said, that this is the particular language of Love, there is yet another which is much more proper, and which is also far stranger than this: for although there are passions as violent as this, yet is there none which inspires like this, such extravagant and such ridiculous words; for a lover scarce utters one probable word, what care and what interest soever he employs to make himself believed; all his discourses and writings are perpetual hyperboles; he burns, he languisheth, he dies, he speaks of nothing but of prisons, of chains, and of torments; he calls her he loves his sun, his heart, his soul, and his life; he swears that he alone hath more love than all men besides, that his passion is infinite and shall be eternal: In brief, all his words are beyond the truth, his designs and his promises beyond his power, and all his actions beneath his courage; for there is no so base submission which he will not make; there is no service so low or vile which he will not render; there is no subjection amongst slaves so diligent, so careful and so express as his; he often adores a person that disdains him, courts a confident that betrays him, cherisheth servants that mock him; he must use his enemies with respect, his friends with indifferency, and all the rest of the world with scorn; he must suffer without complaining, he must fear all, desire much, hope for little: in a word he must love his ill, and hate himself. I omit the profuse expense he makes, the dangers he runs through to gain only a word or a favourable look, the transports of joy which a good reception yields him, the excess of grief and despair which a disdain causeth, and the furies which jealousy inspires when a rival traverseth his pursuit. When we shall speak of those passions in particular, then also will we show the rest of the extravagancies which love causeth, although indeed they cannot be all discovered. For besides that there are no disorders in the other passions which are not to be found in this, that its capable of all the follies which can possess a distracted mind, it hath so many faces and several countenances, that its impossible to take their picture; sometimes it's violent and impetuous, sometimes sweet and peaceable, in some pleasant and toying, in others peevish and severe, in other bold and insolent, in other timorous and modest; it appears ingenious and stupid, fantastical, light, furious, and in a hundred other fashions, which in my opinion was the cause that some feigned Love to be the son of the wind, and of Iris; to show the wonder and the variety which there was in this passion, and to teach us that his original is as much hid as that of those two kinds of Meteors. But before we undertake to discover it, let's see what change it causeth in the face.  
I do not believe that he who first painted Love with a vail before his eyes, intended thereby to show the blindness which is in that passion, but either through the debility or by the privilege of his art, he was obliged to hid what he could not express: In effect, what colour, nay even what words can express all the changes which Love causeth in our eyes? how can that resplendent humidity be represented which we see shine in them? that modest disquiet, that laughing grief, and that amorous anger which is to be perceived in them; now you shall see them turn this way, and now that, now sweetly lift themselves up, by little and little fall down again and pitifully turn towards the beloved object. Sometimes they dwell on it as if they were fixed, sometimes they turn from it as if they dazzled, sometimes their looks are quick, sometimes sweet and languishing; now they fly out with liberty, and now they steal and escape from between the lids; which seem as if they would shut upon them: In a word, all the motions wherewith the eyes in other passions are agitated are to be observed in this: you shall always find laughter or tears, which sometimes agree & mingle together; although they are sunk and hollow, they do not therefore dry up or lessen; on the contrary they seem bigger and more humid than they were before, unless it be after a tedious grief or an extreme despair, for than they become dry, dim, cast down and set. The forehead in this passion seldom gathers itself; on the contrary it seems as if it were extended, and if sorrow sometimes casts it down, the wrinkles do scarce so much as break its evenness; 'tis there where the redness gins to appear which Love often raiseth in the face, and even then when the other parts are pale, this always retains something of its first colour; sometimes the lips are red and moist, sometimes pale and dry, and they never almost move without forming a pleasing smile, sometimes the undermost is seen to tremble and to whiten with a subtle froth, sometimes the tongue passeth over them, and by a light touch and trembling which it gives, it flatters and tickles them; when it would form words it lisps, and the humidity which the desire raiseth in the mouth, stiffles and drowns them: Even the ears are of no use to a lover, he hears not half what you say to him; if he answers 'tis with confusion, and his discourse is every moment interrupted by deep and long sights, which his heart and his lungs incessantly exhale: If he speak of his passion 'tis with a trembling and softened voice which he lets fall at every stroke by those passionate accents, which desire, grief, & admiration usually form: he grows pale, lean, & he loseth his appetite, he cannot sleep, and if sometimes grief and weariness overtake him, his slumbers are continually interrupted by dreams, which do often more afflict his mind then the true ills which he suffers. When the beloved person presents herself to his eyes, when she is but named, or when any thing awakens his remembrance of her, at the same instant his heart riseth, and is agitated, his pulse becomes unequal and irregular, and he grows so unquiet that he cannot stay in one place, sometimes chillness seizeth him, sometimes heat fires all his blood, sometimes he feels himself animated with an extraordinary force and courage, sometimes he is cast down and languisheth, and even sometimes he faints; lastly he feels himself strucken with a sickness which laughs at the Physician's skill and which finds no remedy but in death or in love itself. But let's not farther, let us finish this discourse with the artifice of the Painter as it begun, let's hid what we cannot describe, & be content to inquire the causes of those effects which we have now observed in the essence and Nature of this Passion.  

PART. 2. Of the Nature of LOVE.  
ONe of the greatest wonders in Love is, that this Passion being so general and so common, and wherewith we may say all knowing men have been touched, there hitherto hath none been found who hath clearly discovered its nature and origine; for after having seen all what hath been written thereof, we may affirm that the love of Philosopher's was as well blind as that of Poets: and that he who said it was I know not what, which came I know not whence, and went away I know not how, made not one of the worst encounters: Now although I will not examine all the definitions which are given it; the bounds which I have prescribed being too narrow to permit so long a discourse; yet there are some which are esteemed the most reasonable, whose defects I must observe that I may well establish that which I mean to propose; and you may wonder that I approve not that of Socrates, who was more knowing in Love then all the Philosophers in Antiquity; nor that of S. Thomas who understood Morality better than any man after him; So that I am obliged to tell you the reasons which make me descent from their opinions, And which make me steer another course than they have done.  
For the first, who defined Love to be a desire of Beauty, he confounds two Passions in one, nay even he destroys them both, since desire moves only towards those things which we have not, and is quenched when we possess them: although Love continue in its possession, and even sometimes therein renders itself more violent; and than if love be a desire it would be no more Love, since we cannot desire what we enjoy; and by the same reason desire would no longer be desire. I know well you will say, that there is no possession so entire and full where desire may not find its place, and were it but the continuation of the good we enjoy, 'twere sufficient to employ it, and to render it inseparable from Love: but this escape is unprofitable; for if the possession be not entire, it supposeth a part which yet we have not enjoyed; and who wisheth the continuation of a good, considers it not as present but as a thing to come; and therefore he forms a new Idea of the good he possesseth, and hath a different motive from that which its presence gives, and this is enough to cause two several passions; otherwise we should confound Love with Hope, and even with all the other motions of the soul, which are often found by one only object according as we consider it several ways.  
For S. Thomas, who says that Love is a complacency of the appetite in the thing which is lovely; either he takes the word complacency for the sutableness which the appetite finds in the object which the imagination proposeth; or else for the pleasure and the joy which the object yields it; if it be that sutableness, it is form before Love; if it be the pleasure, it follows it: For its certain that when the imagination or the understanding have judged a thing to be good, the first thing the appetite doth, is to agree & consent to the judgement which they made of it; and although this more clearly appears in the will then in the sensitive appetite; because the will is free to consent or refuse what is proposed to it, and that consent seems to be an act particular to it; yet there is in the appetite a certain image of that action, and its likely it approves what the imagination presents before it carries or moves itself towards it; and this approbation and agreement is the complacency of which we speak; which is nothing else but the satisfaction and the quiet the appetite takes at sight of the objects which are conformable to it. So light rejoiceth the eyes even before it move the appetite; and the pleasure they receive in this encounter, is not a Passion nor a Motion, but a certain calm which comes from the conformity of the object with that power: The same happens to the appetite; when the imagination proposeth any thing that is lovely, it afterwards likes and moves to possess it; so that this agreement precedes Love, and Joy follows it, as you shall perceive by the sequel.  
To form then a definition of Love without these difficulties and defects, we are first to suppose the difference betwixt that Love which is a habit, and that which is a Passion; for being a Motion, when that Motion ceaseth, the Passion also is at an end, and we may say, that there is no more Love; but the habit forbears not to be there still, which is nothing else but the impression of the beloved object which remains in the Mind, and which causeth that at all times when the thought proposeth it to the appetite, it moves and forms the passion of which we speak; the Passion of Love is then a Motion, and because Motions draw their differences from the end whereto they tend, we are to observe what its end is. Now as the appetite stirs not but to possess good and fly from ill, we cannot doubt but the possession of good is the end of Love; but as we cannot possess a thing without in some manner uniting ourselves thereunto; it necessarily follows that Love is a Motion of the appetite by which the Mind unites itself to that which seems good unto it.  
It's true that at first this will not seem true, because that most commonly in Love the beloved object is absent, with whom it is not likely the soul should unite itself; but if you consider that objects may be united to the powers by their species and by their images, or by their true beings; and that consequently there is a real union, and another that is not, which the schools call intentional, and which we may name Ideal; you may observe that the union which the appetite makes with the object which the imagination proposeth, is of the latter rank; because the true being of things enters not into the imagination, it's their Idea and their image only; and this union is that alone which naturally belongs to the appetite, for that it can not otherwise for its part unite itself to the good which is presented unto it; if it move towards any other union 'tis not for itself that it seeks it, but for other powers which may really unite themselves to their objects: for the the appetite is a politic faculty which works not only for itself, but for all others which are beneath it: and as the imagination is the Centre of all the senses, the appetite is it also of all the inclinations which are in the parts; so that the imagination or the understanding proposing to it what is fit, it seeks it for them, and endeavours to procure them the enjoyment thereof; and than if they are capable really to unite themselves with their objects, it covets their union; but this hinders not but that it unites itself before with them by a union proper to it, and which is as the principle and spring of all other unions belonging to the soul.  
Perhaps you will say that the understanding and the imagination in the same manner unite themselves to what is fit for them, and that therefore Love may be aswel formed there as in the appetite; but the difference is great, because that the objects come and go in the understanding and in the imagination; and the knowledge they have of them is rather gained by rest then by motion, as Avistotle says, quite contrary to the appetite which moves itself towards its object and goes out as it were of itself to unite itself thereto; so that the union which is made in the understanding and in the imagination, is purely passive without any motion of its faculties: but that of the appetite is active and performed with agitation, considering also that the union made by the appetite is more perfect than that which is made by knowledge; for as much as the mind may have an aversion from some thing which it hath conceived, which is a kind of separation, and therefore the union thereof is not so perfect as that of the appetite, which cannot endure this division, and which consequently is the most accomplished which can be found in the actions of life.  
But if Love be a motion of the Soul to unite itself to what is lovely, it seems as if when it is united thereunto, there then should be no more motion, and consequently no more Love; and as this union may be made in a moment, for that there is nothing can hinder it, it seems as if this motion also were made in an instant; and that therefore Love should not last any longer, which would be a very strange proposition and contrary to the truth.  
To answer this objection, you must observe, that there are things which move themselves to attain to some end separate from their motion; and that there are others which find in the motion itself the end they seek; the first cease to move when they have attained their end; But those who have no other end but motion, or at lest none that is separated from their motion, never pretend to rest; and as rest is a perfection in those, so 'tis an imperfection in these; now the appetite is of this latter kind, which truly moves to unite itself to what is good, but the union it seeks cannot be effected but in motion, and when that ceaseth it vanisheth; so that whilst the beloved object is present it must incessantly agitate itself to obtain the end it desires, which is to unite itself thereunto; and if it chance to rest, it proceeds from that the object is no longer present with it, or at least that it is no more offered unto it as good; Love then is a motion and a union of the appetite to what is lovely whether absent or present; because its absence hinders not the imagination from proposing the Idea thereof to the appetite, which is the only one with which it naturally can unite; its true that working for other powers (as we have said) it stops not at this simple union; it seeks what is fit also for them; it desires for the seeing and hearing that their objects may be at a reasonable distance; for touching and tasting, that theirs may be immediately united to their organs; In fine as many ways as things can be united, the appetite and the will wish a fit union for them; and you must confess that the concourse of all those motions makes the Passion of Love complete and entire, and the first of which we have spoken, although it contains all its essence and its form, yet hath it not all its extent; we may say it is the source, and that the others are the brooks which increase it.  
Let's now see what this particular agitation is, which the appetite causeth to make this union, and in what its different from that which is to be found in Joy, in Desire, and in Hope, by which as well as by love, it seems that the soul would unite itself to the good which is presented to it. For 'tis not sufficient for the perfect knowledge of the Passions to say that they are motions, unless you observe the differences of these motions, and unless you make known the different impressions; and the diverss progress which the diversity of these objects cause in the appetite.  
You must then suppose there is some relation between the motions of the Soul and those of the body, and that the differences which are found in these in some manner happen in the others. For since the effects are like their causes, the motions of the body which are the effects of the Soul, aught to be the images of that agitation which it gives itself. In effect they say that the understanding moves directly towards its object, that it reflects and redoubles itself on it, that it reenters itself, that it wanders and confounds itself; which are all phrases drawn from sensible motions and which ought to make us believe that somewhat like it is done in the soul, and chief in its appetitive part, because it is by it that in effect it moves and agitates itself; neither is it to any purpose to say that they are not true motions, but that they only are Metaphorical; for besides that you must confess that all definitions of the Passions where the word Motion is always used, are Metaphorical; it's nevertheless certain that there may be a resemblance between both although they are of several kinds: But I shall say farther, that to consider exactly the corporal motions, we may say they are not such perfect and true motions as those of the soul, and that they are but gross and imperfect images of them; since its true that in the order of things, those which are inferiors are more noble and more perfectly in the superiors, and that all of them are but copies drawn the one from the other, whose original is in the Sovereign Idea of all beings.  
How ever it be, since that in defining Passion in general the word Motion is used, we must necessarily observe the differences of the Passions, and therein employ the differences of Motion, and find in every of them some particular agitation, which hath an agreement and relation to some of the sensible Motions.  
To discover then that which is most fit for Love, we must first know where the image of good is; and whether it dwells in the imagination, or whether it insinuates itself into the appetite; it being certain that if the appetite go abroad to seek it, it ought to agitate itself in another manner then if it comes home to it; its true it is not easy to be decided, and take which side you will, you will find inconveniences which seem inevitable: For, if the image of good issues not out of the imagination, the appetite which is a blind power can never know it; and therefore ought not to move to unite itself to it not knowing it to be there: To say also that it comes forth of the imagination and slides into the appetite, it will be useless there by the same reason, since it only serves to represent things and give netice of them, which the appetite is not capable of; besides its hard to conceive how this image can run from the imagination into another power, because besides that the accidents cannot pass from one subject to another, it's the term and formal effect of an immanent action, which hath this property never to go out of that faculty wherein it was produced.  
To avoid these entanglings, and that we may no farther engage ourselves in the doubts of the schools, we must say that the image which is in the imagination, in effect goes not out of it for the reasons we have discoursed; but as in the presence of luminous bodies, light is shed through the air which environs them; so when this image is form in the imagination, it multiplies in all the parts of the Soul, it enlights them and excites after them those which are capable to be moved; It's even very likely that 'tis in effect a refined and purified light, since the images of corporal things which strike our eyes are nothing else but lights as we have shown in its place; and that there is nothing more conformable to the mind then this quality which is as the middle, or horizon of spiritual and corporal things; however it be, we ought not to doubt but these images are as well multiplied as those of the body, since they are more excellent, and that we have assured proofs of them in the effects of the memory and the forming faculty, which ought necessarily to be imbued with these images, to form parts conformable to the design which the imagination often proposeth contrary to its ordinary conduct.  
But if it be true that these Ideas are only fit to represent things, and give you the knowledge of them, how can they be useful to those faculties which know nothing, as those are of which we have spoken? We must answer that there are two kinds of knowledge, the one clear and distinct which belongs to the senses, to the imagination, and to the understanding: the other obscure and confused, which is in the appetite and in all the other powers, which have a natural knowledge of their objects, and of what they are to do.  
It's then true, that the image of good is in the imagination, as a light which sheds its rays into the appetite, which inlightens, and afterwards excites it to move to unite itself thereunto: For although it be multiplied, and that the appetite be full of the splendour it casts, it contents not itself with this influence; it seeks to unite itself at the Centre, and at the spring whence it comes; as we may see it happens to iron, which having received the magnetic virtue moves towards the Loadstone, which is the principle and source thereof, that it may the more strictly unite itself thereunto.  
So that its very likely, that to form the Passion of Love, the appetite carries itself straight towards the Idea of good which is in the imagination, and that this motion is like to that of all other natural things, which move thus toward what is conformable to them.  
But this breeds great difficulties; for though you may conceive this kind of motion in the sensitive appetite, by reason that it is placed in an organ different from that of the imagination, and that there is a space between both, where we may fancy that this motion is made; this cannot take place in Love which is form in the superior part of the Soul, where the will is not separate from the understanding, and towards which consequently it moves not itself, since it's always naturally united to it; moreover I say, were the sensitive appetite only in question, it's hard to comprehend how it could move thus; for there is no likelihood that it should go out of its place and from its organ to join with that of the imagination, since all its motions are immanent actions; if likewise it do not go out, how should it unite itself to this Idea which is in the imagination?  
To resolve these difficulties, and answer these seeming urgent reasons, we are to remember that the motions of the Soul, although they have conformity with those of the body; yet are they not altogether like them, and if they participate somewhat of their nature, yet have they none of their defects. For they require not that succession of time, nor that change of place which is always found in those, and which are necessary followers of the imperfections of the matter: they are made in one moment and in one place, at least they do not go out of that power where they are form: for you must not think that the appetite in drawing toward good or from evil quits its natural bounds, and that it passeth from one place to another like animated bodies. All these agitations are made in itself; and as water which is shut up in a gulf may move in several manners without issuing out; so this power which is as an abyss in the soul, may be several ways agitated within its own bounds, and by the different transport of its parts sometimes dash against its bounds, sometimes retire towards its Centre; in a word make all the motions which are to be observed in the Passions. It is not then necessary that the will be separate from the understanding, and that there be a space betwixt the two, to cause the motion of which we speak agitating itself in itself, and driveing its parts towards the Idea of good which is represented it by the understanding; it unites itself to it as much as it can, and so causeth the Passion of Love; it is just so with the sensitive appetite; for although its principal organ be far from that of the imagination, we must not believe that these two faculties are quite shut up in these parts, they disperse themselves through the whole body and are always joined together, as we will more at large show in the discourse of Joy. So that the motion which is there made is like that of the will; and in the one and the other, Love is but a motion of the appetite, which directly carries itself towards the Idea of good and unites it thereunto, which is not effected in the rest of the Passions: as we will make it appear.  
You have now seen what Love is in general, whence its easy to observe its differences, by the differences of those objects which may move it: for as there are goods of the mind, of the body, and of fortune, and as every of them is honest, useful or delightful: its certain that although the motions whereby we Love all these things are of the same nature, and that in general they have the same end, which is to unite the appetite to what is good; yet are they different between themselves, because these goods are different; so there is a Love of Riches, Pleasures, Honours, and Virtues; in a word, as many as there are kinds of false or true goods, so many sorts of Love there are, of which we have here no intention to speak, because the greatest part of those kinds are comprehended in the virtues and the vices of which we shall treat hereafter; And because we have restrained ourselves to that Love which beauty breeds in the appetite.  
This Love may be defined a Motion of the appetite, by which the soul unites itself to what seems fair unto it: So that all the diversity that there is betwixt this definition, and that of Love in general, consists in beauty; wherefore we have two things to examine. First what beauty is; in the second place, why it causeth Love; but because this search is extremely high and difficult, and that it may break the connexion of this discourse, we have remitted it to the end of this Chapter, to speak of the effects which Love causeth in the humours and in the spirits.   

PART. 3. What that Motion is which Love causeth in the Spirits and in the Humours.  
SInce that the motions of the spirits and of the blood are in the Passions conformable with those which the Soul feels in itself: There is no doubt but that Love uniting the appetite to the Idea of the good which is represented to it, produceth also in the spirits a certain motion which seconds its design, and renders this union the more forcible: but as the senses serves us but little to know the difference of these motions, the understanding must supply their defect, and must by discourse show us what this motion of the spirits is which is the most uniting, since 'tis that which ought to accompany this Passion, to which end you must suppose two things to be most true: The first that the Heart is the chief organ of the sensitive appetite; The second that the Brain is that of the imagination: now as the Idea of good is form in the imagination, and the motion of the spirits gins at the Heart, the soul must of necessity having a design to unite them to the good it hath conceived, transport them from the place where they begin to move, towards that where they are to meet this object: And because this first birth of Love is from the inward union of the appetite whereof we have spoken; the first motion which the spirits also suffer must drive them to the brain, where it seems this union ought to be; for the Idea goes not out of the Faculty which produceth it, as hath been shown; and forasmuch as the spirits carry with them heat and blood, from thence it comes that the imagination of Lovers is heated, and afterwards brings forth so many fair productions, and sometimes too extravagancies, if the motion and heat be too violent; we may say besides that the paleness which is so common to them, partly comes from the transport of the spirits which are within the brain, which forsaking the face, leave it without heat or splendour: but if the beloved object be presented to the senses, then do the greatest part of these spirits run to the outward parts colouring them with the blood they draw along with them, and which is the purest of the veins as we will show you anon. It's true there are Passions which mingle with this, and often cause a contrary motion (to that whereof we have spoken) in the humours: But we shall consider here only the effects proper to Love, and not those he borrows from others; so that we may conclude, that the first effect of Love upon the spirits, is, to send them out of the heart, and to transport them to the brain and to the exterior parts.  
But this is not enough, we ought to observe, whether in this motion they move either with liberty or with constraint; that's to say, whether they dilate or restrain themselves. For these seem to be the two first differences of local motion: now as there are but two encounters which may oblige the soul to restrain the spirits in their Motion; to wit when either she repels or flies from what's ill; because in the one she hath a care of fortifying herself, and to that end to gather and reunite the spirits; and in the other the flight is not made without a compression which precipitates and confounds them together; its evident that there are none of these motions in this Passion, which considering nothing but the goodness of its object, it sees no enemy which it would assault, or that it ought to fear; so that it agitates the spirits with liberty, it dilates them and seems to open them, the better to receive the pretended good, and so the more perfectly to unite it thereunto.  
Let's go on and see whether this motion be unequal, and whether it be made with that vehemency which happens in impetuous Passions. It's certain that anger moves the spirits and the humours with more confusion and disorder then Love, by reason of divers and often endeavours which the mind is forced to make to drive out the ill; and that it is like those Torrents whose waves precipitate themselves one upon the other, and make a stream full of boilings and foamings; but that Love makes the spirits and the blood slide in the veins, in the same manner as water runs in the Channels of Fountains, or in Rivers, whose beds are large and even; for Love which dilates the spirits, proportionably enlargeth the vessels, and so giveth them the more liberty, it renders their course less turbulent and confused. But the chief reason of this equality, is, because Love hath commonly no other Passions following it, which have contrary motions, as anger which is always accompanied with grief, and which retires the spirits towards the heart, at the same time when it drives them forth.  
For although Joy, Desire, and Hope, which are almost always with Love, diversely move the blood, yet they do not imprint motions quite opposite, as we shall make it appear; so that it is not subject to that tumult, nor to that unequal agitation which the contrarities' cause in fluid bodies; but with what violence soever it be driven, all its parts flow equally and without confusion; and there is no doubt but that secret joy which Lovers feel without thinking even of the beloved object, proceeds from some kind of motion whose impression remains in the humours after the cessation of the minds agitation. For as Nature loves order and equality in all her actions, when she sees the motion of the blood conformable to her inclination, she is sensible of a certain joy whose image or shadow presents itself to our minds, and disposeth us to mirth without knowing the cause; and I believe for the same reason, that if the humours were always agitated with this flux, and reflux, which the opposite Passions use to cause, there would not be a moment in Love exempt from grief and perplexity; and that those excesses of joy would never be felt, which so often happen, because that the soul cannot suffer contrary motions, but that she must at the same time suffer some pain, and some kind of grief. But what shall we say then when these turbulent Passions, as Anger, Fear, and Despair, mingle with Love? aught it to give them place when they enter the mind and die when they spring forth, seeing its motion is contrary to theirs? truly I believe, that the habit of Love remains still, but the Passion ceaseth when another destroys its motion, and principally if it be violent; and indeed a man in anger or possessed with fear thinks not on the beloved object, and at the least the thoughts he hath of it, are stifled by those of revenge or of the danger he would shun. It's true that as these Passions enter instantly into the mind, they commonly go out as readily, when at the same time the first returns, the impression of the beloved object furnishing new Ideas which awaken the appetite, and cause therein a new commotion, which is nothing difficult to believe, if we consider that the appetite and the spirits are agitated more easily than the air, And that their motion is in some manner like that of lightning, which pierceth the clouds in an instant, which follows flash after flash, and leaves no trace of the way they made: And if these Passions are weak, they may be well enough compatible with Love, but they diminish its ardour; because the soul dividing itself to several objects, cannot wholly give itself to what is lovely; and because the agitation which this causeth in the humours is hindered, by the flood of those others which oppose its course.  
Now let's see what this vehemency is, which accompanies this motion of the spirits, and whether it be as great in this Passion as it is in anger, in fear, and in the rest. For its certain there are some which naturally are not so violent, as Hope, and Compassion, where there never is those extreme transports which are to be observed in the rest. Now you must not think that Love is as the two latter, and that it hath the moderation they have; the sallies it makes, and the tempests it raiseth are sometimes so great that it wracks the mind; and the alteration which all the body suffers in those encounters is an evident witness that the humours are moved with a great impetuosity; the beginnings truly are sweet, and we may say they are like to those peaceable winds which a weak heat raiseth, and which afterwards change into whirlwinds when it grows stronger; for as at the birth of this Passion the Idea of the beloved object makes no great impression in the mind, being if we may so speak, but lightly and superficially printed, so it also causeth in the appetite but a light emotion; but when it hath insinuated itself into the bottom of the mind, and hath rendered itself master of the imagination, than it pvissantly raiseth all the moving faculties, and causeth those great storms which often make us lose both our reason and our health.  
Yet will I not say when the soul is come to this excess, but that the appetite and the spirits are continually agitated with this violence; I confess the tempest is not always alike, that it often abates and even dissipates itself; whether it be that the divers designs this Passion inspires, divert the Soul from its first and principal thoughts, or that all things which are in nature cannot always last in one violent estate, and that the mind is weary to be long stretched towards one object; whence it happens that the strongest Passions at last become languishing and quiet themselves; and indeed those great transports of which we speak, are never but when the beloved object presents itself to the imagination with some powerful charms, as it happens in the first thoughts it hath of it, or when unawares it presents itself to the sense, or when the mind figures new perfections in it, and forms new designs to compass the possession thereof; for then the Soul being surprised with this lovely Novelty is shaken all at once, and drives the Spirits like a great billow which ought to transport it to its offered good.  
But what if Love moves the spirits thus, it must needs produce the same effects as joy doth; and that its violence must quench the heat of the entrails and cause fainting and syncopes as this doth; it seems that even necessarily these accidents must be in it, since these two passions have the same object, that they are but little separate and that they have a growth alike; for where Love is, extreme joy ought also to be so: and yet none of those symptoms whereof we have spoken have been observed to be in Love: at least if any such like thing hath happened to Lovers, the excess of those two Passions never was the cause; but it must have been Grief, Despair, and the like; how comes it to pass then that the Love of beauty produceth not the same effects as Joy doth, or that Joy causeth not the same accidents in this Passion, which it often causeth alone?  
To discover this secret, you must first suppose that these disorders seldom happen, that they have been observable only in old men and women; and that the joy which moved them was caused either by the gain of some unhoped for victory, or by the encounter of some very ridiculous object, or by the discovery of some great secret in learning, which are joys which only belong to the mind: In effect, as spiritual things have that beyond corporal, that they are more noble and that they enter into the soul wholly without separating themselves; the possession ought also to be more perfect and the joy the more ravishing: so that it is likely, that the syncopes which are the effects of all violent Passions follow those spiritual joys as the greatest and most powerful; and that they rather happen to weak natures, then to those which are stronger and more capable of resistance: the soul then finding herself surprised at first sight with these objects, and agitating with precipitation to unite herself to them; the spirits which follow those motions issue from the heart, and dart themselves with so much violence to the superior parts, that they lose the union they had with their principle in the same manner as water divides itself, being driven with too much impetuosity; and because the heat ought continually to inspire the parts with its virtue; and that the spirits only can communicate it when they come to disunite themselves from it; these influences must then stop, and the sensitive and vital actions which depend upon them, must also cease till their reunion: And because the soul is then quite ravished in the enjoyment of that good which she esteems so excellent, she cannot mind to remedy that interruption which is made in the spirits, nor to bring back those which are scattered, or to send others to fill those empty places they left. So that these faintings often last long, and sometimes cause death; heat being quite perished, and nature not having strength enough to repair its loss, nor to recover its first estate.  
But this disorder cannot happen in the Love whereof we speak; for that corporal beauty is never wholly possessed, and that there is still somewhat which entertains Desire, Hope, and Fear: So that the soul dividing itself to several designs, and suffering itself not to be so powerfully transported as she doth in the enjoyment of spiritual goods, the spirits throw themselves not with so much precipitation nor impetuosity, and are not so subject to the division which they sometimes suffer in Joy; and which is the cause of those syncopes of which we have spoken. We shall touch upon this matter again in other places; let's now consider what heat it is which this Passion raiseth, and what humours it particularly moves: It's certain that Love, Joy, and Desire, disperse through all the body a moist and pleasing heat, for as much as the spirits in those Passions stir the most temperate humours whose vapours are sweet and humid; but these humours are sooner moved than others; because that the spirits which have a great likeness with the purest and most subtle parts of the blood, as being those whence they draw their origine, aught to mingle and unite with them more easily then with those which are grosser and farther from its nature; & therefore we must not doubt but when they are agitated they first of all draw along with them those parts of the blood whereto they are more strongly tied, & which being the most subtle, are also the more easy to be moved: Besides that the soul to whom the humours serve as instruments to arrive at the end she proposeth, employs both the one & the other according as they have qualities sit to execute what she wills; whence it is that amongst venomous beasts it moves the venom in anger, and in all the rest it moves phlegm and melancholy, because they are the malignant humours which may destroy the ill she assaults: so that there being no enemies to combat in the Passion of which we speak, it ought not to move any other humours but those which are conformable to the good she would enjoy; So that there is only the sweetest and purest blood which commonly moves in Love, and causeth that sweet and vaporous heat which disperseth itself through the whole body.   

PART. 4. What the causes are of the Characters of LOVE.  
BUt its time to come to the point we proposed; from these principles we have established, we must draw the causes of the Characters of this Passion; let's first therefore examine moral actions.  
There being no Passion which produceth so many different actions, or causeth so many extravagancies as this, it would prove a troublesome thing to inquire into them all, and besides unprofitable, since the greatest part of them proceed from other Passions which accompany it, of which we are particularly to speak; for which cause we will only touch here the principal; which in my opinion are, The continual thought a Lover hath of the beloved Object, The high esteem he values it at, The means he employs to possess it, And the extravagancy of the words he makes use of to discover his passion; for there are few actions in Love which may not be reduced to some of these four.  
For the first, although it be a thing common to all the Passions powerfully to possess the mind, and to keep it fixed on the object which entertains them; yet there are none who do it more powerfully or longer then Love. For either they are impetuous or turbulent, or else they are pliable and docile; the first are presently dissipated, and the others are to be appeased or diverted by the power of discourse, nay even by other Passions. So the angry ones sweeten themselves by pleasure, and the delightful diminish by affliction; and all of them may change into others more strong, if more powerful objects than those which have raised them present themselves; for a great grief makes us forget a less, and an excess of joy takes away a mean one: But with Love it is nothing so; it hath the propriety to be vehement and long lasting, not to hearken to reason, and can seldom be changed or diminished by the force of what Passion soever; forasmuch as the imagination is so wounded, that it fancies there is no greater good to be possessed, and which can afford it more contentment than its beloved object; so that there is no other, how excellent so ever it be, that can divert its inclination and draw it to it, because the soul never leaves a greater good to seek a less; 'tis in the same manner with displeasure; for if we are beloved, there is no pain nor grief which vanisheth not by the contentment which we receive thereby; and if we are not, as the soul knows no greater ill than that, all others are too weak to dispossess that thought; for which cause it continually considers the good whereof it's deprived, it uncessantly desires it, and seeks in the possession thereof the only remedy which may cure all its displeasures. But the first origine of all its effects is the powerful impression which beauty makes in the mind; so that in making it appear how the objects of other Passions cannot make it so strong and deep, it will also be manifest why it's of a longer continuance, and why it keeps the mind more intent than any of the rest.  
It's a certain truth that there is a secret knowledge in us of those things which serve for our preservation; and its likely that this knowledge is gotten by means of some Ideas which nature hath imprinted in the bottom of the Soul, which being as it were hid and buried in its abysses, excite and stir up themselves at the coming of those which the senses present, and so beget in the appetite Love, or Hate, Desire or Aversion. Now as there are but two things which serve to preserve us, the seeking of good, and the flying from evil; its evident nature inclines rather to seek good then to shun ill; and as there are also goods, which are more excellent & profitable than others, she hath a greater care of those of higher, then of these of a lower value; & she forms a more exact Idea, and makes a stronger and more profoud impression of them; which being granted, you cannot doubt the preservation of the species being a more general and more excellent good than all others which respect only a particular good, but that it hath obliged nature to give the soul a more efficacious knowledge, & a more ardent desire of that then of any other thing whatsoever; and but that consequently she hath powerfully imprinted the Idea of beauty, since its the mark which makes that good known, and that charm which excites the soul to its possession: so that exterior beauty entering the imagination, and meeting that general Idea which nature hath graven therein, unites itself, therewith awakens and excites that secret and powerful desire which accompanies it, and applies it to the object it represents unto it; thence is that strong attention which fixeth a Lover's mind on the person of the beloved, and which causeth in him after the Love of silence and solitude the disgust of all other divertisements which were most delightful to him, and all those visions which a solitary life inspires in a soul agitated with Hope and Fear; in a word, wounded by the cruelest of all the Passions.  
We are now to inquire the source of that high esteem which we make of the beloved object; for from thence issue all the respects, the submissions, the services, and the greatest part of the dialect which Lovers use: and truly its a strange thing and almost incredible, were it not daily observed, to see Kings submit their crowns and their power to the beauty of a slave; the wisest men to adore a vicious person, and the most courageous to subject themselves to base and feeble minds worthy of nothing but contempt; whence can that powerful spell proceed which makes us lose the knowledge of what we are, and of what we love, and makes us have so ill an opinion of ourselves, and so advantageous a thought of what we love? we need not doubt but the imagination is the chief cause of this error: As it hath the power to enlarge the images it receives, and to  them in the new phantasms which disguise the things and make them appear quite otherwise then they are; it sets on the image of that beauty which is represented unto it, what it useth to do in dreams, or on a light Idea which it hath from the humour which is agitated, it forms a hundred several Chimaeras, which have a conformity with that humour; for the imagination receiving the image of the beloved object, forms itself on the model of that general Idea of beauty which nature hath imprinted in it, adorning it with the same graces she confounds it therewith, and so makes the beloved person appear more perfect than in effect it is; and we may further say, that herein it happens as in the sickness of the mind, where the particular error which disorders it changeth and corrupts all the thoughts which have any relation to it, those who are at distance from it remaining still enough reasonable; forasmuch as a Lover may preserve his judgement free in those things which do not concern the person beloved; but as soon as that is interested he becomes a slave to his passion, and judgeth of things according to that pleasing error which it hath inspired into him; in effect, it's a wonder that a deformed face, and which we should have judged such, should presently appear full of attractives, as if the imagination had painted it, or at least had blotted out all its defects: But the paint or the perfection it gives comes from that Idea wherewith it's filled, and which nature hath afforded to oblige it to inquire the greatest good which can happen to it.  
However it be, the soul being abused in the judgement it made of beauty, and taking it for a most excellent good, whose possession ought to render it more perfect, wholly submits to it, and considers it not otherwise then as a Queen who is to command it. For good hath that property that it communicates itself with Empire, and renders itself master of those that receive it; forasmuch as it is a perfection which is in stead of act and form, as the thing which receives it is in stead of power and matter. Now it's a certain maxim that the form renders itself master of the matter, otherwise it could not receive perfection.  
And consequently beauty must have that predominant quality that the soul which is touched with it must subject herself to its Empire; thence follows all those submissions and respects, all those terms of servitude and of captivity which are so common with Lovers; whence its easy to draw the reasons of the principle we have established; let's now examine the means Love hath invented to possess the good it tends to.  
Although Love may subsist in the only union which the appetite makes with the Idea of the beloved object; we may further say, that this union and this Love are not perfect; Love stays not there, but always seeks really to unite itself, but by the communication of thoughts, and by the actual presence which the senses require, the soul in a manner going out of herself by speech, and the senses serving for channels by which the objects flow into the imagination; so that the soul believes that by means of discourse she strongly unites herself to the beloved person, and that it unites itself to the soul by means of the senses: Whence it comes that Lovers wish they may continually see, hear, and entertain those they love; even the kiss wherein they place their highest felicities, hath no other end but to unite their soul to the beloved object.  
So that only those parts by which it seems most to communicate itself, give and receive it; as the mouth because its the door of the thoughts, the eyes because they are the channels through which the Passions issue out, and the hands because they are the principal organs of its actions: But amongst all the means which nature hath taught us to attain to this perfect union, there is none more considerable than reciprocal Love; because union supposing two things, the Lover, and the Object, to render it accomplished, both the one and the other must really unite. Now if the beloved object is capable of loving, it can not otherways unite itself but by Love, forasmuch as the soul unites itself with things which are without it, only by that Passion: wherefore the first care of a Lover, is to make himself beloved, and to that end to render himself grateful; whence it happens consequently that he accommodates himself to the inclinations of the person beloved, that he changeth his humour, his manner of living, that he grows liberal, courteous, neat, and in a word that he doth all what he thinks may make him be beloved.  
We are now to inquire the cause of that extravagant manner of speaking which is so particular to Lovers: In general we may say, that the soul in that Passion carrying itself out of its self, carries also other things beyond what they are, and forms thoughts of them beyond the natural expression they should have; whence it is that the good and ill it conceives is always in excess; and if the nature of the thing cannot suffer it, it burdens it with some strange Idea to increase the meaning thereof, and so builds those bold Metaphors which give to the beloved object the title of the fairest and the noblest things in the world, which of a gentle heat cause a burning fire, of a mean disquiet a torment and a punishment, of a little submission which beauty requires a captivity, prisons, and chains, and so of the rest; whereunto the error of the imagination contributes very much, which being wholly filled with that violent instinct which it hath from beauty, believes that there is no greater good, nor heavier ill than it expects from Love; so that it always represents them in extremes, and consequently useth more extravagant terms then in any other Passion, considering also that Lovers who commonly employ in their entertainments but very few thoughts, and who are never weary to repeat them, are obliged to diversify the terms that they may be the less tedious; which they cannot do but by many Metaphors, which at last become extravagant, being to seek to find out reasonable ones enough, for the variety they endeavour.  
Besides these general reasons, there are yet particular ones for some words, which are always in the mouths of those that love; and when they call the beloved person Their Heart, Their Soul, and Their Life; when they call them Ungrateful, Homicides, and Cruel, and when they so often say, They die for Love: for although all these kinds of expressions seem extravagant, yet they come from a principle which in some sort renders them true; forasumch as Love keeping the Soul always stretched towards the beloved object, and transporting it out of itself to unite it thereto, separates it also morally from the subject it animates, and in effect takes away from it the remembrance and the cause of all that belongs to it: So that in that respect we may say, that it lives no more in him nor for him, being wholly in the beloved person; that a Lover hath reason to call her his Heart, and his Soul, since his desires and thoughts which are the noblest parts of his life, are alone in her, and that its true that he dies, nay even that he is dead, since that he no longer lives in himself. Now as there is but reciprocal Love only which can make them live again; forasmuch as then the beloved person transforms herself in him, and communicates to him both soul and life; if he be unhappy to so high a degree that he cannot be loved, it seems that he hath cause to call her Ungrateful, Cruel, and Murtheress; since giving himself wholly to her alone, she is obliged to acknowledge so high a liberality, and in separating his soul from him she kills him; and it is a cruelty to let him die whose life she may save. It's true, that to speak really, we may say that there is but a very light shadow of truth in all these words, that the soul operates here as in a dream, and that Platonic Philosophy which approved these visions kept intelligence with this Passion, or would consolate Lovers in the miseries they suffered; let's leave her employed on so fair a design, and seek the causes of the corporal Characters which we have described.  
But we will not here examine whence that great diversity comes which appears in this Passion, which makes it in some either sportful or pensive, in others peaceable or turbulent; & in a word, perhaps two persons have never been found, in whom it hath been altogether alike; for its evident that it comes from the divers inclinations which the temperature or custom hath introduced into the soul, which draw the Passions to the bend they take, and makes them follow the same course which they are accustomed to; the mixture of other Passions also contribute thereunto, it being impossible that Love should be frolic when it's accompanied with Grief or Anger, or that it should be severe when Hope or Joy are of the party: But all these diversities are easy to be comprehended; let's now to our principal design.  
To follow the Method we have established, we are here to place two kinds of these Characters; some of which are done for some certain end, others which happen by a pure necessity; the first are made by the souls command, who judgeth them fit to execute her passion, although they are often unprofitable as we have said, the other are purely natural, and are made without design being only effects which by a necessary consequence come from the trouble and the agitation which is inwardly made.  
Those of the first rank, are the motions of the eyes and forehead, the faltering of the tongue, the sweetening and several falls of the voice, laughter, and the behaviour of the body; All the rest are purely natural; as for the Motion of the eyes there are so many several kinds of it, that it's almost impossible to observe them: For as all the Passions may spring from Love, and suffer also with it, and every of them causing the eyes to move diversely; It also happens that all their motions meet there: So that pleasure makes them sparkle, Desire advanceth them forward, Grief casts them down, Fear renders them unquiet, Respect inclines them, Despite kindles them, and so of the rest; whose causes we will deduce in the discourse of every Passion; all what we can herein do, is to inquire which are the Amorous eyes and looks, and what obligeth the Soul to use them by reason of the great difficulty there is both in the one and the other.  
For the first, there are some who believe that amorous eyes are those whose looks are quick and nimble, and which in a moment are cast about on every side; forasmuch as Aristotle speaking of lascivious eyes which he calls 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, some Translators have rendered Insanos, which are properly those wild eyes which are in perpetual motion; But besides that they have not met with the sense of Aristotle, and that he would have intimated those which he calls Devorantes, of which we are going to speak; its certain that those wild eyes do not become Love, and are more proper for Anger, Disquiet, and the Lightness of the mind then for this Passion; Others think them to be those whose balls lift up themselves up on high, and half hid themselves under their lids, which are the dying eyes, because those who die commonly have them so, as Aristotle has observed in his Problems, where he adds, that it also happens in some actions of Love: But at that time the soul hath no design to cause that motion and 'tis purely a natural effect which follows the excess of pleasure, as we will say in its due place; for otherwise those kind of looks are marks of Grief and Langour; we might even also say, that they are those urgent looks by which the eyes seem to throw themselves on their objects, and as if they would as they say devour them, which the Latins so happily name Instantes, Procaces, Devorantes, but we have already said that they were bred from desire, and not from Love.  
For my part, I believe that the eyes in question, are those which the Latins call Paetoes, and which for the same reason they have given to Venus; for they are smiling, and send forth their looks as it were by stealth, the lids sweetly inclining and half shutting themselves. In effect, there are none which have so much correspondency with the nature of Love as these have; forasmuch as in one look they make known all the principal motions which are to be found in this Passion: for we have made it appear, that Love chief consisted in the interior union of the appetite with the beloved object; That pleasure always accompanied it, That Beauty inspired submission and respect; That to Love was nothing but to die, and that if a Lover possess not the beloved person, Desire incessantly solicited him: Now the look whereof we have spoken makes all these motions appear; for laughter is an effect of joy; respect and submission inclines the lids; the ball which sweetly turns towards the beloved object is a sign of that amorous languor whereof the soul is sensible; and the looks it darts on it, witness the Desire which provokes it: In fine although the eyes half shut themselves, laughter contracting the muscles of the lids, yet we may say, that they shut themselves so, as if the soul would retain the image it newly received the more attentively to consider it and even that it would quite shut them up, had it not a new one which every moment presented itself, and which it would not lose, but which obligeth it so to divide its cares, as it often doth, between Fear and Anger, where it seems as if at the same time it would see and not see the ill, which it either flees or disdains.  
The Forehead in love is always clear and laughing, and seems as if it opened and extended itself, which is a mark of Flattery: so that the Dog, which is a flattering creature, hath his always so, when he caresseth any one, as Aristotle will have it. Now the word Flattery signifies nothing else here, but complacency and dearness, and not that vice which is the pest of the Court, and of Friendship. You need not then wonder if Love, being complacent and flattering, disposeth thus the forehead. But the first cause of this effect, is the Joy which accompanieth all these Passions; whose property it is, to render the countenance open, calm, and smiling, as in its place we will declare.  
Let us pass to another effect, the cause whereof is extremely hid; it is the Motion of the Tongue, which often trembles between the lips, and seems even to tickle them. Now this happens in a great excess of Love; whether it be, that the ardour which this Passion kindles, dries the lips, and obligeth the Soul to moisten them; or that the Spirits, which sparkle everywhere, cause the same agitation in that part, which appears in all the rest of those which are very movable: or, lastly, whether it comes from the vehemency of the Desire: for the same effect often happens to those who see another eat what they ardently desire: And it seems also more befitting the appetite for meat, than any other desire whatsoever, as well as that humidity which comes in one's mouth, as shall be said; because the motion of the tongue, and the humour in which it moistens itself, serves to razed the aliments, and to convey them into the stomach. But as the Soul hath no distinct knowledge of what it doth, and the violence of Passion troubles and distracts it, it also happens that it employs the means necessary for one design, in another where they are useless; and so doth in the desire of Beauty, what it ought only to do in that of Aliments.  
The sweetening of the voice signifies the respect and submission of a Lover: and although it be a necessary effect of Fear, which, straightening the passages, and rendering the motion of the Lungs more lose, makes the voice soft, sweet, and languishing, even very often without any such necessity; the soul hath a design to form it so, to witness its modesty and respect; knowing, that a strong and vehement voice is an effect of Boldness; and that that which is rude and sharp, follows a harsh humour; which are qualities incompatible with Love, and which a Lover must hid, if Nature or Custom have given him them.  
As for what concerns all the inflexions of the voice, they proceed from the several motions which agitate the Soul; whether it be that admiration ravish it, or grief oppress it; whether desire transport it, or that some difficulties oppose its contentment: forasmuch as in all these encounters it burdens the voice with particular accents, sometimes raising it with exclamations, sometimes letting it fall with languish; sometimes cutting it short, and sometimes drawing it out, according to the nature of the Passions it suffers.  
Laughter, being an effect of Joy, is to be examined in that Passion, where we will at large speak of its nature, and of its causes. So that we have nothing but the Gesture and the Behaviour which seem to detain us. But, if you observe it, there is none particular to love; and that which is there observable, and is so changeable, follows the several Passions which accompany this: for, sometimes Respect renders him modest, Joy and Fear disquiet him, and Sorrow casts him down, and makes him languish; sometimes a Lover is in the posture of a suppliant, or a contented, or of a desperate man; sometimes he walks fast, slow, or stands still, according as Desire, Astonishment or Grief possess him. So that all his motions going with the spring of other Passions, we are not here obliged to their examen; but we must remit it to the discourse we will make of every one in particular. Now let us to that of those Characters which are purely natural and necessary, and wherein it seems the Soul hath no share.  
The eyes are sparkling in Love, by reason of the quantity of spirits which fly thither: for it is not to be doubted, but that from them it is, that that resplendent vivacity comes, which is so visible in them, since they lose it when they retire or disperse themselves; as it happens to those who are possessed with fear, or who die. But what adds to augment this lustre w eh appears in the eyes, 'tis, that the Membrane which in virons them, being swelled and extended by the confluence of those vapours and spirits, becomes more smooth, and consequently more shining; and that there is still over it a certain humidity, where light resplends and sparkles.  
But whence proceeds this Humidity? Is it not that the heat and agitation which the spirits cause in the brain, liquifies and makes the humours flow over the eyes? for even Tears are so caused in Joy: Or rather, that those subtle vapours of blood, which the Soul drives with impetuosity, fly out, and presently thicken, by reason of the coldness of the air, and of the Membranes. And indeed, here the eyes are hollow and sunk, though they still seem great and humid; which would not be, if this humidity came from the humours which fall from the brain; for they would fill the parts which are all about the eye, and would keep it lifted up: And therefore this humidity must come from within, and the muscles and fleshy parts which environ it must shrink: for as their substance is soft, and is made of a very subtle blood, it falls and dissolves presently; whence it happens, that the eye sinks: but its body remains still full, moist, and sparkling, by reason of the vapours and spirits which incessantly gather there: Unless it be at last, when the long continuance of the Malady, Grief, and Despair, have quenched the natural heat, which makes the eyes lose their splendour and vivacity, and become obscure, dry, and set; as we will show in the Chapter of Grief, where we will also give a reason for Tears which are so common to Lovers.  
The redness which love so often makes appear on the forehead, hath a cause to be discovered, of no small difficulty: For although it be easy to say, that the blood riseth into the face in all those Passions wherein the soul drives out the spirits, yet there are those which carry it rather to one place then to another: The redness which Choler excites, gins by the eyes; that of Shame, by the extremities of the cheeks and ears; and that of Love, by the forehead. And 'tis from this diversity, that the cause of this effect is most difficult to be found out. Yet I think that we may say, for what concerns Anger, that the eyes being the first wherein the Passions appear, are also the first sensible of the motions of the Spirits. Now as the blood boils in Anger, and as the Tempest which agitates it drives it with disorder and confusion to the exterior parts, thence it comes that the spirits which run to the eyes draw along with it the waves of this agitated blood, which swells their veins, and makes them appear red, in stead that in other Passions they carry with them the purest and most subtle parts of the blood, which cannot cause this effect. And it is therefore true, that Anger causeth redness to arise in the face sooner than any other Passion, and that it gins to discover it in the eyes, because the blood follows the spirits, which gather in that place rather than in any other. As for Shame, you must know, that the Soul, which is moved therewith, at the same time forms a design both to resist and flee the ill; and we may say, that, fleeing, she assaults it; for which cause, it forceth the blood to the face to drive it away; but Fear at the same time makes it retire back; whence it happens, that the extremities of the cheeks and ears grow red, as in its place shall be more amply discoursed. Let us now examine the redness which Love brings into the Forehead. Should it not proceed from Joy, wherein the spirits, after having united themselves to the good which the soul conceives, overflow the neighbouring parts? For, if it be so, the forehead must first resent it. Or else the Imagination being placed in the forepart of the brain, that part is heated by the continual agitation of the spirits, and, after its alteration, communicates it to the forehead, wherewith, as Physic teacheth, it hath a great sympathy. And indeed, since paleness which appears in the rest of the face, happens often from the transport of spirits into the brain, it's very likely, either that there is a reflux made on the nearest parts, or that they are sensible of the heat which they there cause: whence it happens, that they are less pale and wan then the rest. Now although this redness be particular to Love, that of other Passions forbears not to encounter therewith; and it may happen, that a Lover may blush for Shame, for Anger, for Joy, or Desire, according as those Passions mix themselves with this; but this is no place to speak of them.  
The lips are often red and moist by the arrival of the vaporous blood which sheds itself in the face, and which so easily colour's those parts, by reason of their softness and the delicacy of their skin; and this chief happens at the beginning of those motions which are so frequent in this passion; for at last those parts grow dry and pale, whether the heat consume the sweetest and most subtle parts of the blood, or that the spirits in their retreat carry them back again inwardly, and so leave paleness and dryness on the lips.  
But whence chanceth it that the under lip sometimes trembles; you must not believe it an effect of Fear or of Anger, since it happens in the highest heat of Love; it's then very likely that the spirits which the Desire drives in a crowd, sparkle in those places, and cause that part which is very movable, and without that support which the rest have, to shake, and 'tis in that encounter that it sometimes grows white with a subtle foam, the humidity which riseth in the mouth, and which sheds itself on the lips being agitated by these spirits.  
The tongue falters, because that the soul which is distracted with Passion thinks not upon the words it is to form, and retires the spirits which should serve for that action to those places where she is employed; whence it happens that the tongue stops or loosely moves itself, and that infirmity looseth the speech, or if we do speak, it is with pain and stammering, whereto the quantity of humours also contributes, which through Desire fill the mouth; for it hinders that the tongue cannot so easily turn itself, and that it strikes not the voice clearly; Besides the distraction we now speak of, is also a cause that Lovers hear not half what others say, and that their discourse is commonly confused & extravagant: Even the sighs which every moment cut one another, own their first original to that great attention of spirit which diverts the soul, and makes it lose the remembrance of the most necessary actions of life; for sending not spirits enough to cause respiration, the lungs beat but slowly, and the heart draws not that help which is expected from their service; forasmuch as they furnish not it sufficiently with air to temper that fire which this Passion kindles, and that they discharge it not often enough of those fumes and vapours which the agitation of the humours raiseth there: Now after this disorder hath continued some time, and that at last it might ruin all the natural ceonomy, the soul being urged by necessity awakes again, and seeks to supply its defect by these great and extraordinary respirations; and indeed sighs are principally begot at the issue out of some thought which hath forcibly detained the mind, and not whilst it was employed therein.  
The face grows pale, whether it be that the spirits retire within the brain as we have already said, or because that in the progress of this Passion the stomach grows weak and the blood changeth; for since that the diversion of the spirits diverts also the heat & virtue which ought to pass into the stomach to cause digestion, you must not wonder if it become languishing, if the aliments change into crudities, and if the blood it makes be impure, since that the last concoction corrects not the defects of the former.  
But what helps forward this disorder, is the continual ardour which this Passion kindles in the blood, and the several agitations which Fear, Grief, and Anger, at every moment excite; for that dissipates the spirits and makes the faculties become languishing, and the humours inflame and corrupt themselves, which at last grows to that Erotick sickness which the Physician's place in the rank of folly and fury. The blood being then in this condition retains no more nether its virtue nor its natural colour; It becomes useless to the nourishment of the parts and no longer communicates that pleasing vermilion which formerly it bestowed upon them, and so they must needs become pale, lean, and withered.  
By the same reason the appetite is lost, because that the beloved object occupying all the thoughts of the Soul, takes away its care of all the functions of Life; the spirits being also diverted no longer bear into the stomach that sentiment which causeth the appetite: In fine, the disorder which is in the humours, and in all the natural parts, hinders this from performing its function.  
Sleep being the rest of common sense, & of the spirits, seldom happens in violent Passions, detaining the Soul and the body in a continual agitation; but Love endures it less than the rest, because that besides the tempest it raiseth, it at last corrupts the blood, whose vapours are sharp, and which consequently want that sweet humidity which julleth the Senses.  
It's true, that langour and weariness sometimes procure it, because the soul knows that life cannot subsist without it, and that after so great a dissipation of spirits its necessary to repair them, to which end it gathers them together and stays them; For although this moist vapour which commonly provokes sleep happen not here, as we said but now, yet must we not believe that sleep can come by no other means; it hath two ordinary and natural causes; the vapour which stops the passage of the spirits, and the soul which binds and stays them; now here being no vapour to produce this effect, necessity obligeth the soul to labour it alone of herself.  
But this sleep is interrupted with dreams which continually agitate the mind; forasmuch as the imagination which in that condition loseth not the liberty of working, and being full of those images which Passion suggests, turns over continually, confounds and augments them, so that they always present to it things greater than in effect they are, and afterwards form in the appetite more powerful motions then the true objects would do.  
The remembrance or the unexpected arrival of the beloved party swells the heart and the pulse, because the soul dilates the organs to receive the good, and to send forth spirits to its encounter; a great difficulty upon this occasion is proposed, to wit, whether Love have a kind of pulse proper to it alone? for that some have vaunted the discovery of this Passion by the beating of the arteries: But without stopping at the contests which are form hereupon, we will boldly say that there is no more reason to give one which is proper to Anger, and to Grief, then to Love. That the heart can no less resent the motion which this Passion causeth in the appetite than it can that which the others excite; and that the organs moving conformably to the intention of the mind, this part must be otherwise agitated in Love then in other passions, since it hath a diffent design from what the others have. It's true, its hard exactly to discover this difference, because men have made no just observation thereof, and perhaps it is impossible to make it; for that the heart is shut up in the Centre of the Body, and that it suffers motions, which it communicates not with the arteries; yet amongst such kinds of pulses as have been observed, we may yet find some one which particularly belongs to Love. To understand this, you must know that the heart hath many motions which are common to several Passions; for it dilates itself in Joy, in Hope, and in Anger; and contracts itself in Grief, and in Fear, and in Despair; in some it goes quick and with violence, in others slow and languishing, and its certain these general differences cannot all alone mark those which are proper to every Passion; but as Physic teacheth us that there are twenty kinds of simple pulses, and that they may diversely mix the one with the other, every Passion may find in this great variety, that kind which is proper to it: thus the pulse of Anger is not only great and lifted up, or quick, or frequent, or vehement, but it is composed of all these differences: That of Fear is quick, hard, unequal, and irregular; That of Joy is great, rare and slow; That of Grief is weak little slow and rare; and as they say, these are the kinds of pulses which are proper to these Passions, we may also observe in the same manner one proper to Love; and indeed therein the beating of the arteries is great, large, unequal, and irregular; it is great and large, because the heart opens to receive the good which presents itself as was before said; it is unequal and irregular, by reason of the several Passions with which this is continually traversed; for as we do not here speak of that simple and imperfect Love which is yet but in the soul; but of that which is complete and finished and which hath already made impressions on the body; it is impossible but Desire, and Fear, Joy, and Grief, should at every moment confound themselves with it, whence consequently happens the unequal motion of the heart and of the arteries; and this is chief to be observed at the remembrance or unexpected arrival of the beloved person.  
For after this first elevation which is made at this encounter, it changeth a hundred ways; it appears little and languishing, and immediately returns to its first vehemency; from swift and light, it becomes slow and heavy, and all at once it reassumes its first quickness, which it loseth again in an instant, and passeth thus from one difference to another, without order and without proportion.  
There are but very few Characters which remain to be examined, whose causes are not very evident; For the disquiet comes from the divers agitations which the soul feels; the shiverings and the ardours follow the flowing and ebbing of the Spirits; forasmuch as Fear and Grief, which retire them within, take away from the exterior parts the heat they had, even as Joy and Hope restore and augment it, and as Boldness and Anger gather the spirits together, strength also increaseth, as it diminisheth when Joy dissipates, or Grief stiffles them: There remains no more difficulties to be found but in the Syncopes and Ecstasies which sometimes happen to Lovers; but we have already shown that Love could not alone cause Syncopes nor faintings, but that it must be Grief, Despair, or Joy.  
For the Ecstasy its true it may proceed from Love, yet we must observe that the word hath divers significations; the Physicians often take it for an extreme alienation of the spirit, such as those have who are frantic or mad; sometimes for that strange disease which they call Catoche, which all at once takes away the use of sense and motion, and keeps the body stiff in the same posture in which it surprised it; there are some who believe that the true Ecstasy is made when the soul doth no action in the body, whether it dwell there, or that indeed it issue forth for a time; as it happens in those which are possessed, and in those who are ravished by the spirit of God; but that whereof we speak is nothing else but a certain ravishment of the soul, which takes from the body the use of exterior sense and motion, the imagination and the understanding not forbearing to operate, which happens by a strong attention which binds the soul to the beloved object, which makes it lose the care of all animal functions, and which employing all the spirits in that thought, hinders them from flowing to the organs of sense and motion; and this ravishment may sometimes Pass to such an excess that the vital faculties may receive no more influence from the soul, so that respiration will cease, and that there will be only natural virtue to sustain life.   

PART. 5. Of the nature of Beauty in general; and why it begets LOVE.  
ALthough the Senses were given to the Mind, to help it to know things, yet it seems that those things which are the most sensible, are the least known: And I know not whether it be a grace, or an artifice of Nature, to bring those things nearest our Senses, which ought to be furthest from our Minds; and, by that exterior knowledge, to recompense the little progress we might make in that which was true and essential. However it be, it's most evident, that we are sensible of nothing in the world more than of Beauty, nor nothing is more difficult to be known: the greatest men, who have been most sensible of its effects, were ignorant of the Causes thereof; and we may say, that it hath made them lose their Reason, when they were but touched with it, and would have discoursed of it: For, some have said that it was a just proportion of the parts; others, that it was the form of things; in fine, that it was the splendour and glittering of Goodness itself: But this last definition is equivocal, and metaphorical; and the other cannot be applied but to the Divine beauty, which is the source and model of all Beauties; forasmuch as in the Unity and infinite Simplicity of God, there can be no proportion or form.  
That we may therefore steer a more certain course then what hitherto hath been followed, and that we may not wander in so vast and difficult a matter; we must consider, that things are not esteemed fair, but as they fall under a very distinct and exact knowledge: So that there are only the objects of the Understanding, and of Seeing, and of Hearing, to which we allow Beauty; because that all the Knowing faculties are those which most perfectly judge of their objects, and are the least mistaken in them: And these same objects which we judge Fair, are also esteemed Good: for we do not only say, A fair mind, a fair speech, or a fair colour, but they may be also called good. But the objects of the other Senses, and all the other powers, may only be styled Good, and can never deserve the title of Fair: for, it were a ridiculous thing to say, that heat or humidity, sweetness or bitterness were fair: Whence we must necessarily conclude, that all what is Good, is not Fair; but all that is Fair, is good; and therefore, that Fair is a species of Good. Now as Good is not good, but as it is agreeable; the Fair, since it is good, must be agreeable to something; and therefore if what is fair serve but for an object only to the knowing faculties, we must necessarily conclude, that Fair is that which is agreeable to the intelligent faculties, as good is agreeable to what ever it be. Now because Knowledge hath no other object, but the essence and the truth of things, Beauty must needs be of that kind; and the objects must be the fairer, where the essence and the truth are best expressed: for which cause, Souls are fairer than Bodies; and the Understanding, which knows interior things, is more capable to judge of Beauty than the Senses, which know only the exterior. Whence it also happens, that Beasts are seldom moved by Beauty, because Sense only works in them; in stead that in Man the Understanding concurs to his action, and penetrates further into the Nature and Essence of its objects. And we experiment in ourselves, that those things which we do not greatly heed, and whose nature we do not well know, seem less fair unto us; and that its only for Masters in an Art to judge of the beauty of a work, because they alone have the true knowledge thereof.  
We do not therefore say, that Beauty consists in Knowledge only: for it would then follow, that things would not be fair until they are known; although it be most true, that God would not cease to be infinitely fair, although he were not known. And there are things whose knowledge is equally clear and certain, which are not equally fair: for, the Understanding distinguisheth the Natures as more or less perfect, in the same manner as the eyes and ears judge that there are Colours and Harmonies the one fairer than the other. Now as things are sensible, not by reason of our sensibleness, but because they can make themselves sensible; and as the essence is not good, in that it communicates itself, but in that it can communicate itself: so Goodness is not fair because it is known, but because it may be known. So that Beauty is nothing but Goodness in that order and essential relation it hath to Knowledge; that is to say, that it can communicate itself to the intelligent faculties. And, in my judgement, we are so to understand Plato, when he says, that Beauty is a glittering and splendour of Goodness: for as the brightness of light is that which renders it visible; the brightness of goodness is that also which makes it known; and this brightness is no other but the act whereby goodness resplends, enlightens, and communicates itself to the knowing faculties. Now because there are two kinds of faculties, the Intellectual and the Sensitive, there must also be two kinds of Beauty, the one intelligible, the other sensible: And because that in either kind there are subjects which are fairer and more excellent some than other some, we must, on the foundation we have established, observe the cause of this difference. It is true, it requires a higher meditation and a longer discourse than our design will permit: but we will only touch on the principal, and on what is necessary to understand what we shall say in consequence of Humane Beauty.  
Suppose then that Beauty is but an effect of Goodness, so far as it hath a relation to the knowing faculties; and that Goodness is nothing, also, but the being and perfection of things, so far as it can communicate itself, as the School teacheth: those things which have more of being and of essence, must be better, fairer, and more perfect: And we know they have more of being, when they have more unity; and, in that unity, they have more power and different virtues. So God hath an infinite perfection, because that in a most perfect and most simple unity, he hath a power to do all things. The intelligences, which are the most simple and the most active of all creatures, are also the most excellent. Even amongst Bodies, the mixed are more perfect than the simple whereof they are composed: the Animate more than the Natural; and those which have a Reasonable soul, more than those which are only Sensitive; Because that in comparison of those, they have more different virtues, and more actions, and therefore divers degrees more of essence. Thus much for what concerns Intelligible Beauty. But in Sensible objects, the perfection is not absolutely considered, as in that: it must depend not only from the being they have, but also from the organs of the Senses which receives them, and from the fitness they ought to have with the bodies where they appear. So the Light, which is most resplendent, is more perfect than all Colours; but, in respect of the eyes, Green is more, although even that colour is displeasing in some subjects. Now the cause of this diversity first of all comes, for that the Senses having been given to creatures for their preservation, they must not destroy them. And as their action is performed by the impression which the objects make on their organs, if this impression is not proportionable to them, their action will be imperfect: So that it ought to be strong enough to give knowledge of the thing, but not so violent as to corrupt the organs. Whence it is, that the Senses cannot judge well of their objects in their extremity; as the eyes of too great a light, or of darkness; the ears of a too violent sound, or of silence: And Aristotle says, that neither of them are sensible, because that this makes no true impression, and that the other destroys the organ. So that there are only those objects which are between both extremities, which can make a just impression proportionable to what the Senses require. It is not therefore that all the objects equally touch the Senses; there are some amongst them which are more perfect, and more agreeable than the rest: Green is fairer than Grey or Black; the Eighth in Harmony is sweeter than the Fourth: But the cause of this difference is extremely obscure; yet if you observe what we have said of the perfection of Intelligible things, you will find that it depends from the same principle.  
For it is certain, that Colours and Harmonies have their beauty from the proportion they have; and those which have it the most perfect, are also the most agreeable. Now proportions have the more perfection, the nearer they are to unity, and the more they are in that unity composed. So the Diapason, which is the most pleasing of all simple harmonies, is made in a double proportion, to wit, of two to one, which is the most perfect of all simple proportions, because it is nearest the unity, nothing being nearer unity than the number of Two; and is the most composed: for, what is twice as much more, is more composed than that which is but once and a half, or once and a third part, as the other proportions, which are the Diapente and the Diatessaron. It is the same with Colours: for, the proportions which make perfect harmonies, make also, as Aristotle says, fair colours. For which cause, Green, which is the most agreeable of all others, is to be in the same proportion with the Diapason; and that of Blue and Purple with that of Diapente and Diatessaron. But seeing we have examined these things in their place, it sufficeth to show, that Beauty, and the perfection of Sensible things, is deduced from the same principle as that of Intelligible things, to wit, in that they have more unity, and that in this unity they have more powers; in a word, from that they have more of a sensible being.  
It is easy, by this Discourse, to perceive, that Light, considered as in itself, is the fairest thing which can be presented to our sight; but that Green, in respect of the organs, is yet more pleasing than it. It remains only to discover why this colour renders not all those Bodies fair wherein it is. To this end, you must remember that things work not but according to the powers they have, and that these powers follow only the degrees of their being. Now as there are things which cannot work without matter, it is evident this matter ought to be fitted and proportioned to their actions and their powers; and this proportion makes corporal Beauty, which is nothing but a just joining together of all the dispositions which are necessary for bodies to perform those functions whereto they are ordained: So that all the material qualities, how excellent soever they be, will render the subjects wherein they are, deformed, if they are not proportionable to the essence, and to the interior virtue which they have. So the Round figure, which is the most perfect of all, because it is the simplest, and comprehends all the rest, cannot accommodate itself with the actions of all the parts of the humane body, which would be monstrous and horrible, had it only that figure. It is the same of the fairest Colours, which have no conformity with the temperature of Man, and which would make an extreme change appear in the humours, if they were visible in the face. The tone even of the voice, which in men ought to be stronger and more resounding, were a defect in a woman, because it is not conformable to her temper, which ought to be proportionable to the natural power of her sex. This is then the reason which shows, that the beauty of Sensible objects is drawn, not only from their absolute being, and from the relation which they have with the organs, but also the connexion which they ought to have with their subjects.  
I speak not now of the particular sentiments we may have of Beauty, nor why Red is more esteemed then Green, the Brown hue more than the Vermilion, and Blue eyes more than Black: We have no room here for the examination of these things; we do but touch on generals; and we think we have satisfied our design, when we have said somewhat more of Humane Beauty, because it is that which causeth the Love whereof we speak.  
There are several sorts or divers degrees of Beauty in Man: For first, there is the Intelligible, which is essential, or accidental: the Essential is considered in the Species, or in the Sex; the Accidental in the Habit, and in the Actions. Lastly, there is a Sensible and Corporal Beauty.  
The reason of this is, because the species of every animal hath its beauty in it, which is nothing but its being and its essence, wherein are comprised all the powers and virtues due unto it. But because that amongst these powers there are some which are destined for the entertainment of the Species, which would be lost with the life of the creatures, had not God given them the virtue to engender their like; and that generation cannot be, unless there also be an active and a passive power: it was necessary that there should be two Sexes, between which these two powers should be divided. And forasmuch as Sensible beauty is nothing but an assembling together of all corporal dispositions necessary for the powers to perform their functions, every Sex must also necessarily have different dispositions, since they have different powers: And thence is the source whence the difference comes of Male and Femalebeauty, which is not only to be found in some parts, but in the whole body: Because the first qualities being the principal dispositions of these two powers; and heat and dryness, which amongst them are the most working, being obliged to accompany the active power, as cold and humidity the passive power: it must needs be, that all the mass of humours must taste of these qualities: So that the temperature of the Male being hot and dry, and that of the Female cold and moist, it follows that all the parts of either Sex ought to have different dispositions and beauties.  
But forasmuch as Man hath Understanding and Reason beyond all other creatures, and that that faculty, being naturally capable of all things, cannot have its perfection, but by possessing them, it must acquire dispositions necessary to attain this perfection; and these are the Intellectual and Moral habits, which cause that accidental and acquired Beauty of which we have spoken, and which receive their last accomplishment in the actions they ought to produce: for, the end is the last perfection, there being nothing absolutely perfect without an end; and Action being the end of all things.  
This is what we can say in general of the Name of Beauty, and must be known, before we seek the cause which obligeth us to the love thereof: For although some have said, we should not ask, why Beauty pleaseth, and that it was as much as if we would know why Fire warms, That it is its Nature, and the essential property it hath, whereof there is no reason to be given; yet all have not been of this opinion: Plato did not believe that this enquiry was unworthy of his Socrates: And there is no body who doth not freely confess, that if the knowledge may be attained, it must needs be very rare and excellent. Now although I do not altogether disapprove this thought of Plato, who says that the beauty of created things ravisheth us, because it is a ray and an image of the Divine beauty, which, being Sovereignly good, necessarily inspires love, when it makes itself known: yet, as there are several things to be supposed in this opinion which the School of Aristotle will not admit, and that at last we must always come to that, To know wherefore the Sovereign Goodness is amiable; we are obliged to take another way, which may lead us to these Supreme truths.  
We must then say, that what is good and convenient to a thing, perfects it; for it adds what it wanted, and in some manner also augments its being, giving it what it had not, and uniting what was divided. And this is the foundation of all the inclinations which are to be found in Nature, and of the love we have for all that is truly and apparently good.  
Now as in the Knowing faculties there is nothing at all of what they ought to know, the Understanding and the Senses being to their Objects what the Matter is to the Form; when these Objects unite themselves to these Faculties, they give them a perfection which they had not, and of which they were capable: And the knowledge they have of this perfection, is the cause of the agreement they find therein, which is afterwards followed by that Love and Pleasure which the Appetite forms, when the Understanding and the Imagination have proposed it as a thing good and convenient for them.  
But forasmuch as there are Objects which cause more love and pleasure than others, they must necessarily much more perfect the knowing faculties, and it is those infallibly which are the most perfect, to wit, those who have the most of being and of essence as we have said; because they do much more fill the natural capacity which these faculties have to know the extent of that being which serves for their object. So it is only God who can fill the understanding and give a perfect Love and Joy to the Will, because it is he alone that possesseth all being; and consequently those things which have the most of it, perfect them proportionably, and cause also by their knowledge a greater satisfaction and a greater pleasure: It is not but that often less perfect things do more content the Senses and the Understanding; but this proceeds from the error which their ill inclinations give them, which commonly come from the temper, from custom, and from weakness of spirit.  
Now forasmuch as knowledge is a good which respects not only the faculties which exercise it, but also all others to which it may be profitable, because that the Senses were not given to the creature for themselves, but for the preservation thereof, and that reason is a light which lights not itself alone, but also all the other virtues which are in man; hence it is that the knowledge which the Senses & the understanding have of things, which in some manner are useful to the creature, perfects these faculties; because that being destined to its service they at last attain the end whether they tend, when they operate for it, and in that respect they acquire a perfection which in some sort is more excellent than that which respects them only being their last end, and the mark nature proposed for them; even thence it is that the eyes esteem fair, all which makes the goodness of asiments known; and the colour of the wine or even of the water is for the same reason more pleasing for a thirsty man to behold, than the fairest green of the fields; In a word, all what the understanding and the imagination know of seeing and hearing, being the observers of what is profitable or agreeable, is esteemed fair, and perfects these faculties; forasmuch as their perfection consists to know what is for our use; it is thus that corporal beauty ravisheth the soul and the Senses; because it is the mark of that interior power which ought to render us more perfect; and it's principally in this sense that we may truly say, that beauty is the flower and splendour of goodness. But before we show how this power ought to render us more perfect, we must observe what we have already said of these powers; for there are those which respect the nature of man in general, and others which are proper to the sexes.  
These have their particular dispositions which make the male and female beauty, and which being nothing but the instruments which they are to use in the performance of their functions, are also the marks which make known whether they may be well or ill done; for certainly a male beauty is nothing else to our Senses, but the mark of a good constitution of the active power in generation, in the same manner as a female beauty is the sign of a passive power to all that is necessary for the performance of that function. Now as generation is the most natural and most excellent of all the operations, which are common to creatures, for that it in some manner renders them eternal, it in some sort also approacheth the Divine perfection and renders them like their cause and principle; we cannot doubt but nature hath imprinted in them a most powerful desire, and also endued them with a knowledge which may serve to this inclination; its true, that this knowledge is obscure and hid, and that it is to be found in ourselves without the help of discourse, and even without our thinking of it; and indeed it is in the same rank with that which nature hath inspired in all the things of the world who know without understanding what is useful for them; for even in the actions of the Senses and the Understanding we perceive that there are objects, which are more pleasing to us then others, the reason whereof is unknown to us, and we have nothing to say, but that there is in our souls a certain spring of Understanding, or rather that it is the Spirit of God which hides itself in his works, and drives things to that end which is fit for them. For as an Artist manageth the action of natural things to the end he pretends, & as we must ascribe all that order which appears in the artifice to his knowledge, and not to the things he useth, which are incapable of that knowledge; so in all the things of nature, where we perceive so many marks of admirable wisdom, we must not believe that it is from them that it proceeds, but that it is the Spirit of God which flows in their effects, which gives the order and the motion, and which guides them to the end which he hath prescribed for them.  
However it be, it is by this obscure and hid knowledge, that corporal beauty presenting itself to our Senses, the soul knows it for the mark of the natural power of that Sex wherein it is; & at the same time that secret and powerful desire which it hath to perpetuate its species, awakens and forms in it that Love which afterwards agitates it with so much violence.  
Yet do I know very well, that an ill-favoured person, may cause the same motion in the soul; and that it is not always true that beauty is the certain mark of the perfect disposition of the powers which serve for generation; and to conclude, that it may affect those who are of the same sex to whom this motive is useless.  
But as for unhandsomeness, we have showed in the Treatise of the Love out of inclination, that although that this Passion seems not to draw its origine from Beauty, yet there is in the soul a certain Idea of perfection contrary to that which the Senses represented, which causeth this admirable charm. For the two other Objections which remain, we must confess, that Nature suffers defects in particulars, because she doth not always find the matter obedient; whence it happens, that there are parts which remain imperfect: and because we often abuse the gifts she bestows, employing them in things contrary to the end which she proposed herself.  
There is amongst men another kind of Love, which corporal beauty also may move, but whose motive is different from that whereof we speak; for it respects not the sex, but all the species; which being to have its virtues and its powers, ought also to have those corporal dispositions which are to serve it.  
Now these dispositions are natural, or acquired: The natural are those which come from our births, and which render men capable of the functions of the Understanding: for, as all what is in Man is destined for the service of that faculty which is mistress of all the rest, since it cannot know things but by the intermission of the Senses, and the Senses cannot operate if their organs are not well disposed; of necessity the parts of the body must have some proportion and agreement with the Understanding: and then the Soul, which sees by this secret sentiment, of which we have spoken, that it is the mark of humane perfection, pleaseth itself in this object, and forms that love which unites it to the good it knows. 'Tis thus, that well-formed men are delightful to the sight, because that the corporal beauty which they have, is a sign that they are naturally fit for the most perfect actions of the Mind; and the knowledge which we thus have of their virtues, makes us love them as an excellent good, which ought to render us the more perfect: For there is no virtue without doing good, either by giving us example, and obliging us to its imitation, or by the good things which its effects bring to every one of us in particular, and to all that society for which Man is born, and to which all virtues, as well Intellectual as Moral, are as a foundation. As for those dispositions which are acquired, they also mark the acquired virtues and powers, such as those habits are which are known by the Characters we here discourse of; that is to say, by their actions, as well Intellectual as Moral, and by the air, by the carriage and behaviour of the body, which makes one part of the corporal beauty: for, as there is a certain grace which accompanies virtuous actions, when it appears to our eyes it makes us believe the virtues are there, and so forms that love which we have naturally for them.  
It is not but that these marks are often deceitful, and that they often make us love subjects which we ought to hate; But it is from that the Knowledge, which causeth this love, is as we have said, obscure and confused; it carries away the Appetite before discourse can examine it, and so makes us love an imaginary good. Yet whatever the error be, the Imagination and the Understanding always find their perfection in the knowledge which the Senses afford them, because they do not believe they are deceived; and they think to discover, by that sensible beauty, that good which ought to accompany it, and whose possession might render us more perfect: wherefore they find it agreeable, and propose it to the appetite as an object worthy of love, and affording pleasure.  
These are the principles which may give to us the knowledge of the name and effects of Beauty: For, to examine all what could be said in particular, we should need whole Volumes; and these Subjects being too elevated, would tyre the spirit with the length of the Discourse, and would cause us to disgust a thing which ought never to be distasteful. There is but one difficulty in this subject, which we dare not leave without examination; and the resolution whereof is nothing easy to find: For, those who are esteemed fair in one Climate, are not so in another; and, even where ever it be, a face which may seem fair to some, will appear ugly to divers: Whence some have believed, that Beauty is neither a true nor real quality, and that it is but in opinion only: but no man can disavow, but that the proportion of the parts, and those other things which make beauty, are true and real, and are qualities which ennoble the subject where they are, and satisfy the mind and the sight. Now since Nature proposeth always to itself perfection, and that there is but only one true perfection in the order of all things; it must needs be, that she designed a particular beauty to every species, which ought to be the Model of all those which particulars may have: And as the Humane body is the best tempered of all others which are in Nature, it is probable that this perfect being aught to be in the most temperate Climate. But whence comes it then, that it is not acknowledged in other Climates; but on the contrary, there that is esteemed fair, which in this is esteemed ugly? For, the blackest amongst the Moors are esteemed the fairest, the most short-nosed amongst the Chinois; and so of the rest.  
For my part, I believe we must say that the Climate gives a certain disposition to the body, and makes it change in temperature; and that such a temper gives such an inclination and such a power to the Mind. Now because the bodies ought to be proportionable to the powers, it is a necessary consequence, that the bodies in those Climates must have the marks of these inclinations. So that Beauty consisting in the proportion which the bodies have with their virtues and powers; and Men having such powers in certain Climates, they must esteem those fair which have those marks, because that these inclinations are as it were natural and common to them: so that they judge of Beauty according to their natural inclination, in the same manner as in temperate Countries there are those found who judge diversely of Beauty, by reason of the particular temper they have, which carries their judgements to prise what is conformable to them.    

CHAP. III. The Characters of Joy.  
ALthough Nature seem avaricious of Pleasure and of Delight, and that mingling it always with Grief, she makes us believe that she affords it us but with regret and restraint; yet must we confess that there is nothing in the world, wherein her liberality and magnificence appear more; and we may say, that all her other presents are debts which she pays, but that this is purely a grace and favour of hers; for although she gives a being to every thing, that she hath a care of its preservation, and brings it to its end, she is obliged thereunto; and there is nothing in the Universe, which may not with justice ask her what is necessary for the perfection of its being; but as action is the end and perfection of all things, when they are arrived there they can exact nothing from nature, who hath acquitted herself of all she owed them, and if she contributes any thing, it is by favour and not by obligation; so that causing always delight to flow on those actions which are conformable to it, and in a manner crowning them with it, we ought not to doubt that it is a singular effect of her munisicence, or the better to express it, the sum foe all the graces she could bestow.  
Knowing also how precious it was, she hath only communicated it to the most noble and the most excellent things; she esteemed those without knowledge unworthy of it, and that Sense and Reason only could deserve it; even as if it were a good which ought not to be possessed but in heaven, she would not permit it to be pure and perfect here below; she hath mingled it with cares and with pains, she hath brewed it with tears and hath caused it to begin or to finish always with grief.  
But as the Sun ceaseth not to be the fairest and most profitable thing in the world, although it hath blemishes and suffer eclipses: So how imperfect soever pleasure be, by what mixture soever it hath been weakened, yet ought it not to hinder us from prising it as the most excellent and most desirable thing which could ever happen to mankind; and we may truly say, that it is the light of all other good things, and that were it taken away from our lives, it would nothing but horror and confusion; our life it would indeed rather be a continual flood of ills then of years; the Senses would rather serve for gates of grief then of knowledge; knowledge itself would pass for an affliction of spirit, and virtue for a grievous servitude. It's pleasure only which sets a price on all things, and which renders them delightful; at least they appear not good, but by so much as it is found mingled with them; and did not the soul hope to encounter it in all it acts, it would remain languishing and , it would be without action and without vigour, and we must speak no more of life, of happiness or of felicity.  
Certainly, to see the effect, it causeth, as mistress and despencer of all good things, calling back those which are past, making us sensible of those which are not yet, rendering even melancholy, tears and dangers pleasing; we must confess that with reason Nature is called the great Magician, and that pleasure is the most powerful charm she useth to produce her miracles; In effect, it's a charm which makes all the ills which assault us vanish, which lifts us up beyond ourselves, which changeth us into other men, and from men transforms us into Demigods; but we often use it as a poison, which quencheth all that is Divine in our Souls, which renders our minds brutish, and makes us like, even inferior to beasts.  
For although the pleasures of the body are of themselves innocent, and that they were given us for enticements to the most necessary and most noble actions of life; yet when we pervert their use, and when we do not render them obedient to reason, they rebel against it, pull it out of its throne, precipitate it in dirt and mire, and stifle all the seeds of virtue and understanding which are born with it.  
Neither is there any thing wherein wisdom hath more been employed, then to seek the means whereby to shun so dangerous an enemy, who flatters at its admittance, and afterwards causeth every where trouble and confusion, which fills the Soul with blood and flames, the Body with grief and infirmity, and leaves nothing behind it but repentance.  
We will not propose the counsels and advice she hath given on this subject; we should bring hither all those laws, which Physic, Morality, and Religion have prescribed; at least there are but few which were not made either to prevent or correct the disorders which sensuality may cause; yet we think to second its design, by showing the deformity which the excess of this Passion produceth in the Soul and in the Body.  
The Picture of voluptuousness cannot be made without representing many figures, besides that there are joys which have no commerce with the body, and which are to be found in the highest part of the soul: those of the Sense are so different amongst themselves, that as many pleasing objects as there are which may move them, we may say that there are also as many several sorts of Pleasures: And truly, whoever would design the portraiture we undertake according to the order of the Senses, and describe the pleasure which every of them may be sensible of, the invention and the composure could not be ill; but we may not use it without prejudice to other designs, wherein we are to employ the same touches, and the same colours which this requires; for if we stayed to express the Characters of Pleasure, which is in tasting and touching; we must necessarily also describe those of Gluttony, Drunkenness, Impudence, and so of the rest, whereof we should make particular Tables; wherefore without parcelling these things, we will choose what is common to all Pleasures, dividing this discourse into two parts; the one of which shall treat of a serious Joy, where laughter is not to be found, and the other of a laughing puffed up Joy, which is nothing but the Passion of Laughter.  
Joy is not amongst those Passions whose beginning is weak, and whose progress is vehement; it hath all its force and greatness from its birth, and time serves for nothing but to weaken or diminish it; as soon as it enters the Soul it transports it and carries it out of itself, and the ravishment it causeth is sometimes so violent that it takes away the use of the Senses, makes it forsake the cares of life and often lose it; but although it come not to this excess, yet it is always known by that puffed up impatience, which appears in all its actions, that it hardly can contain itself within its bounds, that it makes escapes and endeavours to go out.  
For the thoughts and words of a contented man are not to be stopped; he dreams only of his good fortune, he speaks continually of it, and if he be not interrupted he hath nothing in his heart which he carries not on his tongue; he discovers his most secret designs, and so makes his joy an enemy to his rest and to his contentment.  
If he is silent, you must entertain him with discourses only which favour his Passion; how divertising soever others are, to him they are importunate; he breaks them at every moment, and it brings in always somewhat of his transport: 〈◊〉 or at least his little minding of them, seems a sign of his scorning them, or a reproaching that they interrupt his Pleasure.  
But if you speak of the subject which begot them, if you admire his happiness, if you witness a fellow-feeling with him; then, how angry or severe soever he be, he becometh complacent, he caresseth, embraceth, and often, by ridiculous civilities and favours, he forgetteth the respect he owes, or loseth that which is due to him.  
The first that comes to him, is made his friend and his confident; he takes counsel of him, he follows his advice; and it often happens to be a child, a servant, or an enemy whom he trusts with his secret, and with its conduct. In this blindness, he approves all what is proposed to him to the advantage of his Passion: Whatever vanities he nourisheth, whatever successes he flatters himself withal, there is nothing in his opinion which he ought not to believe, and may not hope; as if all things were to respect his pleasures: He believes that there are none which dare traverse them; he sees the dangers which every way environ them, without startling at it; and with a blind confidence he believes himself secure, when his loss is often most assured: So that we may say, that there is no man so credulous with so little appearance, so bold with so much weakness, nor so unhappy with so much good hap.  
He would make us believe he were content, he persuades it himself, and in the mean time his desires betray his design and his contentment: for they are irritated by the enjoyment; and carrying themselves only towards those goods which he hath not, they render those useless which he possesseth, and even of his joy cause the subject of his disquiet. Pleasure hath that property, that although we enjoy it, it forbears not to make itself desirable; so that it is never content, and that it is rather weary of the good which entertains it, then fully satisfied therewith. But we have spoken enough of the trouble it moves in the Mind: let us see what it causeth in the Face.  
There are some pleasures of which we may say the Soul is jealous, which it seems she would possess in secret, and which she dares not communicate to the Senses: But what care soever she takes to hid them, she cannot do it so well, but she must discover something; her retreat renders her suspected; and when she would hid, 'tis then she the more discovers herself: For, the looks become fixed and stayed; all the body is ; the Senses forget their functions; in fine, there is a general suspension made of all the animal virtues. And although at first we might doubt whether it proceeds from astonishment or grief, which often produce the same effects, 'tis afterwards discovered by a certain gloss which remains on the face, and by I know not what sweetness which it leaves in the eyes, and by a light image of smiling which appears on the lips, that these troublesome Passions have no share in this transport, and that it comes from that inward joy, which ravisheth, and as it were inebriates the soul.  
But when Pleasure hath the liberty to disperse itself abroad, and that the Senses bear a part, and that the Mind and the Body seem to enter again into commerce and intelligence; than it is easy to know the agitation which is made in the soul, by what appears in the exterior parts: You see on the face a certain vivacity, a pleasing disquiet, and a laughing boldness. Pleasure sparkles in the eyes, sweetness accompanies all their motions; and when they happen to weep, or to cast forth some dying looks, you would say, Laughter confounded itself with Tears, and that Jollity mixed itself with Languish: The Forehead is in this calm and serene, the eyebrows are not lifted up with wrinkles nor with clouds; and it seems as if it opened, and every way extended itself. The Lips are red and moist, and are never forsaken by smiles; and that light trembling which sometimes happens to them, would make one think they danced for joy: The Voice becomes greater than ordinary; sometimes it is resounding; and it never goes out but with earnestness: for there is no Passion so talkative as Joy; how barren soever the Mind be, what heaviness soever there be on the tongue, it makes one speak continually: and nothing but its own violence sometimes stops the mouth, and at once cuts short the speech. To conclude, all the face takes an extraordinary good plight; and from pale melancholy and severe, which it was before, it becomes ruddy, affable, and pleased.  
The rest of the body is also sensible of this alteration: A sweet heat & vapour sheds itself thorough all its parts; which swells, and gives them a lively colour: even they become stronger, and do their actions more perfectly than they did before. In effect, of all the motions of the Mind, there is none more a friend to Health then this, so as it be not extreme. It drives away sickness, it purifies the blood and the spirits, and renders, as the Wise man says, our years flourishing. As soon as it enters the heart, it swells it with great beat; it lifts up the heart by long respirations. In the Arteries it causeth a large and extended pulse. And yet although all these motions are made slowly, and without vehemency, those of the other parts are made with precipitation and vigour. The head and the eyes are in a continual agitation: the hands move without ceasing: we go, we come, we leap; we cannot stay in one place. But it sometimes also happens, that the violence of this Passion takes quite away the use of Sense and Motion; it quencheth natural heat, it causeth syncopes, and in a moment bereaves one of life. Let us then examine how it can produce so many effects so contrary and so wonderful.  

PART. 2. Of the Nature of JOY.  
SOme perhaps may think it strange, that Joy which speaks so much of itself, hath not as yet told what it was; but you may much more wonder that Philosophy, which promiseth us the knowledge of all things, falls short in this; although there be nothing which endeavours more to make itself known then Pleasure; It penetrates to the bottom of our soul, it environs it on all sides, it solicits it by all the ways of its knowledge; it is the end of all its desires, the crown of all its actions, and yet for all that its nature is unknown to it, and the greatest understandings which have enquired it, are not agreed under what kind it ought to be placed.  
For some have said that Pleasure was nothing but the rest and tranquillity of the mind; others that it was a Passion in which the Soul operated not; and amongst those who have ranked it amongst actions, some did believe it proceeded not from appetite but from knowledge. In fine, there having been some who not daring to put it in the rank of other Passions, have said it was the principle of them, others that it was their gender, or their first species.  
Had we not banished from our design the wrangling and the Criticisms of the Schools, we should be obliged to examine all these opinions, and to seek in their ruins foundations whereon we should build the definition and Idea of Pleasure: But since we have not that liberty, and that we should render delight importunate and unpleasing by the length of the discourses we should use, without advising with any we will consult the thing itself, and see whether it will discover itself to us after having hid itself to so many excellent spirits.  
We say then that we need not doubt, but that Pleasure is a motion of the mind, and that its impossible to conceive a calm and rest in the tempest which it raiseth in our thoughts, in our spirits, and in our humours; as those things do not move of themselves, it must be the mind which agitates them, and she gives herself the same shake which she imprints in them; For it is evident that effects being like their causes, the motions of the body which are the effects of the mind, ought also to be the images of the agitation she gives herself; I know well that the Schools will not call these agitations true motions; but that stops us not, it will suffice that they are such as the soul can have, & that pleasure is one of that order.  
But yet as she hath two parts which may be moved, we might doubt to which of the two Pleasure belongs; for although all the world confess it is a Passion, and consequently a motion of the appetite, yet it seems that there are some which are proper to knowledge, since the Senses and the understanding find a complacency in the objects which are conformable to them, even before that the appetite is moved; but also as we have already showed in our discourse of Love, that this complacency is no true pleasure; and that the Daemons which are capable of that acceptableness, cannot be touched with Joy, which yet they ought most perfectly to have; if it come from knowledge alone, we must then stick to the common opinion, and with it say, that Pleasure is a motion of the appetite, since its good which moves that part of the mind, and that pleasure hath no other object but the same good.  
Yet this raiseth another difficulty; for if it be true that the soul ceaseth to move, when it arrives at the end whereto it tended moving to possess a good, the possession ought to be the end and term of its motion: So that the pleasure which comes always after the possession is rather a rest then a motion of the appetite; and yet if we were agreed that possession is the aim and end of the motions of the mind, we would say that that only ought to be understood of those which it employs to arrive thereunto; for although it bear itself not towards the good it possesseth, it hinders it not from agitating to taste it again, and from being ravished in the enjoyment it hath had; but to speak more exactly, possession is not the last end which the soul proposeth; it is the enjoyment which is the perfection and accomplishment of the possession. For it is certain we possess things which we enjoy not, and we may say that the good renders itself master of the Soul when it presents and unites itself unto it, but that she becomes mistress of it when she enjoys it: After all this we can never say that rest is the end which the soul proposeth to itself, since the end is the perfection of things, and that there are some which must be always in action to be perfect: Now the soul is of this kind, she never tends to rest unless out of weakness, and it is therefore necessary that Joy and Enjoyment be in motion; let us then see what an one it is.  
To discover it, we must observe that Pleasure and Joy are never form in the soul, till after the good hath inspired Love therein; for as the first motion of the appetite towards good is to unite itself thereunto, and Love consists in this union; it is impossible that any man should fancy any other motion which could be posterior to that; and therefore if Pleasure be a motion of the soul towards good, it ought to presuppose love, & always come after it.  
Now as this Love always precedes, it follows not that it must always accompany it; there may be obstacles which may hinder the appetite from moving to form this Passion, and grief perhaps may be so great that it may employ the whole soul, that it will not admit the least ray of Joy; but it's also certain, that if there be nothing which retains the appetite, it always goes from Love to Pleasure, because the soul unites itself to good, but to enjoy it, and it is impossible it should enjoy it but by Pleasure; and to speak truth, enjoyment is nothing but pleasure which we find in the possession of good; and according as enjoyment is more perfect, it is also the greater and the more excellent. What motion can the appetite then suffer in pleasure and enjoyment beyond that of Love, whereby it unites itself to what is good? certainly it is a thing very difficult to conceive, how these actions should pass into a power which is quite blind and hid in the bottom of the soul; they must be extremely obscure, and what light soever the mind can bring, they suffer themselves to be seen not without a great deal of trouble; yet since we have engaged ourselves to show the difference of the Passions, by the difference of corporal motions, we must necessarily, to know what Joy is, find in sensible things a kind of motion which may resemble the agitation which the Mind suffers in this encounter. As it happens then in the Passion of Love, that the Appetite carries itself towards the beloved object, that it runs thither, and unites itself thereunto; we may say, that this motion is like to that of fluid bodies, which run toward their centre, and think to find their rest there: but because when they are there, they for all that stop not, they return, and scatter themselves on themselves; they swell, and consequently overflow. So, after that the Appetite is united to its good, its motion ends not there; it returns the same way, scatters itself on itself, and overflows those powers which are nearest to it. By this effusion, the soul doubles on the image of the good it hath received, mixeth and confoundeth itself with it, and so thinks to possess it the more by doubly uniting itself thereunto. Nay, even as the Appetite swells, and thicks by this reflux; it cannot contain itself within its bounds, and is constrained to distil itself into that faculty which acquainted it with the knowledge of the object; sharing with it the good it hath received, and by that means making all the parts of the soul concur to the possession thereof, wherein perfect enjoyment consists: For, since the soul hath no other end, but perfectly to possess the good, and that, perfectly to possess it, it must have the knowledge of that possession; the Appetite having no knowledge, cannot alone make it enjoy what it loves; the Imagination and the Understanding must contribute: and then, after they have proposed the good to the Appetite, and that the Appetite is united thereunto, it returns to the one and to the other, and gives them an account of what it hath done, to the end that by uniting their functions, the soul may unite itself to its good in all its parts, and that it may make for it that circular motion which is natural to it, and wherein the accomplishment and perfection of its operations consists, as the Platonic Philosophy teacheth. After all, if it be true that the Soul and the Spirits work in the same manner in the Passions, we may not doubt but that the motion which the soul suffers in Joy, is such as we have said, since that of the spirits is altogether like it: For, after Love hath carried them to good, they scatter and overflow themselves on the organs of the Senses, as we are about to make known: So that we cannot miss in saying, That Joy is an effusion of the Appetite, whereby the Soul spreads itself on what is good, to possess it the more perfectly.  
I know that the definition of Aristotle is quite different from this: for he says that it is a motion of the Soul which suddenly and sensibly puts it in a state agreeable to Nature. But the place where he proposeth it, shows sufficiently that he had no intention to render it very exact, treating in that place but with Orators, and not with Philosophers. And truly, whoever will nearly examine it, will find nothing less than the essence of that Passion. How many of those motions will there be found, such as he hath observed, wherein Pleasure will never be? All natural actions, do they not put the soul in a state agreeable to its nature? and may they not be suddenly and sensibly performed without being for all that delightful? The Passion of Love, is it not so form, and is it not an estate agreeable to Nature, to unite itself to good, and to possess it; and yet Pleasure need not always accompany it? And may we not then say, that it is not Joy which makes this condition agreeable to Nature; but rather, that it is that which breeds Joy?  
Besides, what need we say it is a sudden motion, seeing the Appetite hath none that are other? For, if it happens that the soul moves not so readily in some Passions, that jaziness comes not from the Appetite, but from the faculty which proposeth that good with too much difficulty, and too loosely commands the pursuit thereof: Being a blind power, it goes but as 'tis led; and as soon as the command is given, it obeys, and moves in an instant.  
It is true, there may be obstacles on that side, which may hinder it from so readily obeying; as, when there are contrary Passions to those which the object ought to inspire; for an extreme grief will never suffer Joy to form itself in the Appetite: But also, when the hindrance is away, it quickly moves, and always in a moment produceth the Passion as perfect as the knowledge and motive was which it proposed: For, if Love hath weak-beginnings, 'tis because the good is weakly represented, and the progresses it makes, are new motions of the Appetite, caused by the representation of new Ideas and new perfections.  
In effect, we may say of all the consequences, and of all the increase of Passions, that they are as the flame and the light, which entertain and augment one the other every moment, by an infinite many reiterated productions; that which appears, being not that which was before, and which even presently will be followed by a new: for, all of them succeeding thus one the other without interruption, seem to be but the selfsame thing which hath preserved and entertained itself.  
So it is in Joy, and in all other Passions; they form themselves all at once, and pass in an instant: they are also renewed every moment, causing thus a continual flux of divers perfect motions, which last as long as the knowledge solicits the Appetite to move.  
It is then true, that the Appetite hath no motions which are not sudden; That nevertheless it gins to move itself rather at one time then another, by how much the faculty which commands is diligent or lazy, or because there is some contrary motion which retains it: And that is easy to be conceived, by the example of the Eyes, which see things in an instant, although to see them they sometimes open quicker or slower; and even after being open, they may have some indisposition which may hinder them to act.  
I know that the Physicians seem to use the same definition with Aristotle, when they say that Pleasure is a quick and sensible motion which puts Nature in an estate which is agreeable to it; and that if the objects make not a quick and sensible impression on the Senses, or if they do not make it proportionable to Nature, they can never cause Pleasure. But it is easy to perceive, that the Motion whereof they speak, is not that of the Appetite, where Pleasure consists, and that it is but the cause thereof: for, before that the Appetite moves, the objects must make such an impression as we have said; and then the Soul, which feels it, and which sees what is its good, sheds itself on it, to possess it the more perfectly, and so forms that pleasure, which is augmented by the effusion of spirits, as we will anon declare. I stay not to examine how grief sometimes happens in this quick motion which moves Nature to an estate convenient for it; as when we put our hands to the fire when they are extremely cold; that concerns the Passion of Grief: It will suffice here to observe, that those objects which make not this ready impression, do not cause Pleasure; because that insinuating themselves by little and little, Nature accustoms herself unto them, and feels not the change which happens to her; wherefore, not knowing the good which she receives, the Imagination proposeth it not to the Appetite, which consequently is not moved thereby. We are even thus tired with the most agreeable things, after having too long tasted them. But of this more amply at the end of this Discourse.  
Let us continue again the thread of that Discourse which we have left, and say, that although all the motions of the Appetite are made suddenly, yet it is true, that of all the objects which move Passion, there are none whose arrival so quickly and so easily moves the Appetite, as Joy. And this comes in my conceit, from that the object of Pleasure is the good, so far as it is already loved: for we have already showed, that Love always precedes Joy; so that being already united to the Appetite by the means of Love, there is nothing in that respect which hinders the motion which that power ought to employ to relish it. But it is not so in the rest of the Passions, whose objects are to be examined by the Knowledge, before they are proposed to the Appetite. And as there are but few Goods or Evils which are pure, so there are always found many things which diminish their goodness or their ill, and suspend the judgement we ought to make of them. But to move Joy, this examen is useless: the Appetite already possessing the Good, all its counsels are taken, all its doubts are razed; and of necessity it ought to move at the same instant when it united itself to its enjoyment, wherein Joy and Pleasure consist.  
But 'tis to penetrate too far into the secrets of the Soul, and to stay too long on things which have no stay. Let us leave these imperceptible motions, and see whether those which are made in the humours and in the spirits, are more easy to be discerned.  
Yet before we begin this enquiry, we shall do well to say somewhat of the Object which moves this Passion. For although we have already said it was Good, we must examine out of what consideration it merits that quality, being assured that out of divers respects it causeth divers motions in the soul.  
As than good, forasmuch as it is amiable, is the object of Love; so forasmuch as it is delightful it is that of Joy: neither is it powerfully delightful, but when it is loved, for that Pleasure presupposeth Love; so that good forasmuch as it is loved, aught to be the true object of Joy; perhaps you will say, that desire also presupposeth Love, and that good must be loved to be desired; it is true, but desire demands another condition, to wit, absence which never happens in Joy, where the good must be always present; for when past things, or those which are to come delight us, it is an effect of the imagination, which renders them present, and makes them pass for such as they are in the thoughts.  
For the rest, by the word Good, we must not only conceive what is truly and apparently good, but even also the ills which we have eschewed: It is thus, that the memory of the pains we have suffered, and of the dangers we have escaped is pleasing, forasmuch as it is good to have been delivered from them; it is thus that vengeance is so sweet; because that by overcoming the ill, we no more fear the assaults thereof; it is thus, that tears are sometimes delightful, because they discharge nature of an unprofitable burden, and that it even seems as if the grief which excited them, runs and slides away with them.  
You must besides observe, that good being a thing agreeable to nature, this is aswel to be understood of depraved nature, as of that which is perfect; for a sick man takes pleasure in things which are contrary to him, and a vicious man finds contentment in his debauches, because they are conformable to his corrupted and irregular nature.  
Now after this to examine by retail all what may cause pleasure, besides that it would wrong both our design, and the Reader, both which ask for brevity, we may easily know it were but to lose time and words.  
It will then suffice to say, that since good is the source of all the sweets which this Passion causeth to flow into the soul, and that it is nothing but what is fit for our nature, and what perfects it, it must be that the good which makes us the more perfect, raises also the greater & the more solid pleasures: Now as we are composed of two parts, of soul and body, and as that is incomparably more excellent; and therefore it follows that the perfection which it acquireth is also more excellent, and that the goods which cause it, are the most noble and the most delightful.  
But because the goods of the body are for the preservation of the species, or of the individuals, and that that is more considerable to nature, as being the most common or the most general good; from thence it is that the pleasure which accompanies it is the sweetest and most sensible of all others; and by the same reason the objects of Tasting and feeling delight most, because they are the Senses most necessary for life, and without which the creature cannot subsist.  
It is true that the objects of Seeing and Hearing may contest the preeminency, being more noble than those base and material qualities which respect the inferior Senses: But if we consider that there are almost no creatures, which delight themselves with the beauty of sounds and colours; we may confess speaking generally, that the objects of Tasting and Touching are the most delightful; and yet that in Man those of Seeing and Hearing have the advantage, because that those two Senses having a great affinity with the Understanding, and being chief destined to its service, their end is also more noble & necessary than it is in beasts, where they are for no other use, but to preserve the animal life which they have.  
From all these considerations, it is easy to deduce the principal differences of Pleasure: For it is either Intellectual or Sensible, Pure or Impure, True or False. True Pleasures are those which are pure, to wit, which are not linked or mixed with Grief; and they are those which are fit for Man, in the most perfect condition that Nature could place him. Such are the pleasures which are found in Contemplation, and in the exercise of Virtue: such are those which follow the actions of a secure Health, and the functions of Senses perfectly disposed.  
Now these Pleasures have this property, that they are long lasting, that they never tyre, that they may be relished at all times, and that Grief never precedes nor follows them: For a man who is in a state of Natural perfection, is never weary of Meditation, nor of performing good actions: Life is always sweet and pleasing to him; and the Senses are always disposed to receive their Objects with Delight.  
Some may now say, that Eating and Drinking, and other natural actions, are convenient for the perfect nature of Man, which yet cause also disgust: For Music, and the sight of the fairest things, at last tires the ears and eyes; and the sweetest flowers wherewith Venus was ever crowned, as Pindarus says, at last become importunate and displeasing. It is true: But we must also remember, that all these things being suitable to Nature, aught to have the conditions which perfection requires: they must be moderate in quantity and quality: the circumstance of time, place, and persons, must meet. Besides, that the greatest part are not of themselves convenient for Nature, but only by accident; that is to say, they are only convenient, by reason of the irregularities which preceded them whose remedy they are. So eating and drinking cure hunger and thirst: so rest and sleep cause labour and weariness to cease. In a word, the greatest part of our actions afford pleasure only because Nature empties or fills itself, and corrects the one with the other; wherefore the pleasure which follows them is not absolutely pure nor real, but only by accident: whence it is that it tires, that it lasts but little, and that we are not at all times capable to taste it, as those which are absolutely pure.  
But let us leave these Moral Speculations, and, without staying any longer on things which are notorious to all the world, let us seek new ones, and see whether the Tempest which this Passion excites in us, will not throw us into some unknown Land, and make us know the motions of the Spirits which act as the wandering Stars, whose courses and periods have not yet been observed.   

PART 3. What the Motion of JOY is in the Spirits.  
IN all kind of Motion, we must always fancy two terms: The one where it is to begin, the other where it ought to finish. If the Spirits than move in Joy, it seems they ought to come from the heart, since it is their source; and thence they move themselves towards what is Good, wheresoever it presents itself to the soul. Truly, could Joy form itself all alone, the motion of the Spirits must be so made, and must by it be issued out of the heart to the meeting of what is good: but because it never comes but with Love, which ought always to precede it, it is he who ought to cause that motion, whereto Joy contributes nothing: So that we must seek another for it, conformable with that of the Appetite. In a word, we must discover how the Spirits in some manner disperse themselves, even as that doth in this Passion. This will not uneasily be conceived, after having observed how Love carries them towards Good: for when they can go no further, they must either stop, or return to their source, or disperse themselves. They cannot stop themselves, since they follow the then-disturbed agitation of the soul: they cannot return to the heart, since nothing but the presence of Ill can constrain them thereunto: They must then overflow and disperse themselves. And the Soul, which employs the same motives for the motion of the Spirits as for her own, taketh care to make them move so, that they may be the more united to Good, as we have before said: For, by this effusion, they dilate themselves in their organs; and, occupying more room, they think to touch the Good in more of its parts.  
But where can they disperse themselves? To understand this, you must remember, that Good toucheth not the soul but by its presence, and that it is Knowledge only which renders it present. Now this Knowledge is made by the Understanding, and by the Imagination, or by the Senses: And as the Imagination is seated in the brain, and the Senses in their particular organs; so Good must be in the one or the other of them, and consequently Love must carry the Spirits to those places, and Joy disperse them in the same precincts. For, if Good be only in the Fancy, and that it toucheth not the exterior Senses, all the Spirits arrive at the seat of the Imagination, and disperse themselves in the brain: But if any of the Senses possess this Good, than the Spirits which ran thither disperse themselves also on their organs, and carry thither heat, redness, and vivacity.  
This effusion augments the Pleasure of the Mind, by reason of that sweet and temperate heat which runs thorough the parts, which flatters and tickles them: So that those Pleasures which are accompanied with this corporal agitation, are greater, and more sensible, then when they are without it. Nay, even after the emotion of the Appetite hath ceased, the agitation of the Spirits continuing, leaves the soul in a certain confused Joy, which comes not from the object which at first touched it, but from that tickling which the Senses made known unto it, as a thing conformable and convenient for their nature.  
And this makes me believe that all those secret Joys which we feel without knowing a reason of them, come from the same cause, and that there must necessarily be something which disperseth the Spirits, and which inspires Pleasure in the soul; whether it be the knowledge it hath of the tickling of those parts, or whether that all the differences of the motions which it employs in every Passion, being known unto her, she sees this to be fit for Joy, and at the same time forms a delightful object, as we said it happened in that love which is out of inclination.  
You will perhaps say, that this effusion of Spirits may often be without Pleasure; That Anger which casts them into the face, that Grief which draws them to the diseased parts, and that the Fever which drives them everywhere with impetuosity, afterwards disperseth them, and causeth the same alteration which Joy imprints on the body; and yet that the Soul is then sensible of no pleasure.  
But we may two ways answer this: First, it is true, that the most delightful objects are often diverted by little griefs, from making an impression in the soul. This motion of the Spirits which is so secret, and which the Senses can scarce discover, aught to be far less powerful against great obstacles which cause these troublesome encounters. But supposing they did cause pleasure, it is so weak, and so light, that it is stifled by the least sensible inconvenience. For it is an observable thing, that although it seems that the Sensitive Appetite at the same time cannot suffer contrary Passions, it is not absolutely true, since we evidently know, that the tongue is pleased with agreeable savours, whilst the heart is full of bitterness and grief. And the reason of this is, that the Sensitive Appetite is not shut up in one part only, as the most part of the other faculties are; it is dispersed thorough all the organs of the Senses: and we may say, that its stock and root are indeed in the heart, but that its boughs and branches are extended thorough all the body: For it's a general and necessary power to all the parts of the Creature, and it must have been communicated to all, that Motion might not be far off from knowledge, and that the Soul might not languish in expectation to possess a good, or flee from an ill, when they were once come to her knowledge: Nature having made for the appetite what she made for the pulse whose principal organ is the heart, and yet which forms itself in all the arteries, where even it is sometimes found different from that which agitates the heart.  
Which being so, Pleasure may be in one place, and Grief in another, although they are in one part incompatible: But it is also true that when Passion is raised in the Centre, and source of the appetite, that which is in the little rivulets is very weak and seems to vanish, although the Spirits cease not to agitate in those places where it was form, whence these secret feelings of Pleasure follow, which often steal themselves from the knowledge of the understanding, nay even of the imagination.  
This is the first answer which may be made to the proposed objection; now for another which pleaseth us more, as being better fitted to our design; for we will show how every Passion hath a particular motion of the spirits; and that then if the effusion be in others as well as Joy, there must be some difference which renders it fit and particular, and which is not to be found in the rest.  
We must then confess that Anger, Grief, and Terror, and divers other exterior things may disperse the spirits, but by violence, and as a tempest which scatters the rain, and transports it here and there with impetuosity; in stead whereof Joy sweetly disperseth them, and makes them distil on the parts as a sweet dew; now this causeth many different impressions on the Senses: For the spirits which are driven with force, which precipitate themselves one on the other cause a troublesome sentiment to nature, and rather provoke it then flatter it; but those which disperse themselves as themselves, and sweetly insinuate themselves into the parts, tickle and content it: Considering that in those Passions which have ill for their object, the spirits keep themselves united & contracted to assault or flee from it; whence it is that they are piercing, and offend the parts they light on; but in Joy, wherein they dilate themselves to embrace the good it must needs blunt their point, and make them lose the impetuosity they had before; So that what effusion soever there is in Anger and in Grief, its never accompanied with pleasure, because it is not like that which is with Joy; to avow this, we must only consult the countenance of a joyful man; for you will find therein I know not what kind of a more pleasing vivacity, a clearer and purer splendour, and a sweeter heat than in all the Passions we have made mention of; by reason that the purity of the spirits is not changed by those sharp and darksome fumes which are raised in the rest, and that their motion is more free, more equal, and more conformable to their nature; it might be asked whether this effusion of spirits be only made in those places where Good is presented to the soul; and truly it's there only necessary for it, since they only disperse themselves to possess this good, and that good toucheth it nowhere but where it makes itself known; yet it is true that it abundantly pours them into the entrails, and that when Joy is high, there is no part which it overflows not; for which cause the heart and the lungs loosen themselves as Hypocrates says, we are sensible of I know not what pleasing emotion which moves all the interior parts, and a sweet heat and vapour, which disperseth itself through the whole body: Now this happens according to my opinion, from that the sensitive soul hath not always a clear and certain knowledge of its object, and being charmed by that of Joy, she fancies that she ought everywhere to encounter it, and that she ough also to send spirits every way to entertain it: or rather the urgency which presseth her forwards to the quick enjoyment of the presented good, is the reason she drives them on all sides, without choice or order, or so much as discerning the places whether they are to move.  
This shall suffice for the knowledge of the Motion of the spirits in Joy; in pursuit of the examen we have already made in the Treatise of Love. But one difficulty remains which the former discourse hath bred, and whose resolution will give some light to the obscurity of this matter; for we have said, that the spirits are not agitated here with violence, and that their motion is always sweet and calm; although this seem not to agree with the transports, the ravishments, and the excesses which are so common in this Passion, and which cannot be conceived without a violent agitation of the spirits: And in effect, when we compared this motion with that which is made in Love, we were not afraid to say, that they were driven in Joy as a great wave, and that it seemed then as if the soul would cast itself wholly and all at once before its object: So that it being not to be done without violence, and having certified that there was none in the effusion of the spirits, we cannot escape the reproach to have spoken contrary to Truth, and against Ourselves.  
Yet it is very easy to answer this Objection, remembering, that Joy and Love are inseparable; and that these two Passions being for that cause often considered as if they were but one only, these Motions were also confounded with their effects: so that Love drawing the spirits from the heart, and driving them out, we commonly say, that Joy also transports them. And as this motion is made with violence, and causeth troublesome accidents, the same thing may be said of Joy: For thus we discoursed of it in the former Chapter, where we did not absolutely compare Love with Joy, but only the love of Beauty with the love of other things wherein Joy causeth faintings and syncopes, confounding, as commonly they do, these two Passions in one: But here, where we make an exact Anatomy of them, we separate the motions of the one from the other; and conclude, that the transport of the spirits towards Good, is a particular effect of Love; and that the effusion which follows it, is that of Joy: So that if there be violence in the first motion, it proceeds all from Love; Pleasure hath no share in it; and how impetuous soever it be, it must break and soften itself, when the spirits begin to disperse themselves; otherwise Joy would destroy itself, by that troublesome sensibleness which that impetuous and turbulent motion would excite in the parts.  
Yet it follows not, that because this effusion is not violent and impetuous, it must be made slowly: for the spirits are such stirring and subtle bodies, that they without resistance penetrate everywhere: and their motions are so quick, that nothing in Nature could be found to compare them to, but Light: and it is by that also that we can make appear how they disperse themselves in Joy: For it in a moment insinuates itself in Diaphanous bodies without violence, and without confusion runs thorough all their parts; without constraint dilates and extends itself: and we might say, that had these bodies any knowledge, they would be sensible of an extreme pleasure in that sweet, although sudden effusion of Light. So is it with that which is made in Joy: for after the soul hath carried the spirits towards its Good, and that she believes she hath united them together, she leaves that pressing, that disquiet and precipitation which she caused before that she might arrive there: and, thinking she can then with security enjoy the good she possesseth, she with liberty dilates herself, without hindrance extends herself, and in an instant penetrates all the parts of her object; causing the spirits to move in the same manner, which she finds always obedient to her command. It is true, that in pursuit thereof there is a great dissipation of them made, which the soul takes no care to repair, being wholly employed in the enjoyment of the good she pursued, and being as it were charmed and ravished with her good fortune; whence those weaknesses follow, those faintings, and those other actions, of which we have already spoken.   

PART. 4. The causes of the Characters of Joy.  
YOu have seen what we had to say of the nature of this Passion, before we inquire the causes of those Characters which make it appear. Let us then now examine first the Moral actions, and inquire why Joy is so talkative, so vain, and so credulous; why it confides so much in itself, why it makes itself to be desired, even when it is present, and why it is so soon weary of the Good which begot it: For these are the most observable effects which it produceth in the Mind, and whence it seems the rest proceed. Let us seek then the causes of its Prattle.  
There are Passions which will always speak, and others which love to be silent. Silence commonly accompanies grief, despair, and fear: Joy, boldness and anger, and generally, all those which move towards Good, or resist Ill, are given to Talk; but none so much as Joy: all the rest seem to drive out their words, and cast them forth with violence, as if they were a burden which the soul would discharge; this dispenseth them with liberty, makes them flow with pleasure; and we may say, that it is rather abundance than constraint which sends them forth. Indeed, Joy is full of babble, is pleased to talk, and always finds wherewith to entertain its chat.  
The reason hereof is easy enough to be discovered, if you consider, that words being the images of the thoughts, to say many things, divers thoughts must form themselves in the Mind; that they must have liberty to issue; that the organs must be disposed to express them. Now as Imagination is the source of the thoughts, and that it is more or less fruitful, according as it is more or less active; and that all its vivacity depends from that of the spirits which serve it in its operations: it is necessary for great talkers, that the spirits should be extremely active, and that the organs of the speech should be very movable: And therefore, since it is heat which renders the spirits active, and that humidity renders the body supple and pliable; these two qualities must be found in those who speak much: And besides, the Judgement must not be so strong as the Imagination, that it may not severely examine the thoughts, that it may not withhold them, but that they may all freely vent themselves. This is the reason why young folks and women, the sanguine and the phlegmatic, talk more than others; why wine, good cheer, and folly, provoke talk so much; and why birds most commonly sing when they woo, because being naturally provoked to get their young ones, their blood works, and becomes fumy, their spirits increase and kindle, and afterwards agitate the Imagination and the organs of the voice.  
Which being supposed, it is easy to know why these Passions which move towards Good, or resist Ill, cause us to speak more than the others do; Because in the design they have to go out, the Spirits must carry themselves to the Brain, and to the exterior parts, which augments the heat, and disperseth the humours, & in pursuit moves the Imagination, and makes the organs beoom more movable: So that all these dispositions meeting with the weakness of the Judgement, which accompanies all the Passions, a great flood of words must necessarily follow there: And chief in Joy, since by it the Soul dilates and diffuseth itself, and that there is nothing whereby it can more disperse it then by speech, which is the true flowing of the thoughts; besides that the Imagination is freer in this Passion then in the rest, in which either the absence of the good or the presence of the ill constrain it, and involve it in cares which it hath not in Joy, possessing its good with security and confidence, without distraction, and without finding any obstacle to stop its conceptions, or hinder the issue of them.  
For what concerns Confidence, as 'tis a Passion which persuades us that ill is far from us, and that although it should present itself, we have power enough to overcome it; we need not doubt but those who are joyful and content, are of the same belief, being in possession of Good: For Good hath that property, that by its presence it estrangeth ill, and fortifies the soul in the enjoyment thereof: because that in perfecting of it, it in some manner increaseth it, & makes it appear greater & more vigorous than it was: Considering that being wholly occupied and ravished in the enjoyment of Good, and not minding those difficulties which may traverse its designs, it trusts that it can have no ill success: and filling itself thus with good hopes, it believes and undertakes all, and nothing seems difficult unto it. But what foments its audacity the more, 'tis the heat it stirs up in all the parts: For, as this quality is the principle of all the vigour they have, the Soul, which perceives how she hath enlarged herself, persuades herself that her strength is also increased, and consequently imagines that she is the more secure, having so much affistance both to assault and resist Ill Now because this vain Confidence is a kind of Pride, which lifts up the Mind above itself, and flatters it with an imaginary excellency, thence it happens that the Joy thereof is commonly Insolent and Presumptuous, that it loves to be flattered, and easily falls into the praises of itself, being, as it is, so babbling, and so greedy to express itself.  
Yet, this presumption hinders it not from being Complacent, Facile, and Credulous; although pride render men opinionate and untractable; because that entertaining itself but with the vain hopes it conceives, and justling only those which oppose them; it willingly hears those which favour them, and is easily persuaded by their flattery; its confidence making it fancy all things possible; besides the possession it hath of good, is that which produceth and foments it; it follows the qualities of good, which is to communicate itself; and so consequently renders itself sociable, easy, and complacent.  
But how can joy leave in the soul a desire of itself, seeing it is there present; and that it seems it is a thing incompatible with that satiety which we said it brought? To resolve this difficulty, we must suppose that pleasure may be present two manner of ways, when it actually toucheth the soul, or when memory calls it back to the thoughts; necessarily begetting desire; forasmuch as it's conceived as a thing which is no more, and which yet leaves in the memory all those allurements which render it : the other being actually present cannot in that respect be wished for; for, that desire moves only towards those things which we have not; but only than what we conceive something which we do not yet possess: as when we desire the continuation of it, or that the delightful object doth not wholly, or all at once present itself to our knowledge; and than what remains to be possessed, entertains and inflames the desire.  
Now the object presents itself not all at once, either by its own defect, or by that of the power which receives it; for there are things which we cannot enjoy but by a succession of time, and which must be several times retaken, to get an entire and perfect possession of them. Thus an excellent discourse, a sweet music lecture, the delight of eating and drinking, require time and several repetitions to be throughly possessed: But there are others also which depend not on time, and yet wherein the soul must employ it, to have a perfect enjoyment of them; whether it be by reason of the difficulties it meets, as in the enquiry of Sciences; or by reason of their excellency that they cannot all at once be comprehended, and wherein it always finds new subjects of admiration: Such is the knowledge which we have here below of Divine things, which cause that torrent of delight to flow into the will, which never quencheth its drought, and always leaves it an ardent thirst, which even Eternity itself cannot quench.  
Thus see you have how Pleasure can beget desire; let us now see how it can cause Satiety; It is evident, that things may satisfy two ways, either when they no longer flatter the Senses with pleasure, or when they disgust them; False Pleasures, as those of the Senses, become distasteful and importunate; because they are not absolutely convenient for nature, they surpass the natural capacity of the powers, and their use weakens and corrupts the organs: but those which are pure and true do never disgust, because they never exceed the natural reach of the Soul, but they perfect it, and instead of burdening and weaking, they ease and fortify it: It is true, they may give a little, because the mind being a lover of novelty, and finding it no longer in an object whereto it hath long applied itself, it also finds not that satisfaction which it took at the beginning, and seeks by change to nourish its desire and inclination. But we have spoken enough of these things wherewith Moral Philosophy is full; let us examine the Characters which Joy imprints on the Body.  
Of all the many Characters which Joy imprints on the body, There are the looks only, the serenity of the forehead, Laughter, Caresses, and disquiet, which are caused by the Souls command; all the rest happen without her thought, and have no other cause but the agitation of the humours which necessarily produce those effects.  
For the Looks, there are three kinds common to this Passion, for it renders them sweet, dying, and unquiet; we will say, what is the cause of these last, when we speak of the disquiet, and impatience which appears in all its other actions.  
The Looks are sweet, either because they are modest, or because they are laughing; and these are proper to Joy, which causeth the lids to fall a little, and contract themselves; and which fills the eyes with a certain pleasant splendour. Now this splendour comes from the spirits which arrive in those parts; and the motion of the lids is effected by smiling, and by the design which the soul hath to preserve the image of the desirable object, as we shown in seeking the causes of amorous Looks; so that we have only these which are called dying, which require a long examen.  
We have already said in the discourse of Love, that they were called so, because those which die cast forth the like, lifting up their eyes on high, and half hiding them under their lids. But that seems very difficult to conceive, that Looks which accompany Languor, Grief, and Death, should be found in the excess of Pleasure.  
Yet as there are several things contrary which have common effects, because they have common causes; it may also be that this kind of Look finds the same cause in Grief, and in Joy, in the pangs of Death, as in the ravishment of Pleasure. Let us then examine the reasons why they are to be found in these troublesome Passions, that we may see whether there be any which may be accommodated to Joy. First we need not doubt but Grief lifts up the eyes on high, and looks up to heaven, as the place whence it expects help to drive away the ill which afflicts it: For Nature hath given that instinct and inclination to man, to have recourse to superior powers, when he believes himself abandoned by the rest: So that without minding it, his mouth invokes them, his eyes turn towards them, and his arms are lifted up to crave their assistance. It also happens that this Passion, which would flee the ill which presents itself, gathering up within itself, draws along with it all the more movable parts, and so retires the eyes in, as if it thought to hid itself, by hiding those organs whence she seems most to show herself. Or rather, it comes from that the parts, being void of spirits, which the force of Grief dissipated or transported elsewhere, they of themselves repossess their natural situation, which is to be a little lifted up: For it is certain, that the situation of the parts, when they rest, is more natural than that which they have in action, wherein there is always some kind of constraint: And we must consequently believe, that the eyes which take that site in sleeping, seek it as the most calm, and most natural for them: So that it seems the looks become dying in Grief, as they do in Sleep by the flight of the spirits which leave the eyes to their rest. Death may also cause this effect, by the convulsion which often accompanies it, and which makes the nerves retire to their origine; or, by reason of weakness, cannot retain the parts in that tension which their action requires; so that the lids fall, and the eyes are lifted up, taking again, as we have said, their natural situation. Of all these causes, there is only the gathering up of the Soul, and the drawing back of the Spirits, which are to be found in Joy, and from whence these dying looks may take their birth: for they have no assistance to implore, nor convulsion to fear. But in the transport which the enjoyment of Good gives the Soul, it often quits the exterior parts, gathers the spirits inwardly together, or carries them elsewhere; and so forsaking the eyes, leaves them the liberty to regain their natural situation, which makes them appear languishing and dying.  
The Forehead is serene, when it is smooth and without wrinkles; and this smoothness comes from that all the muscles are extended, and equally draw it out on every side; or from that they are all at rest, and leave it in its ordinary situation. Now it seems that Joy causeth a serenity of the forehead in both manners: For it is certain, that as it hath the property to dilate and disperse the soul and the spirits, it seeks to do the same in all the parts of the body: So that because the muscles cannot move but by contracting themselves, it never intends to move those of the forehead, since it would cause a motion contrary to its design, chief, their action being not necessary in this encounter, as that of the eyes might be, and of the tongue, and of others which it agitates in this Passion for particular reasons. The Forehead than remains calm, and without contracting itself. On the contrary, it seems to open, and on all sides to extend itself, by reason of the spirits which rarify the parts, and makes them appear the larger. Yet because that in Laughter the forehead becomes smooth by the stretching of the muscles, which equally draw it upwards and downwards, it might seem that Joy which causeth Laughter, caused also that tension, and brought that serenity to the forehead as well by moving as by slacking the muscles. But in the following Discourse we will show, that it is not Joy which produceth that effect, but the Surprise, which is the true cause of Laughter. 'Tis not but that the Soul without that Surprise may extend the forehead, by contracting the muscles; but than it is a feigned and forced serenity, as that of Flatterers, of which Aristotle says, that the Forehead is 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, that is to say, stretched, and not contracted, as the Translators have explained it: for it is the Muscles which are contracted, but the Forehead which is extended and made smooth by their contraction.  
All Caresses are not properly effects of Joy: Take but away the serenity of the countenance, the smile, and the sweetness of the eyes, the rest proceed from the Passion of Love, which subjects the soul to the good which it conceives, and fills it with a desire to possess it: For the offers of service, respectful compliments and civilities, are so many marks of submission which it renders to the perfection and excellency of the person it loves: and the embraces, kisses, and amorous looks, are witnesses of its desire, and of the care it takes to unite itself thereunto.  
For Laughter, although it seem to be a particular effect of Joy, yet it is not always to be found with it: And when it accompanies it, it owes not its birth to it alone: there are other causes which contribute thereunto, and which excite an emotion in the Soul quite different from that of Pleasure. So that we were not afraid to call it a Passion; not considering the outward motion only which appears on the face, but that which the soul inwardly suffers, the nature and effects whereof we will examine in the following Chapter.  
There remains now the Disquiet and Impatience only, whose causes we are to inquire. But we must first observe, that they are not in all kind of Joy: there are calm Pleasures, wherein the soul feels nothing of Impatience; wherein we may say, she rests in her motion. Such are those which accompany the exercise of Virtue, the knowledge of the Sciences, and the possession of Supernatural good. In a word, pure and true Delights do never disquiet the soul; they always leave a calm, and a pleasing serenity: And although they often moves desires which agitate it, we may say, they are little winds which purify it without causing any storms; or, that they are like those sweet smokes which the flame raiseth, which nourish it in stead of dissipating it, and which rather entertain the equality of its motion, then disturb it. But it is not so with false delights: As by little and little they make themselves felt and seen as a remedy for grief, there must, until they are wholly possessed, always remain somewhat which is displeasing in the Mind. And then you cannot wonder if Impatience accompany the desires it hath to be delivered from it, and to see itself enjoying that perfect pleasure wherein the end of its grief consists. But it foresees not that its contentment is to finish there also, and that assoon as it hath an entire possession of the Good it seeks, it will be disgusted: So that being not to be satisfied, it cannot but suffer perpetual disquiets; seeking what it cannot find, and meeting what it never sought. Besides, all these vain hopes which Joy inspires, breed divers designs: and as it runs from one to another, without stopping at any, it is impossible, in this agitation, but that all its actions must appear vuquiet, its discourse without order, its looks inconstant, & all the body in a continual motion; whereunto also the sparkling of the spirits contributes, which tickles the nerves and sollicities the parts to move themselves; considering also that those Pleasures cannot be had, but by the action of the corporal powers which at last tyre themselves, disquiet must accompany them, since its an effect of wearisomeness.  
These are the Characters which Joy imprints in the body by the souls command: Now let us see those which are caused without her ardours, and which by a necessary consequence, proceed from the agitation which is made in the humours, and in the spirits.  
The vivacity of the eyes comes from their splendour and motion, which are the undoubted signs of life and vigour, since death renders them obscure and fixed: as the Spirits than disperse themselves in Joy, and as they are luminous and active, the eyes which abundantly receive them, and which are transparent, and easy to move, become agile and resplendent; besides that the humidity which is spread over them, being agitated by the motion they make, the light becomes more trembling, and causeth a certain moving lustre, which strikes the sight with several rays, and presents to the imagination the motion and noise which the sparks of fire cause at their birth whence they are said to crackle: Now this humidity may come from two causes; either because the lids in shutting themselves crush the humours they contain, and render the eyes moist; as we will more particularly show in the discourse of Laughter; Or because that heat and the spirits open their passages, and dissolve those humours, which afterward runs on the parts and make them moist: nay even if the brain be very moist, thence they draw rivulets of tears, which are as they say quite different from those which Grief useth to move, not only in their cause, but even in their quality; for they are cold in Joy, and hot in grief, although it seems as if the contrary should happen, since Joy heats, and Grief cools; and that hath even obliged some to say, that the tears of Joy were warm; but it is easy to agree, and give a reason for the difference; by saying, that the tears which Joy sheds, are truly cold in comparison of others; but that they seem colder, because they run down a face which that Passion hath heated by the effusion of spirits: On the contrary, those of Grief are colder in effect; but as they fall on the cheeks, which the flight of spirits hath deprived of heat, they seem to be hotter; in the same manner, as hot water affords divers sentiments of hot and cold, according as the hand is hotter or colder. But of this more exactly hereafter in the discourse you have of Tears.  
For that redness, that good case, and that vaporous heat which appears through the outward parts, they also proceed from that effusion of spirits, which draw along with them the blood, and the sweetest vapours which raise themselves in the veins, and swell the parts they arrive at, colouring them vermilion, and inspiring them with a sweet and moist heat.  
The trembling of the lips comes also from the Spirits, which abundantly flowing into those parts which are soft and suspended, agitate them with the motion they have, and make them appear trembling, as it happens to leaves which are shaken with the wind, or with rain.  
The voice grows fuller, because the muscles which serve to form it are loosened by heat, and give it a greater and larger passage; it is true; that it sometimes becomes sharp and shrill, but that is the effect of a vehement laughter, which contracts the muscles, & streightens, the conduit of the voice; or else of impatience, or some other impetuous Passions which mingle themselves with it, and oblige the soul to drive it out with violence: it often stops itself all at once by the souls ravishment, which causeth it to forget the most part of its ordinary functions, and leaves the organs of the voice without motion, and without action.  
In fine, it is from thence that all natural virtues draw their force and vigour; for as they do not work but by the assistance of the spirits, when they come and shed themselves on the organs, they must necessarily grow stronger, and their functions must be done more perfectly: so there are no ill humours which may corrupt the purity of the blood, seeing the virtue which concocts them is always mistress of them, and that which expels them finds them obedient: for the spirits melt them and send them to the surface, and open the passages to let them out: So that it is true, there is no Passion which is so great friend to health as Joy, so as it be moderate: for if it be excessive, it changeth all natural oeconomy, it quencheth the heat of the entrails, and at last by Mortal Syncopes, or by incurable languors, it causes even the loss of our lives. We have already touched the Reasons in the former Discourse, where we shown, that Love and Joy carried the spirits abroad with precipitation; it often happens that in the violence of that transport they lose the union which they should have with their principle, whence follow Faintings and Syncopes. For I do not esteem that the dissipation of the Spirits, as is commonly said, is the principal cause of those actions, since so many watch, so many toils, so many sicknesses, which dissipate them more than any Passion whatsoever, cause not these sad Symptoms; but according to my opinion it comes from that they disunite, and separate themselves from the heart; and that the Soul being unable to animate the separated parts, or communicate any virtue to them, the actions which they ought to do must cease by this separation which the vehemency of their motion caused. This is the cause why water cast on the face, ofttimes puts away those faintings, and sends back the straggling spirits to the heart, which would not be, were they quite lost: It is not but that here they make a great dissipation, as they abundantly disperse themselves on all the parts, and principally on the outward; and the soul, which is wholly occupied in the enjoyment of good, takes no care to continue the course; and to produce new ones, it must necessarily make a great loss of them, and consequently, natural heat must diminish; whence comes weakness, and the languishing of the parts, the corruption of the humours, corroding diseases, and at last death. It might be demanded, why Joy causeth death rather than Love or Anger: but we have showed this in the particular discourse of the Passions.  
There remains nothing now but the Motions of the Heart, of the Arteries, and of Respiration to be examined, which are all alike in this; that they are great, rare, slow, and without vehemency, unless this Passion be excessive; for than they become little, weak and frequent, and even often they quite cease to be. The heart's motion than is rare and flow, because the heat is not vehement, having sent it with the spirits towards the outward parts. So that having no need of any great refreshing, it hasts not so much to move; considering that also the soul, which is ravished in the enjoyment of good, minds not the motion of the heart, but as it is urged by necessity; whence it comes that it moves slowly, and with great intervals. But to supply its negligence, it every time very much opens, and extends it, recompensing its neglect by the greatness of its motion. Now because there must be always some vigour, thus to open and extend that part, when the violence of the Passion hath dissipated its forces, the motion of the heart must become weak and little, and the necessity it hath to move for the generation of spirits, renders it quick and frequent, because it cannot supply its slowness by the greatness of the motion: So that if the weakness be extreme, it loseth also its swiftness, and so becomes slow and rare, and at last quite ceaseth. The same is done in the Pulse, and in Respiration; for they have the same customs, and the same causes with the heart's motion, as Physic teacheth us.    

CHAP. IU. The Characters of Laughter.  
I Know not why Socrates heretofore said, that Man was a ridiculous creature: But I know, if any reason can make it credible, we need go no further to seek it, then in Laughter itself; since there is nothing so ridiculous, as to see him who undertakes to control all Nature, and who believes himself to be her Confident, to be ignorant of what is most proper and familiar to him; To laugh at every moment, without knowing wherefore; and to know neither the subjects nor the motions which form this Passion. For all the great men of the past ages, which have enquired the causes thereof, have freely confessed that their minds were incapable of that knowledge; remitting us to that Philosopher who laughed continually; and that it was hid in the same depth wherein he had enclosed the Truth.  
Now although we do not think ourselves clearer sighted than they, yet our design having obliged us to handle this Subject, we are constrained to go beyond them, and to undertake a thing wherein they lost their courage. But what success soever we have, the Discourse cannot but divert and please us: for, if it do not discover the nature of Laughter, yet it will at least augment the number of ridiculous things.  
To begin therefore according to the Order we have hitherto observed, we must first draw the picture thereof, and then inquire the causes which produce it.  
Now as it may be weak, mean, or vehement, it is certain that we are chief to observe the Characters of the later, because that in all kind of things the Greater is always to be the measure of the Lesser, because its effects are more sensible than the others: nay, we may even say, that there are no Passions, how violent soever, which cause such great alterations in the body as this doth.  
For if you consider the Face; The Forehead extends itself, the Eye brows decline themselves, the Lids contract themselves at the corners of the eyes; and all the skin about them becomes uneven, and wrinkles itself all over: the Eyes extenuate and half shut themselves; they grow sparkling and humid; and even those from which Grief could never draw a tear, are then obliged to weep: the Nose crumples up, and grows sharp; the Lips retire, and lengthen themselves; the Teeth discover themselves; the Cheeks lift themselves up, & grow more firm; and sometimes the middle of them sweetly hollows itself, and forms those delightful pits wherein the Poets lodged Laughter with the Graces: the Mouth, which is forced to open itself, discovers the trembling and suspended Tongue; and the Voice which issues, is nothing but a piercing and interrupted sound, which cannot be stopped, & which ends only with the loss of our breath: the Neck swells, and shortens itself; all the Veins are great and extended; a certain sweet splendour disperseth itself over all the face; and how pale or severe soever it be, it must needs grow red, and appear content.  
But all this is nothing in comparison of what the other parts suffer: The Breast is so impetuously agitated, and with such suddenly-redoubled shakes, that we can hardly breathe, that we lose the use of speech, and that it is impossible to swallow whatsoever it be. So pressing a pain riseth in the Flanks, that it seems as if the entrails were torn, and that they would unfold themselves. In this violence, we see all the body bend, and wreath, and gather itself together. The Hands are set on the sides, and press them forcibly; sweat gets up in the Face; the Voice is lost in hickocks, and the Breath in stifled sighs. Sometimes this agitation gets to so high an excess, that it produceth the same effects as Medicaments do, that it puts the Bones out of joint, that it causeth syncopes, and in fine, that it gives death. The Head and the Arms suffer the same throws with the breast and the flanks; but you may perceive how in these motions they throw themselves here and there with precipitation and disorder; and that after they have been cast from one side to the other, as if they had lost all their vigour. The Hands become feeble, the Legs cannot support themselves, and the body is constrained to fall.  
These are the principal parts which usually form vehement Laughter: For, to describe all the diversity of motions, air, mine, and the posture it puts every one in, were as much as if one would delineate all Men at once: since there is not one who in laughing makes not some particular face; And it is certain, that there are as many kinds of laughter as there are different faces. Even that interrupted sound which accompanies it, is so divers, that two men are hardly to be found, who shall have it every way alike.  
For the Mean Laughter, it causeth almost the same alteration in the face, and agitates the breast and the flanks in the same manner as vehement Laughter; but 'tis with far less violence. It also takes not away respiration nor speech; it only renders the voice grosser. Even sometimes it causeth it to pass the nostrils, and make an interrupted bellowing. Neither doth it cause grief or languor in the parts, or any of those troublesome accidents which are in the other.  
To conclude, the Smile, which is the weakest & the least of all, causeth no alteration but in the face, and chief on the lips and eyes: for the lids a little contract themselves, the eyes sweeten, and the lips lengthen out themselves, without obliging the mouth to open, and without changing either the voice or speech: Even often it is only observable in the lips, as when it comes from disdain, or from dissimulation, or from some sickness.  
To discover then the source of all these motions, we must first see what those things are which move us to Laughter: for, being as the Object and the Matter, they are also the first Causes which contribute to its birth. Yet is it not a thing so easily determined. And it seems as if Nature would render itself ridiculous in ridiculous things, having made them so far distant the one from the other, and so different amongst themselves, that it is almost impossible to find any general notion, or common reason, which may reduce them under one kind.  
For we see that Laughter comes from pleasant and facetious actions and words, from admiration, despite, scorn, caresses, tickling, and even from some sicknesses. And as at first it seems as if there were no relation between all these things, we may easily believe that Laughter is an equivocal word, which marks effects of a different nature; and that that which comes from the most part of these Objects, is feigned and lying, and hath no real form of Laughter.  
In effect, all those who have spoken of it, have placed them under divers kinds; some more, some less, according to the several motives of that Laughter which they fancied in ridiculous objects: (I take here the word ridiculous, for all what moves Laughter.) Now because the resolution of this difficulty wholly depends on the knowledge of this motive, and that it is impossible to discern true Laughter, or those objects which are truly ridiculous, if we know not the principle, and the reason why it moves it; we must examine the opinions which have been on this Subject, that we may choose the most reasonable, which may serve for a foundation to know the nature and the effects of this Passion.  
But we must first observe, that Laughter which is made by the convulsion of the muscles of the face, was never taken by any for a true Laughter, being a thing against Nature, whereto the Will never contributed, as it doth in all other things: Such perhaps is that which succeeds the wounds of the Diaphragma, and that which that herb of Sardinia causeth, which is called Apium risus, whence the Proverb is of the Sardinian laughter. Even they say that Saffron, the Tarantula, and some other Potions, produce the same effect. But perhaps the Laughter which is caused by these later, is no true convulsion, no more than that which arrives in dote, and in the fits of the Mother; and that it may have the same motive as true Laughter hath, as you will see hereafter.  
This being supposed, we might at first suspect, that those objects which cause Laughter, are those which are pleasing and delightful; because that Laughter and Tears being contrary, they must have contrary causes; and therefore that Laughter comes from Joy, since Tears proceed from Grief. In effect, it seems that Laughter is never separate from Pleasure; and even those who force themselves to laugh, endeavour always to appear merry and contented. Yet because all pleasing things do not move Laughter, that even it happens not when Joy is at the highest; and that Beasts, which are affected with that Passion, are not capable of Laughter; we must hold it for undoubted, that that than is not the general motive, and that the Reasons to maintain this opinion do only prove that the objects ought only to be pleasing, but not that they are therefore ridiculous. And if Scorn and Indignation cause a true Laughter, it is most likely that acceptableness and pleasure are not always to be found with it.  
This consideration hath made some think that Admiration was the cause of Laughter, and that when any wonderful thing presented itself to our Minds, it at the same time form this Passion; and that for that cause Man only laughed, because there was none but he that admired; That facetious words and actions were ridiculous, because they are new, and that Novelty is the source of Admiration; That, in fine, ignorants and fools laughed more than wise men, because they find more things to be admired than they did. But although at first this opinion take the Mind, yet doth it not satisfy it; and hath its difficulties as well as the former: For, there are divers things wonderful, and which we admire, which do not make us laugh: even if admiration be very great, it hinders Laughter. And it is to no purpose to say that it ought to be mean and light to move it, since it often happens that we laugh at those things which we very much admire. Indeed, the address which a facetious man hath to represent the actions, the words, the gestures of another, to tell jests, to make subtle and ingenious encounters, is no less to be admired then that of a Painter who makes some excellent design, or of a man who seriously relates very fine things: Why then doth the admiration which that causeth, excite Laughter, and that of this hinder it? Are there not an hundred kind of things which are new, which are admired with mediocrity, as the most part of those are which are rare, which yet cause not Laughter? On the contrary, are there not some which seem to have lost the grace of a novelty, and which cannot beget admiration, which yet are ridiculous? He who tells a good tale, is often the first that laughs at it; and yet it is neither new nor admirable, seeing he knew it before. As there are then ridiculous things which are marvellous, and others which are not so, we must seek the cause elsewhere then in Admiration.  
Many, to shun these difficulties, have joined these two opinions together, and said, that Joy and Admiration was the true motive of Laughter; and that if there are wonderful things which move it not, it is because they are not agreeable, in the same manner as the agreeable are not ridiculous unless they are marvellous. But it is certain, that the greatest part of the inconveniences which we have observed, are herein also to be found; and that there are divers things which are pleasing and wonderful, which never move Laughter. Is there any thing so fair or so admirable as the Sun? All the diversities of flowers and fruits which the seasons bring us, all the treasures which the earth affords us, all those masterpieces wherewith Art furnisheth us, and all those rarities which strangers send us, Are they not delightful? do they not oblige us to admire them? Yet was never any body seen to laugh at the sight of all these things.  
Others have imagined that all these opinions might be maintained with modification; that it was true, to speak absolutely, Joy and Admiration did not cause Laughter, but when they were recreative, that is to say, when they were not serious, and that they happened in Plays; then they move it; and that Nature requiring these divertisements to refresh the Mind and the Body, and give them new forces, it by that exterior motion made the pleasure appear which it there searched. But are there not Plays and divertisements which do not cause Laughter? And should we reduce them to facetious things, how should we find them in ticklishness, in the encounter of friends, in indignation and in anger, and even in the admiration of serious things?  
This is what the Philosophers have left us touching ridiculous things▪ But since they do not satisfy us, let us see what the Poets and Orators have said on the Subject: for the Ridiculous is the object of Comedy; and the Orator is sometimes obliged to employ it in his Discourses. Aristotle and Cicero must be consulted about the business. The first, treating of Comedy, defined what was ridiculous to be A deformity without a grief. And truly it seems, that what we call Ridiculous, is an imperfection which in appearance causeth no ill to him who hath it: For, did we think it would cause any, it would not move Laughter, but Compassion. And this deformity is observable in all what's done or said against the custom, expectation, or opinion of the Wise.  
As for Cicero, he confesseth there is deformity in the ridiculous; but he will have another condition then that which Aristotle observed: For he says, that its Nature consists in representing ugly and deformed things with a good grace. And if there are words and actions to be found which delightfully discover the defects of others, they will infallibly move Laughter.  
These two Opinions have without reason been followed or rejected by many Philosophers. For those who say it comprehends not all ridiculous things, and that there is no ugliness or deformity at the first sight in persons which are dear unto us, in tickling, and in divers other serious things which make us laugh; lastly, that an impertinent performs actions and discourses with an ill grace, which are extremely ridiculous: Those, I say, are deceived as well as others who in general seek the nature and essence of what is Ridiculous, binding themselves to these definitions, as if they perfectly expressed it, and perplexing their minds to excuse the defects they meet in them: for it is certain, that neither the one nor the other consider the Ridiculous but in relation to the Stage or the Bar; that Cicero observes that which befits an Orator, and that Aristotle comprehends all the ridiculous Subjects which may serve in Comedy. So that the Objections made against them are vain and weak, forasmuch as tickling belongs no ways to the Theatre, no more than impertinencies done with an ill grace are not admitted into the Rules of Oratory. And indeed, to show you that Aristotle did not discourse of the Ridiculous like a Philosopher, and that he enquired not its essential form, he hath not mentioned those deformities in those places where he examined the causes of Laughter. And were we to suppose it, would it not be useless to know the nature of this Passion? What reason is there that an object should move Laughter for being deformed without grief?  
I know well that there are some who have said that Laughter was composed of Grief and Joy; that that proceeds from deformity, as Joy comes from that it is without Grief; and that in the combat which these two Passions give the Mind, are form those contrary motions of the heart, of the Diaphragma, and of the other parts, which appear in Laughter. But what likelihood is there that Sorrow should have a share in this action? How can it cause a violent agitation, or subsist so long with that excess of Pleasure, being so little and so light as it is figured? What Grief can we be sensible of at the meeting of persons we love, in the relation of good news, or in some ingenious encounter? And we must not say that the Smile, which these objects move, is no true Laughter: for the one differs not from the other, but in that one is greater or less; and we see every moment, that the same object moves Laughter in some, and but Smiles in others.  
These are the most considerable opinions which have been on this Subject, which in my opinion are all wanting, in that they suppose that there are divers kinds of ridiculous things and of Laughters; and that there can no general notion be found, which can be equally common to them: for I cannot imagine that Nature, who is so regular and so uniform in all its other actions, should forget itself in this; that she would give several causes to one effect; and that it being true that all kind of Laughter hath somewhat that is common, the soul should have no general motive for so common and general an action.  
We must then endeavour to discover it, and if we do not succeed, use the same excuses which the difficulty of the enquiry afforded those who made, it before us; since perhaps, there is nothing in nature whose knowledge is more hid, then that of this.  
Whereunto that we may attain, we must first consider: that we never laugh, but when the soul is in some manner deceived, and surprised; as may be seen in all the ridiculous actions which Aristotle calls deformities without grief; since they are all against the custom, against the expectation, and against the sense of the Wise.  
It is the same thing in the unexpected encounter of a pleasing thing, and in an injury which we receive from a man we did believe ought not to offend us; in the good, or in the ill, which happens to those who are worthy of it: For there is therein every way somewhat, which by its novelty surpriseth the mind, which is to be found even in tickling; whence it comes to pass, that we laugh not when we tickle ourselves, because we are not new, nor strange to ourselves.  
Yet this surprise must be light; for if it be violent, it astonisheth the mind, and so powerfully averts it, that it cannot go to the outward parts to make them move. So that objects which are very wonderful, and extremely pleasing move us not to laughter, but to ravishment and ecstasies, as terrible ones cause fear and astonishment; 'tis not that we say that the lightest surprise is that which moves laughter the more; it is only to be understood, in comparison of that which astonisheth or ravisheth the mind; for it is evident that the greater, so as it do not disturb and carry away the spirit, will cause the more vehement laughter; making not only the muscles of the face move, but even those of the flanks and breasts, as in its place hereafter.  
This surprise must also be pleasing, and those ridiculous objects must produce some kind of Joy in the soul. It is manifestly sensible in facetious things, and in the encounter of friends: and we never seek the occasions of laughing, but for the pleasure we think to find therein. And although we may doubt of that Laughter which indignation, scorn, and anger sometimes move; yet we will show, that nevertheless there is still somewhat which affords contentment, either true or feigned: for it is certain, there is a lying and dissembled Laughter, wherein effectually there is no sensible pleasure, and in which we only feign we receive some; which is very common in flattery and complacency. Often, even although the object be pleasing, the soul will find in it more pleasure than it is capable to yield, and so moves, and, as they say, tickles itself into a Laughter.  
But what I esteem most considerable to understand the nature of Laughter, it is, that we seldom use it alone, and that the most part of those objects which powerfully excite it in company, move it not at all in a solitude; so that it seems company affords somewhat to its production, that the soul will make it appear that she is surprised; which would be needless, were there no witness of what she would do: so that she ought not to move Laughter when we are alone. And if in company there happen a pleasant surprise which moves it not, it is because she will not make it appear; as when there is somewhat that displeaseth her, or when prudence or dissimulation hinder it. Yet must we not believe that she makes use of laughter as a mark taken at pleasure, such as those are which proceed from our choice and invention; but as a natural mark, which hath a necessary connexion with the emotion she represents.  
To know what this connexion is, and the particular reason which obligeth the Soul to use this motion rather than another, to mark the surprise she is in; you must suppose that in all surprises the Soul retires, and reenters herself, the encounter of an unthought-of thing opposing itself to the liberty of her thoughts, and forcing her to recollect herself the better to discern the presented Object: and then if she intent to make her condition known, she must, according to the Law which proportions the organs and the effects to their causes, stir up in the outward parts some motion like unto that which she suffers, and consequently cause the muscles to retire towards their origine as she retires and recollects herself in herself.  
Now because the Mind may be surprised by troublesome objects as well as by pleasing ones, this retraction of the muscles may be as well with grief as with joy: and indeed, you see that in Tears the lips and some other parts of the face retire in the same manner as in Laughter. Whence it is, that there are persons in whom it would be difficult to discern at first sight the one from the other, so like they are to one another: which hath made some think that Nature, who gins our life with crying and tears, made an essay, and designed these touches which were to be perfected in Laughter, which is never form before forty days after birth. Yet as we can never say that the retraction of the lips, which accompanies grief, is a true Laughter; so we must thence conclude that Laughter consists not in the simple motion of the muscles, but that there is also a certain air which Joy sheds over the face, and which causeth the principal difference.  
However it be, Laughter being principally destined for conversation, the objects which particularly respect it, are those also which the most easily cause Laughter: Such are the actions and facetious words which comprehend all what is uncomely and deformed, light hurts purposely done or received out of folly, cheats of small consequence, jeers; in a word, all deformities without grief: for all these things move Laugher, forasmuch as they mark the defects of those qualities which are necessary for conversation; as, of a good grace, of decency, of advisedness, of kindness, and of the rest: the Mind finding itself surprised, when it sees contrary actions to those virtues which are the foundations of society and of a civil life.  
All the difficulty which there is herein, is, to know why the Soul would have the surprise it suffers in these encounters appear; for it seems as if it were a defect, which she would do better to hid then to discover. In effect, it is a badge of Ignorance, to suffer ourselves to be surprised with a Novelty, as it is a mark of Malice to be pleased at the defects of others: Whence it is that Wise men laugh seldomer than others, because that they are neither Ignorant nor Malicious; that few things are new to them, and that they easily excuse imperfections. It if you consider that Man is naturally a lover of himself, that he always pretends excellency and superiority; we will not think it strange, if, seeing the defects of others, he seeks to testify that he is exempt from them, and so would make you believe, by the surprise and astonishment they give him, that he is more perfect than they are. Now if a man laugh at his own defects, it is the same as when he is angry with himself: for, the trouble which these Passions involve the Mind in, hinders it from discerning the objects which move it, and make it esteem that strange, which is its own. However it be, this reason is general for all ridiculous deformities, and for all things which we scorn: It may even sometimes be applied to that laughter which Anger and Indignation move, forasmuch as either of them supposing some injustice, either in the offence received, or in the good or ill which we see happen to those who are unworthy of it; the Soul, which testifies the astonishment it causeth, would also silently persuade, that she is not capable of those ill actions, and that she is too just to do good or ill to those who deserve it not. And it is evident, that in this thought she finds herself tickled with some secret joy which accompanies this pretended excellency; but it is small, by reason of the displeasure which goes along with these Passions; the thought of the present ill stifling it even almost at the same time that it is form: whence it also happens, that this Laughter is light, and of a short continuance.  
Now if in these encounters we are sensibly touched with any pleasure, we need not doubt but that all the objects which cause Laughter are not pleasing, as we said at the beginning of this Discourse. All the difference which there is therein, is, that the Pleasure which follows them hath divers principles: To some, it comes from self love, and from that proper excellency which the soul is glad to make appear: to others, it comes from the love of benevolence, and respects society, which requires the communication of goods and pleasures: For when we laugh at the sight of a friend with caresses and complacencies, we endeavour by that natural language to persuade that the persons, the actions, and the words are pleasing to us, and that we esteem them, either by reason of the excellency they have, or for the pleasure or profit they afford us.  
You will perhaps say, that all these conditions are not in Tickling, since that in stead of moving Joy, it causeth Sorrow; That there are few persons which apprehend it not; and therefore that it is not likely that Laughter which comes from it, should be accompanied with pleasure; and that the soul should use it for a mark of that pleasant surprise which she is sensible of. But if these Reasons were good, we must banish Pleasure from all the Passions; the object of Love would no longer be pleasing, because that is pungent and unquiet, and that there are but few who fear not to be found therewith. We must even say as much of Joy, since it causeth faintings, and that we fear the excesses thereof, and that sometimes it causeth death. I must confess that Grief mixeth itself with these Passions but as a stranger, having no share in their birth or preservation; they own both the the one and the other to Pleasure; and when that is no more, than they must necessarily die. Whatsoever we will believe, we cannot doubt but there is Pleasure in Tickling, since it is never made but by a delicate touch which flatters the Senses: For we cannot say that that kind of Touching can hurt them; since it provokes sleep, and that by harder pressing the parts we harm them not. On the contrary, you must allow it for granted, that the soul is pleased with that kind of touch, and that it is ranked amongst the caresses; since we never expect displeasure from those who tickle us, but esteem them always as our friends: So that Laughter which accompanies that motion, is a witness that the soul will return the pleasure it receives, and that the person which moves it is grateful to her. Perhaps also that that excellency whereof we have spoken contributes somewhat thereunto; forasmuch as the sense of Feeling being the mark of the good or ill quality of the Mind, and that accordingly as that is more perfect, men are also more sprightly, as Physiognomy and experience teach us, Man by a natural instinct is pleased with Tickling, and forms a Laughter to signify the perfection of his Senses and of his Mind.  
This then is the nature of this Passion, whence in my opinion it is easy to draw the motive of ridiculous objects: for although it seems we have the same Sense with those who have placed the ridiculous amongst new and pleasing things; and that the same absurdities which we have observed in that opinion, are to be met in ours: yet if you observe what we have said, you will see a very great difference; because that we add to novelty a circumstance which they have omitted; to wit, that the soul will witness the surprise which that novelty gives her: so that there are new and pleasant things which do not make us laugh; forasmuch as the soul intends not to discover the sense it hath thereof; so when we are alone, and fancy some merry matter, we usually do not laugh at it, but only when we relate it, because then the mind designs to witness the surprise it caused.  
I know well it will hereupon be said, that we often laugh alone, and that there are objects which are so powerful that they draw Laughter from the wisest and most solitary men; and that it is common for Fools to laugh in the same manner. But this Truth destroys not that which we have established; forasmuch as all this happens from the error of the Imagination, which diverts itself from the end Nature had prescribed it. And there are few effects in the Passions, wherein the same disorder may not be: For Example, the Voice, which was given to creatures to show forth the motions of their Soul, doth often go away through the violence of Grief: Even there are persons who speak and complain when they are alone; and yet it is against the institution of Nature, who destined the voice and speech for instruments of society, and to serve for that communication which creatures ought to have together. Now all this proceeds from the disturbance the soul feels, and which makes it wander from the way it should keep.  
And without doubt, the laughter which is observed in dote, comes from the same source; the Imagination forcing ridiculous objects, which afterwards move the Appetite to produce Laughter. For although it be difficult to comprehend how she can figure any pleasant thing amongst the griefs those evils produce; and that Reason, which is sometimes at liberty in these encounters, sees nothing which contents it; that she even confesseth this Laughter to be forced, and yet that she cannot hid it: it is nevertheless very true, that there is still a secret pleasure, either in the superior part of the soul, or in the sensitive. For the alienation of the Mind takes away from frantic persons the sense of ill; and giveth liking to the Ridiculous Chimeras which are there form, to move Laughter: So that if Reason be not hurt, the Pleasure must be hid in the Senses, and unwittingly to the Understanding it causeth that commotion there. The Imagination discerns not always exactly the Pleasure which the objects form in the particular Senses, either because it is distracted or surprised, or because the impression they make is secret; although still the spirits, the humours, and the bodies agitate themselves powerfully. So the first motions of Passions happen in the Mind unawares: and there are divers things which move us, which we can hardly say whether they are troublesome or graceful: we must not then wonder if we sometimes laugh without knowing the cause thereof; it is sufficient if the Senses have a confused and secret knowledge to stir up afterwards that motion in the Appetite: for there is so strong a connexion between these powers, that the one is no sooner touched by the object, but the other resents it. In this precipitation, the Soul hath not time to discern what it doth; and the parts are sooner touched, than she is advised of it; and she is not then able to stop the shake which she hath given herself; the spirits and the humours having received the impression thereof, whose impetuosity cannot be so suddenly stayed. And hence the difficulty comes to hinder Laughter when it is vehement, although it be a voluntary action; in the same manner as it happens in other Passions, wherein the Soul suffers the same violence as he who runs into a precipice: for although he gave himself that motion, it is no more in his power to stop it; he must abandon himself to the swinge he hath taken, and to that steepness whence he hath precipitated himself.  
What remains of most importance, is to know why, of all creatures, Man only laughs, since it appears that other beasts also may be surprised with Novelty: and it is not impossible but that they may have a design to show how sensible they are thereof, since they make other things known by their voice and by their actions. But as there are but two motives which oblige Man to witness the surprise which ridiculous objects cause; to wit, his own excellency, and civil society; it is certain that the first is useless to beasts, who are never touched with glory or with vanity. And for Society, it is so imperfect amongst them, that it respects but the necessities of the body, to which indeed they work in common, but yet it is but for their particular interest; so that there is no communication of the pleasure which every one resents; considering that the novelty of agreeable things surpriseth them not, to speak properly, no more than they do men who are quite stupid; because they do not discern whether things are new or no, considering them but as if they had always been present, although, for to know them new, we must imagine they were not always so.  
And it is for that reason, that children laugh not before the fourtieth day: for the Soul, which is as it were wholly buried, and as it were drowned in the great quantity of the humours they have, is capable of no knowledge, but  as humidity diminisheth these lights increase, and so by degrees she gets the power of laughing, beginning by a smile, and after being capable of vehement Laughter. Perhaps some will say, that the excellency wherewith man flatters himself, and the love of society, can no more reach a child at forty days old than other creatures, being not of a condition to mind either of them; & therefore that they then are not more capable of laughing then beasts are, if there be no other motions but those for laugher.  
But it is not necessary exactly to know those things for which we have a natural inclination; for desires being born with us, carry us also by the pure instinct of nature to the enquiry of those goods; and from the time that our soul hath the liberty to act, she produceth actions which show the secret fence she hath of her own excellency, and of her being destined to a civil life. Now as beasts are capable of neither of them, they have also no share in this instinct, whose source is hidden in the intellectual parts of the Soul, and can come from no inferior power: for although there are some kinds of Laughter, which seem wholly to depend from the sensitive, as that which comes from tickling: it is certain that without the influence of the Reasonable Faculty, the Senses cannot produce that effect; its light insensibly disperseth itself on all its actions, and the neighbourhood they have therewith always communicates somewhat of its perfection, which still serves to show that beasts are not capable of laughter, because their Senses are deprived of that brightness, and of that influence which Reason causeth to flow in ours.  
Before I finish this discourse, I must tell you by the way, who those are who are most given to laughter; it is certain, that young folks laugh more willingly then old ones, women than men, fools then wise men, sanguine then choleric, phlegmatic then melancholy; And this comes from that laughter being made by a pleasing surprise, which we would make known, those are more easily surprised, & are naturally merrier than these: For the spirits which move quick, and which consider not things are most easy to be deceived; and those who are the most merry, are the most easily touched with pleasant objects, and are more fit for conversation then others who are severe and serious: Yet as there are divers sorts of ridiculous objects, that some respect our proper excellency, and others society; that there are some which require a great knowledge, as acquaint jeers, and others wherein a mean one is only requisite: So there are also some persons which are more easily touched than others; the young and choleric laugh rather at the defects of others, than the old and the wise, being naturally insolent and proud; fools & ignorants observe not jests, or witty encounters, women and those of a sanguine, complexion are more fit for the laughter which caresses occasion, because they have a natural inclination to flattery.  
After having thus discovered the nature of laughter, and of ridiculous things, we shall easily give a reason for all the effects which this Passion produceth on the body; for there are none which proceed not from the surprise, and Joy which the Soul resents: the splendour of the eyes, the redness of the face, and tears come chief from Joy; all the rest come from surprise which contracts the muscles towards their principle; the soul using that exterior motion to show that which it suffers interiorly; because as we have said, she retires into herself when she is surprised; so that this contraction of the muscles is as the spring of all the other effects of laughter: And perhaps there is no other made by the souls command, all the rest being of necessity and without design: For it is very unlikely that the soul should intent to form all those plights and wrinkles which are to be at the corners of the eyes, to hold the eyes half shut, and the mouth open to render the voice piercing and interrupted, and so of the rest. But these are effects which by a necessary pursuit accompany the motion of the muscles.  
The better to understand this, you must remember from what we have already said, that when the surprise is light, the muscles of the lips, forehead, and lids only move; because the Soul intending to make the emotion it feels appear, useth this as the most manifest and most sensible motion: But when the Surprise is great, it moves all the muscles of the face and breast; and in fine, if it be very vehement, there are none in the whole body which are not moved.  
Now as there are but few muscles which have not their contraries, and that there are some which lift up a part, or carry it on one side; there are also those which bring it down, and draw it on the other side: And yet in this contrariety of motion there are some stronger than others; the actions they are to perform requiring more or less strength: From thence it comes, that in Laughter you see the parts take that figure which this contrariety of motions gives them. So the Mouth keeps half open, because the muscles which serve to open and shut it, each moving his way, it must necessarily retain that figure; and even it must appear more shut then open, because the muscles which serve to shut are the strongest. So the Forehead remains smooth and stretched, being equally drawn upwards and downwards. The Eyes also are half shut, because the muscles which incline the lids, are stronger than those which lift them up; and so consequently the wrinkles are form about the temples, the skin, which is delicate and fleshless, being drawn by the motion of those muscles, and constrained to grow uneven. The Nose shrinks up, and grows sharp, because the muscles which lift it up, having no contraries, have always the liberty to lift it up, which cannot be done, but that the skin which covers them must wrinkle, and the extremity of the Nose appear sharp. The Lips lengthen out themselves, because the muscles which draw them on the side, are stronger than those which contract them; and even the upper lip stretcheth itself more than the under, because its muscles are more powerful. The Tongue shortens itself a little, and suspends itself, being equally drawn on either side. The Neck contracts and thickens itself, because the muscles shorten when they retire themselves. The Cheeks for the same reason lift themselves up, and grow firmer; and, in some, a little dent is form in the middle of them, the skin being tied in those parts by some small veins which restrain it whilst the surrounding parts lift themselves up.  
Before we seek the causes of the breasts and flanks motions, and of that interrupted voice which appears here; we must observe that the muscles do not retire themselves in a vehement laughter by an uniform and continued contraction, but by several girds and shakes; whether it be that in the design the Mind hath to witness its surprise, it moves itself, and redoubles its struggle; or that the novelty of the object solicits it, and by fits represents itself unto it, as it chanceth to be in other Passions, wherein every moment the soul animates and transports itself by those new Ideas which the object forms in the Fancy.  
This then is the reason why those redoubled motions appear in Laughter, and chief in the flanks, by reason of the Diaphragma which is there situated, and which is extremely movable. And because the agitation is violent, it causeth also a pain in this part, whither the hands cast themselves, as if they ought to ease it. For although they unwittingly do it, Nature who takes care for the preservation of its parts, directs the hands to those places where the ill may offend them, without being led thither by Reason or Discourse. So when a man falls, or is ready to receive a blow, the hands by a natural instinct cast themselves presently before the face.  
As for the rest, as the Diaphragma is the chief organ of respiration, that must necessarily be made with the same shakes which that part suffers: and afterwards the voice must be interrupted, because the air issues not equally, and the muscles which should form it, start up as the Diaphragma doth. For we said, that all the muscles retired themselves by surprises in a vehement laughter: Whence it happens that the head, the shoulders, and the arms shake themselves in the same fashion as the flanks do. In fine, this general contraction which is made in all the organs of voluntary motion, is the cause that all the body folds up and contracts itself, that it is impossible to swallow any thing, because the muscles which serve for that action, contract and shut up their passages; and that Laughter sometimes causeth the same effects as Medicines do, by the compression of those parts which contain the humours. Now forasmuch as these frequent girds of the Diaphragma hinder the liberty of respiration, and are the cause it cannot contract and enlarge itself as it ought; thence it comes, that at last breath and speech is lost, that the pulse grows irregular, weakness follows, and sometimes death: For respiration is so necessary for life, that when it is hindered, the forces are lost, and the whole oeconomy of Nature changed. For which cause, in this necessity the soul struggles very much to oppose this disorder: sometimes she makes haste to draw a great quantity of air, as if she stole that refreshment from the violence of her passion: sometimes she makes a long breathing, to drive away those fumes which the heat of the heart at every moment produceth, and so forms those precipitated sobs and sighs which mingle themselves with Laughter.  
I do not stay particularly to examine why the Pulse beats irregularly, nor why weakness and syncopes happen in this encounter: It is well known that the Pulse and Respiration follow one the other, being both destined to one end; and that weakness and faintings come from the disorder which is made in the heart, which cannot suffer a greater, than the hindrance of respiration.  
Before we end this enquiry, it will not be amiss to rehearse the opinions which have been hitherto held touching the motion of the muscles in Laughter; because the absurdities in them, will the more confirm the causes we have deduced. All who have spoken thereof, have agreed in this point, that this motion is made out of necessity, and that the Soul is not mistress thereof: But some have believed the Spirits were the cause; others, that it was the agitation of the heart. The first say that Joy driving the Spirits to the outward parts, it therewithal fills the muscles, which are thereby constrained to shrink up and contract themselves, as it happens in convulsionfits. But if this were true, all the Passions which carry the Spirits outwardly, must move Laughter: Shame, Anger, and Desire would never appear without it; and a Fever and pain would cause a man to laugh continually, seeing they fill the face with blood and spirits. Others who believe the agitation of the heart is the source of all these motions, say that Joy causing it to move, the Diaphragma which is tied to it, must necessarily do so following its motion, and that after it moves the muscles of the breast and lips, wherewith it hath communication and sympathy, as it is easy to judge by the convulsion of the lips, which always accompanies the hurts of the Diaphragma. To confirm this, they assure us, that beasts laugh not, because their Diaphragma is tied to the heart with loser and weaker ligatures than it is to man's, whence it is that the heart cannot shake it whatever commotion Joy make.  
But this opinion is no less absurd than the former; for then in all the Passions wherein the heart is extraordinarily agitated, the Diaphragma must be shaken in the same manner, and must move Laughter; and even Laughter could never be without the agitation of the Diaphragma, if it were true that its contraction causeth that of the lips, which are all contrary to experience: And therefore the observation they bring of the ligaments of the Diaphragma is inconsiderable, and serves not at all to prove what they pretend: For if that of men is more strongly tied to the membrane that covers the heart, then to that of beasts; that comes from that it being inclined downwards, and altogether hanging in the humane body, by reason of its upright figure, it is necessary it should be more strongly born up then that of beasts which hath not that situation.  
As for the sympathy it hath with the lips, I find it somewhat doubtful, because besides that it communicates not to them all the dispositions it hath, we have often observed great hurts in that part, which have not excited Laughter; and if that have sometimes happened, I believe not that it was an effect of the convulsion; since Hypocrates says, that who so receives a wound in that part, laughs from the first of his hurt, and feels no convulsion till the third day after; so that it is likely it was not the convulsion, but rather the raving whereinto he fell, which caused that Laughter after the manner beforesaid.  
It is then a most certain thing, that the motion of the muscles which forms Laughter, is a voluntary action made by the souls command, and not by necessity, as tears, sweat, the lustre and the redness of the face are, so that they may be hindered and restrained at first, when the humours and the spirits are not yet much shaken; and thence it comes that oftentimes holding your mouth shut, your breath and voice being constrained to pass through the nostrils, cause an interrupted bellowing, which is observed in laughing.  
As for the lustre of the eyes, the colour and blthness which appears in the face; for the voice which becomes grosser for sweat and tears, we have already said they come from Joy, which every way disperseth the spirits, dissolves the humours, and opens the passages. But I would add for what concerns Tears; that the motion of the muscles, which causes the eyes and the lids to move, is the principal cause thereof. For when they come to close themselves, they press and squeeze the humours and the spirits, and constrain them to issue; and indeed all those parts are soft and moist, and the under-lid is situated so, that it easily receives the humours which run from the neighbouring parts: It seems even that Nature destined them to that end; were it to entertain the freshness, and natural humidity of the eye, or to discharge it from that which might incommodate it? And there is a great appearance that the little holes which appear on the side of that lid, when it gins to quit the corner of the eye, was only made to void those humours, when they are in too great a quantity; which being so, we need not doubt but when that part contracts itself, the humour which is contained therein, must be forced to issue at that little passage, and must render the eyes moist: And what confirms me in this opinion, is, that tears run not in Laughter, as in Joy, and in Grief: it seems that they are forced, and that they issue but by compulsion; and it is easy to judge that their source comes not from so high a place as the others, and that you need go no farther than the neighbourhood to seek it; neither are they ever so abundant as in those Passions, the eyes from whence they come being not capable to contain so much humour as the brain; and even those whom sorrow hath never caused to weep, by reason of their natural dryness, find tears when they laugh, because they come but from the neighbouring parts, no more than those which sore eyes sometimes cause. Let us then conclude that Joy carries the humours, and the spirits to the outward parts, and that the agitation of the muscles stirs them, and sends them out, whence comes tears in the eyes, and sweat in the face, and flanks; Because that it is in that place where the Motion is most violent, and the skin most delicate.   

CHAP. V The Characters of Desire.  
IF the Soul (according to Socrates) hath wings, they can only be in the Desires; it is they which move her wherever she will go: they raise her up to heaven, and make her descend into the abyss; and by a strange and wonderful kind of motion, they cause her to go out of herself without dividing her, and transport her everywhere without ever quitting the place wherein she is. And we may say, that Nature was never so wise or ingenious in any of her works, as in this: For, having made the Soul void and unprovided of all things, and having placed all necessary goods without her, she was obliged to furnish her with a virtue which might carry her towards them, and which might unite them together. She must have afforded her, in the prison wherein she hath enclosed her, the use of that liberty which was born with her; and without breaking her chains, she must suffer her to go thorough the Universe, which she hath submitted to her laws and judgements. In fine, after having been drawn from heaven, and been banished from the place of her birth, she must needs give way, at least to her thoughts, to return sometimes thither. And that during her exile she may have some commerce with those Divine things wherewith she is allied, which at last ought to crown the pains and labours of her banishment; now she hath given her Desires, to draw her to those goods she was without; to set her at liberty, and to raise her up to heaven, which is the place of her nativity, and the source of her felicities.  
We must indeed believe that the principal objects which ought to move this fair Passion in us, are not to be found on earth, nor amongst vile & transitory things: our Soul being immortal, needs not corruptible things: And if there are things which conduce to her perfection, they must be more noble and more excellent than she: she must seek them from above. In a word, God alone should inflame her Desires, since he alone can fill that infinite depth and immense vastness of hers.  
Neither did this wise Philosopher who fancied she had wings, think they were for any other use but to carry her towards that primary and sovereign Idea of Good. When he perceived her to descend, and run after corruptible things, he then believed she had lost them; that she rather got a fall, than made a flight; that she was then in the body, not only as in a Prison, but as in a Tomb: For being sensible of no natural motion therein, nor seeing no agitation of that Divine fire wherewith they say she is clothed, he had reason to believe that she ceased to live, or that she transmigrated into the nature of those Bruits which only look on the earth, and which according to his opinion are rather shadows then that they have true beings. It is true, that the Senses which are under her conduct, oblige her to seek what is fit for her; that she must provide for the necessities of the body, which serves her in her functions: But Reason hath reduced her cares to such narrow bounds, and Nature hath rendered necessary things so common, that there is scarce a way left to wish them: at least, if we must employ thereabouts a part of our Desires, it ought to be the weakest, and the least.  
It were indeed to offend the dignity of the Soul, and the excellency of those Goods whereto she ought to aspire, to destiny so many noble desires which she can form, to such vile and useless things; it were even in stead of enriching her, to render her necessitous, since it is certain, that Desire is the measure of Poverty, and that as many things as the Soul desires, so many things doth she stand in need of: So that, in seeking more goods for the body then are needful, she renders it so much the more necessitous, and oppresseth it with the poverty she hath caused.  
Lastly, the Desires being as the pawns and earnests which the Soul gives of her subjection to those things she seeks, if they are conformable to Nature, and her dignity, this subjection is honest and lawful; they are her first steps towards virtue and felicity: But if she engageth herself to subjects unworthy of her, she submits herself to her enemies, and opens a door to all vices & mischances which may befall her.  
We ought to engage ourselves no further in these Considerations which belong to Moral Philosophy; we will therefore pursue our Design, and present you with the Characters of this Passion.  
It is a bold undertaking, to design the picture of Desire. It is so subtle and so changeable a Passion, that it is almost impossible to find colours wherewith to represent it: It is a Proteus which assumes as many figures as there are imaginary goods: It incessantly flies like the wind, it everywhere mixeth itself like the air: And Picture cannot have a greater trouble to form bodies for these things, than the Mind to design the Characters of this Passion.  
It is true, there are Desires which may easily be expressed; that without difficulty we may describe Ambition, Avarice, and Luxury; that Hunger, and other Appetites of Sense, may easily be expressed. But to touch these differences, is not to form a general Idea of Desire, as we have obliged ourselves to do. To follow then the Order we have proposed, we must take off this Passion from all particular objects, and consider only the effects which are common to all kinds. We will then begin by its Moral actions.  
Although Desires, as children of Love, make the same advance and growth with Love itself, and that at their birth they are but small sparks which by little and little inrease, and afterwards become great flames; yet it often happens that they break out all at once, and that at first they have the same force and vehemency which time useth to give them; you would think them those artificial fires which kindle in an instant, and whose flame no sooner appears, but it devours all the matter which serves for its food, which carries with it all that stops it, and overcomes all that opposeth its course. For at the same time that they take in the Mind, they occupy all its thoughts, they take away its reason, and hurry it towards the desired good thorough all obstacles and hindrances that oppose it. At that time, she slights all counsels, and all danger. Prohibition kindles her lusts, & difficulty provokes them: Neither doth she believe that her Desires can be noble, unless they are extreme; nor generous, unless they be rash.  
In pursuit of these dangerous Maxims, you need not wonder that he who is moved with this Passion, becomes insolent and importunate; he speaks but of what he wishes, he incessantly demands it, neither doth a refusal give him the check; and when his mouth is stopped, his eyes still solicit for it, and beg more eagerly than his words did before. You may observe a certain impatient ardour, and I know not what urging avidity which seems to pursue the desired good. And when it is presented to them, you would say they throw themselves on it, that they ravish it, and devour it even with their looks.  
But if in this encounter his eyes are clear sighted, his judgement is blinded; he neither considers his own nor other men's condition. In his pursuits, there always is either an insolent liberty, or an infamous submission: and all the excuse he hath for his impudence or baseness, is, that he believes he deserves what he desires, and that absolutely he must have it. To obtain it, what cares and what pains he takes! He goes, he comes, he seeks; he adviseth with one, he asks help of another; he threatens, he begs: in fine, he is never at rest, & suffers no body to be so; for even when he is alone, he turns over in his mind all those powers which may serve or travers him. He hath no thoughts wherein some of his friends or of his enemies are not interessed: and whoever could see the designs he meditates in his heart, would say that it was there where all the storms were form, which were to trouble all the world. But indeed, all these tempests commonly are nothing else but a noise; they vanish in useless and impotent designs; and all the ill they cause, is that they drive away the tranquillity of the Mind they move in. And truly, whoever desires, is exposed to four Passions, which, as impetuous winds, incessantly agitate him: Audacity and Fear, Hope and Despair, do alternatively shake him, and often so hastily succeed one the other, that they mix and confound themselves together. He fears, he hopes, he despairs at the same time; he wills, and he will not; and often, through the violence of desiring, he knows not what he desires.  
His irresolution and his disquiet appears even outwardly: for he cannot remain in one place, or in one posture; he turns from the one side to the other; he sits, he riseth, he goes with long strides, and stops of a sudden. Sometimes he so profoundly dotes, that you would think him ravished in an Ecstasy; and at that instant he awakes, sending forth, with great sighs, now a sharp, and now a languishing voice. His words are interrupted with sobs and tears, and his discourse is full of long exclamations and passionate accents, which commonly accompany impatience, regret, and languor. He most commonly speaks to himself, interrogates and answers himself: And if others entertain him, his mind is always distracted, his answers confused and entangled, and sometimes even his speech is cut quite off, what endeavour soever he makes to utter it. His mouth is filled with a clear and subtle water; his tongue trembles by intervals; and licking his lips, he moistens and whitens them with froth. His face is swelled, and grows red; his head advanceth itself on the desired object; his arms extend themselves towards it. Even his heart, as straitened and contracted as it is, darts itself out in great throbs, and raiseth the breast with so much violence, that the ribs sometimes are disjointed. Appetite and Sleep fosake him. Sometimes he grows Grace in a moment; all his radical moisture is consumed; his body grows lean and dry; and nothing but Enjoyment or Death can terminate his languor and his desires.  

PART. 2. Of the Nature of Desire.  
AT first, it seems as if there were no difficulty to say what desire is; as it never forms itself, but for those things which we have not, and which we would have, we may easily believe that the object which excites it, is an absent good that the Soul endeavours to draw near unto it, and that the motion it makes towards it, causeth also all the essence of this Passion.  
But who ever examines it carefully, will find more doubts than resolutions, and in pursuit will confess that there are many things to be desired in the common knowledge of the desires; for besides that we desire the good we possess, and that ill oftentimes is wished; it is evident that this definition confounds desire and Love, and makes no essential difference which may distinguish them one from another; for if the good by being absent moves the desire, we must cease to love that good when it is absent from us, or Love and Desire must be but one Passion, although it be an unheard of thing amongst the Philosophers, that two species should be confounded in one, and that we should cease to love good when it is no longer present. Besides that absence seems not to be the true Object of Desire, nor to be any part of it, as some have thought, since there is nothing in it which is able to draw the appetite to it, being rather an i'll than a good; & therefore the desire having no other object but goodness, and seeing the motion it makes towards it ought to be like that of Love, it must needs be (against the maxims of the most wholesome Philosophy) that they are not two different Passions; and that Love, Desire, and Joy itself, are but the same thing.  
Now this conclusion took its original from that these Passions were defined in too general terms, and that the difference of the motion was not specified, which was proper to every of them: for since all their essence consists in motion, if they are different amongst themselves, it must be by the diversity of their motions, and their definitions must express the particular agitation which is found in every of them.  
To find that then of Desire, we must suppose that this Passion always follows Love: because we only Desire the things we believe good; and when ill excites our desires, it is always under the show and appearance of good: For the death which an unhappy man seeks, seems to him the haven and end of his miseries: danger to men of courage is the fountain of glory and honour. In fine, all the world desires the estrangement of ill, for that it is a good to be delivered from it.  
Desire therefore hath good for its object, and consequently it always follows Love; since Love is the first motion the Soul makes after good; in effect assoon as the appetite hath received the image, and Idea of good, it moves towards it, and at that instant unites itself to it, because it is presented to it; and this union causeth the Passion of Love, as we have said before: but because this union gives us not always the perfect possession, whether it be that the good presents itself not always wholly, or whether the things besides that Ideal being which they have in their thoughts, have another true and real one, which also requires a real union; when the Soul hath acknowledged that it hath not wholly enjoyed the good which was presented to it, it is unsatisfied with the first motion it made towards it, not to have been united to its Idea, it seeks it out of itself, and forms this Passion which we call Desire.  
This being granted, it is easy to conceive what the motion of the appetite is, when it is agitated in this encounter: for in Love it moves strait forwards to the Idea of good; but in Desire it seems to quit it, and as if it would run out of itself, it darts itself towards the absent object: So that it is very likely these two motions are made one after the other, principally if they are violent; for every of them wholly moving the Soul, and driving it several ways, it seems as if they could not meet together, and that of necessity the appetite must first unite itself to the imagined good; since it pursues it, when it is absent, and that afterwards it takes its first course going from one to the other, after the same manner from time to time; in effect we experiment, that the desires appear not in the Soul, but as lightnings; that they are only throws and flashes which it gives itself, and that their continuance depends only from the doubles and frequent reprizes they make.  
So that they may be exactly defined, in saying, That they are Motions of the Appetite, by which the Soul darts itself towards the absent good, purposely to draw near and unite itself thereunto.  
Yet must you not imagine, that the Appetite in darting itself so, goes beyond its natural bounds, and that as animate bodies it goes from one to another, to advance towards the absent good: all this agitation is made in itself, as we said in the discourse of Love; and although it seems as if it would cast itself out, it only beats against its bounds, and drives those parts as waves, which beat on the shore without being able to go farther.  
But since in effect the Soul goes not out of itself, and that consequently it approacheth not the destined good, we may inquire to what purpose the motion serves which it makes in this encounter: we must doubtless confess that it is often useless to it, if it penetrates not into the Faculties, which may move the creature towards the good, and give it the possession thereof: For Nature hath given the Appetite the power to move itself thus, only to inspire the same Motion into those Faculties which are under its direction. The agitation it gives itself, is the Idea of that which the moving qualities ought to have outwardly; it is like the chalk, and the design of a work which is to be finished in the Organs; but if it rest there, they prove vain and useless throws and sallies; they are imperfect Motions and unformed desires, which in some manner offend Nature; for that she having destined them for action, they destroy the order and commerce which she hath established amongst the Faculties of the Soul, when they drive them not to the end she proposeth.  
In effect, there is so great a relation, and so essential an order between the Desire and the enjoyment; that we never form desires for those things which we believe impossible; because the Soul at that time hath no end nor aim to work, and can produce no action, unless it have a motive to excite it, and which staggers it, since that the end is the first of all causes, and that which gives them efficacy and Motion.  
I know that there are several things we unprofitably seek which can never be acquired, what care or pains soever we take: but for that we do not consider the impediments and obstacles, which we ought therein to encounter: And if reason sometimes proposeth them, and that contrary to its advice we continue to wish for them; this disorder comes from the imagination, which most commonly fancies things feasible, which easily persuade the Appetite thereunto, which afterwards causeth those vain and chimerical desires, of which we have now spoken.  
It is far a greater difficulty to know how this darting forth may be effected, when Desire mixeth itself with Fear, Grief, and other Passions where the Soul inwardly retires itself, and venter's itself sooner than it seems to have gone out.  
We may well believe that these Motions follow one another, as we said it happens in Love, that after the presence of ill hath made the Appetite retreat, Desire sends it forth again to seek the good, which is to accrue unto it by the absence of the ill; and that there is thus every moment a continual ebbing and flowing of all these Passions; but I believe this happens not always so, and that even in flying, the Soul may make the Motion which the Desire asketh, without being obliged to return the same way. As he who flees his enemy, at the same time gets farther from him, and nearer the place of his security; so it is likely the Appetite retiring itself, may at once shun evil and pursue good: and that the same endeavours and the same strive it makes to hasten its flight, may also serve to form those desires which it hath to possess the good it fancies; and that it seeks to go out of itself in the same manner, as when there is nothing but what is purely good which attracts it; for the Soul is so much disturbed at the presence of ill, that it seems as if it were not enough to flee and estrange herself from it; but that she must even hid and steal herself away from herself, that she may by precipitating her flight go beyond her bounds, and go out of herself, as she doth in the pursuit of good. But it is an error which the Passions easily inspire in a blind power, which is not guided by Reason; whatsoever endeavour she makes, she remains still within her own limits, and leaves not those places which she believes she hath abandoned: it is true that the Spirits which follow the Motions, in effect retire to the Centre of the Body, and that the Organs cause a real flight in the creature, which is surprised with this Passion; but all this is without the Soul, and we are to speak only of what is within.  
For the full clearing of this definition we have given, there remains only to be examined, whether the Absent Good is the true Object of Desire; for we proposed at the beginning of this discourse two very considerable Objections which seem to prove the contrary, since it is evident we often desire the things we enjoy; and that Absence being an evil, is rather capable to take off the Appetite, then to provoke it thereunto; so that in this case, the Object of Desire cannot be different from that of Love, and so both must be but one Passion.  
For the first we have already showed in the former Discourses, that when we desire the good we possess, we always fancy somewhat which we do not yet enjoy, whether it be that the most part of goods not presenting themselves to it in the whole, there must still be a part wanting, or whether this possession being to be but of a short continuance we desire its continuation as a good which is still to come.  
To the second, we must say, although it be true that absence draws not the Appetite, and that it is goodness only; it doth not therefore follow, that Love and Desire have the same Motives, nor that both make but one Passion; for besides that it seems that Motion draws not always its species from the end it tends unto; but ever from the middle through which it passeth to reach thither; as we may judge by the circular Motion, which is only different from the direct, but for that it makes a bend line; and for that cause should these Passions have but one Object, yet they must be of different species, by reason of the different way they take to attain it; it is true, that in moral things the conditions and circumstances which have no relation with the Object diversify the Motives of Actions, and that the absence of Good gives another Motion to the Soul than goodness of itself alone gives; for although it always seeks to unite itself to the good it knows, if it be not present, it must add another design to this first inclination, and take care to draw near what is far from it, before it can unite itself, and gain a perfect enjoyment; so that the true Motion of Desire is the Souls drawing near, and not the union nor enjoyment; that being the Motive of Love, and this of Pleasure, as we have it elsewhere. Wherefore the Appetite is agitated by several Motions in all these Passions; for in this it Parts itself, and gets out of itself; in Love it binds itself to the Idea of Good, and in pleasure pours itself on it.   

PART 3. What the Motion of the Humours and of the Spirits is in Desire.  
SInce the Motion of the Spirits is conformable to that of the Appetite, we may without much difficulty, say how they are agitated in this Passion, after we have showed how the Appetite in some sort diverts itself from the Idea of good, to move towards the absent Object.  
For Love which always precedes Desire, having drawn them from the heart, and carried them to the imagination, to unite them to the image of the good it fancied; Desire follows, which retires them and casts them forth, to come nearer the good it thinks far of: And thence it happens, that the face swells and grows red, that the eyes advance themselves, and seem as if they would go out of their place; the spirits which escape drawing with them the most noble parts, and driving those which oppose their issue.  
But it may be demanded, if the Appetite effectually goes not out of itself, is it therefore so with the Spirits? is it sufficient they beat against their bounds, and stop after that vain endeavour? certainly the greatest part pass no farther; as they are the first Organs of the Soul, without which she can effect no perfect action, she withholds them to her power, neither do they separate themselves from her but with great violence; for if as it is likely, they are animated, or if they are of those instruments which will always be united to their principle, they cannot go far from the Soul without losing themselves; and when that happens, it must be against their intention, since every thing endeavours its own preservation; when therefore Desire drives them to the surface of the Body, the Soul which is constrained to keep within its bounds, keeps in also the Spirits; but this hinders not a part of them from escaping, and the impetuosity of their Motion from casting them beyond their prescribed limits. They are fluid bodies, they disperse and steal away with the least agitation, they penetrate everywhere, and no resistance can stop them; and although as they are Organs of the Soul, they love to be always with her; yet as they are subtle and lose bodies, which have a great affinity with the air, their first inclination is to deliver themselves from the prison wherein they are, and to leave the mixture of those gross and impure things, to unite themselves to their like.  
But it is also true, that they often issue by the Souls command; which because it cannot leave the body it animates, it sends them to execute its designs, and causeth that transport, and that influence of Spirits, of which we have spoken in our Discourse of Love out of Inclination.  
Yet we must observe that all desires drive not the Spirits into the outward parts; there are those which move them not, as those which are form in the supreme part of the Soul, whose actions need no Organs. It is true those desires cannot long stay without the Motion of the Spirits: for the Imagination is so near the Understanding, that at last it always discovers a part of what it doth choose; and then working on the Ideas it hath received, the Spirits run to its service, and agitate the body in the most secret actions of the will; so that in the most Spiritual Passions, which should be hid from inferior powers, we see they bear a part, and sensibly alter the Body.  
There are even of these desires, which are form in the sensitive Appetite, some which crave no assistance from the outward Senses: For when we desire a good which is no more, or is far distant from us, we know that neither the ears, nor the eyes are employed in the inquiry of it. The Soul alone operates, and even then the Spirits it moves arrive not at these Organs: They cast themselves only on the substance of the brain, and disperse themselves on this and on that side, without causing a change in the outward parts.  
In fine, it is an undoubted thing, that the Desire which accompanies Fear, Averseness, and the other Passions, which flee what is harmful, carries not the Spirits outwardly, as those which purely seek the good, or resist the ill. On the contrary, it retires them inwardly, at least if it cause not this Motion, it resists it not, but follows the impetuosity wherewith the Spirits are carried away. But it is also certain, that when these cowardly Passions have brought them back again to the heart, Desire again darts them further out, as if they were to pass beyond it; and that presently after these former, recall them, making thus a long combat of contrary Motions which cause this great trouble, and violent agitation which is at that time felt in the entrails.  
Now we should examine whether Desire dilate the Spirits, whether it drives them with equality; lastly whether it stirs only the purest blood, and the sweetest humours which are in the veins, as we have discovered was done in Love. But since we have observed that Desire mixeth itself with all the Passions, that it is often with Grief and with Fear, which contract the Spirits, and often with Love and Joy, which extend them; that it always accompanies Anger, how turbulent or impetuous soever it be, and in which the most Malignant humours are agitated we must acknowledge that all these kinds of Motions are indifferent to it, that it fits itself to them all; That sometimes it dilates the Spirits, sometimes it contracts them; and at other times it drives them with confusion and vehemency, otherwhiles with order and moderation, according to the Nature of those Passions with which it allies itself: Yet this takes not of the difficulty; for since Desire presupposeth Love, it seems as if all the Motions which accompany this Passion are to be found in Desire, and that consequently the Spirits are therein agitated in the same beforesaid manner. But besides that we have not spoken in those places of Love in general, but only of that which Beauty inspires, it is evident that the greatest part of the Passions are form, and that after Love hath dilated the Spirits, others may be raised which may contract them, to which Desire may alley itself. Otherwise as the emotion of the Soul precedes that of the Spirits, it is often form of those Passions in which the Spirits are not moved; because the Appetite agitates with so much swiftness, and so nimbly passeth from one Passion to another, that they have not time to follow its Motions, and so obey only the last and most vehement. Thus Love may mix itself with Desire, without giving to the Spirits the Motion it would have, were it alone, or that it longer or more forcibly possessed the Appetite.  
But supposing that Love dilates them, and Desire joins itself with it, will it not cause any change? certainly when the Soul sees the good absent, and that in effect she possesseth it not, she must bate somewhat of the design she had to open and extend herself, to unite her to its Idea, and she gathers herself together to pursue it the more swiftly: So that it is likely she contracts not the Spirits in this Passion as she doth in Fear; but that she reunites and somewhat regathers them, driving them towards the absent Good. But we will forbear these things which being too subtle, and too obscure, flee from our sight, and tyre the mind; that we may seek the causes of the Characters we have marked.   

PART. 4. The Causes of the Characters of Desire.  
LOve and Desire, being the most general Passions of the mind, are also the most fruitful in actions; but if you respect the causes which are nearest their effects, you must confess that Desire is the most active; and that all human actions, although they proceed from Love, as from their original source, seem to draw their origine from Desire, as from their nearest and most sensible cause: so that we may say that Love is as it were the seed, but that Desire is the stock or trunk which affords life and motion to all the branches. However it be, we have not undertaken to give an account of all the effects which this Passion produceth: it will be sufficient to examine the most general and the most ordinary. And first of all to inquire what it is that renders it importunate, impudent, base, and unquiet, why it is boundless, and how difficulties provoke it.  
It is true, that who ardently desires a thing renders himself easily Importunate, because the violent Passion he hath to obtain it, makes him blindly seek it, without considering the persons, and without examining the time or the place which might favour him in his design; he pursues it everywhere, he craves it continually, and as if all the world ought to contribute to his pleasure, he solicits, he urgeth, he tires all those whose succour he may have, and which may make him enjoy the good he desires: besides having no other thought but that, and his mind being continually bend on that Object, reason finds no time to be understood, nor power to contain the sallies of this unbridled Passion. She even suffers herself to be thereby carried away, and so abandons the conduct of her actions to blind and rash powers.  
And even from thence, that Impudence comes which commonly accompanies Desire; for as it is a certain boldness which makes us with pleasure undertake dishonest things, and which makes us scorn the imfamy which they may cause; he must necessarily be impudent who is pressing and importunate; seeing he takes a liberty beyond good manners, and that he fears not the blame which his shamelesness deserves.  
But if desire cause boldness, how can it then render a man Base and Timorous? It may be said 'tis done at several times; That sometimes we fancy the things we desire are easily obtained, and that sometimes there are great obstacles to be overcome; and that as these different thoughts enter the mind, they introduce either Boldness or Fear, Hope or Despair. Now although this be true, it is also evident, that that Boldness which breeds Impudence, is not always incompatible with Baseness; if it apprehend not infamy, it may fear every other thing; and we cannot doubt but those who solicit with so much urgency and submission a person inferior to them, are possessed with a very cowardly Boldness, and a base and servile Impudence.  
Disquiet, Impatience, and Irresolution, are also inseparable from Desire; for the mind seeing itself deprived of the good she imagined necessary for her, can take no rest till she hath obtained it. The moments which retard its enjoyment seem years and ages, the least impediments appear great obstacles, and all the means she finds to make her the sooner enjoy the desired good, are in her opinion weak and unprofitable: so that forming at every moment new designs, heaping desires upon desires, and increasing difficulties by her irresolutions she uncessantly agitates and disquiets herself, and finds not even in their possession the end of her troubles, as we have showed in the discourse of Joy.  
But whenee comes it that Desires do thus increase and multiply, and that like waves they follow and drive one the other that obstacles make them increase, and that they have no bounds which can contain them? It is true that the greatest part of our desires are of that Nature that they cannot be bounded, and that they become infinite; but there are others also which never pass their just extent.  
To know the reason of this difference, you must suppose that there are desires necessary for this life, and others which are not so; those are common to all creatures; and are inspired by Nature, these are proper to man, and proceed from the opinion and choice he makes, not only of necessity, but also of superfluous things. The first have their certain bounds, because Nature who leads them is determined to a certain end, from which she never straggles, and wherein she finds her rest when she is there arrived; but the others are infinite; for as much as the will whence they originally come is an Universal power, which is not to be filled but by the possession of all things; and which being unable to be satisfied by any one, incessantly runs from one to another, and forms as many desires as there are goods whersof she is in want; it is not that all the desires which part from our choice are infinite; when they are ruled by right reason, they have also their bounds, and we may also be sure that they are as natural and as necessary as those which serve this necessities of life: For right reason being nothing else but what is convenient for the Nature of man, the Desires which are regulated thereby, are as it were natural, and by so much the more necessary, as they serve the noblest part which is in him. But this belongs to another Discourse.  
Let us now see, why Difficulty provokes Desire; it is not that by putting of the Soul further off from the good she thought readily to enjoy, she obligeth her to use the more endeavour to draw nearer unto it, or else the impediments inspiring new designs, give it also new subject for Desire, which uniting itself to the former, make the Passion appear the greater; but these Passions are not Universal; for they suppose we always wish the good, before these impediments present themselves; and in the mean time it is true, that difficulty and resistance do often breed a desire of certain things which we had never sought, how  soever they were, had they not been forbidden us, and difficult. We must then conclude that the first source of this effect proceeds from the natural inclination which is in man for his liberty, and his own proper excellency: for being a creature naturally free and glorious, he believes that difficulties reproach him his weakness, and that prohibition wounds his liberty; wherefore when either presents itself, he raiseth himself against it, and thinks that bearing himself towards the good, against which they contest with him, he presents those advantages which he received from Nature. Thus far in relation to Moral actions: let us now examine the Corporal Characters.  
These are of two kinds as is beforesaid, some by the command of the mind, others purely natural, and happen by necessity. The first are swelling eyes and urgent looks, the trembling of the tongue, watery mouth, several inflections of the voice, talk and silence, the agitation and motion of the Body.  
The Eyes and Looks, which are proper to desires, are not only fixed and settled on their objects; for meditation and attention of the mind may procure that; but there is also a certain ardour and vivacity, which makes them come outwards, and seems to throw them on the thing desired; which happens not to those who meditate, whose eyes sink and grow dim, as Aristotle teacheth, and as we shall say in its due place. These Looks then which the Latins so happily call Instantes, Procaces, & Devorantes, that is to say, Pressing, Greedy, and Devouring, whence even that vulgar manner of speaking comes, he feeds on him with his eyes; that is to say, he looks on him with ardour. Those looks are the true images of Desire, which being only a transport and a sally which the Soul makes towards Good, imprint the same darting in the eyes, which are the most mobile and the most obedient parts of the body, casting them out as much as she can, and as much as they can suffer it: Besides, that the spirits which abundantly run thither, and would go out, drive them forward to make themselves way, and fill them with the lustre and vivacity which we perceive in them.  
The trembling of the tongue and a watery mouth, are effects which serve for the appetite of Aliments: for the Soul, which hath a secret knowledge of what is useful for its designs, knowing that tasting cannot be without humidity, and that the motion of the tongue is necessary to send aliments down into the stomach, brings this water into the mouth, and stirs the tongue, when we see the things we desire, or hear them spoken of; the Fancy in some manner rendering them present, and causing the organs to do the same thing they would do if they were really on the tongue.  
But whence comes this clear und subtle water? Doth it not descend from those kirnels which are in the bottom of the mouth, whose chief use is to receive the superfluous humours of the brain, and to disperse them on the tongue to moisten it? It is evident it commonly proves so, and that the motion of the spirits which the Desire brings into those parts, opens the passages, and makes these waters run the more. But it often also happens, that they come from the stomach, either by the means of those wand'ring spirits which run thither to cause digestion, or by the contraction of its fibers which squeeze the humour wherewith they are watered, and raise it up on high: for in Desires they sometimes contract themselves so much, that they even overthrow the stomach; and principally in fish, who naturally are all gluttonous, and who pursuing their prey too ardently, cause it to run out of its place, and cast it sometimes even into their mouths. However it be, we must believe that these two effects belong to the desire of Aliments, and that the Soul hath some reason to employ them to that use. But when she makes them serve other desires, as it often happens, it is an error which comes from its blindness and precipitation, and which persuades that that which is necessary for one design may also be so for another, although indeed it be quite useless.  
The several inflexions of the voice which are observed in Desire, do not all proceed from it: As it mixeth itself with other Passions, it borrows from them the sounds and the accents which are familiar to them. Sometimes it lifts it up with Boldness and Anger, sometimes it lets it fall with Fear and Languor; sometimes it cuts it with grief and astonishment, other times it draws it out with admiration and joy. But the change which this alone seems to give, is the precipitation of words, and the long exclamations which commence its discourses: For the force which follows this Passion, causeth the words to go out in a crowd; and the darting forth of the Soul causeth a transport of the voice, which is always made by the strongest vowels, which most of all open the mouth; as if she would make a freer passage, that she might issue out the more readily. In effect, we never find the I nor the U in the ordinary exclamations of Desire, but only A, O, and E, which she also chargeth with vehement aspirations which show the force she useth in issuing forth.  
Silence, and confusion of discourse, are the effects of a great distraction of the Mind, which is common to those who ardently desire a thing, when we speak not to them of their Passion, or when they are with persons which cannot serve them therein: For the Soul quitting with regret the thought of the Good she wants, and incessantly seeking the means to possess it, flees the conversation which might trouble her pleasure and her design; and re-entering in herself, or rather wand'ring in the pursuit she makes, she hears not what others say, she silenceth herself, or makes disorderly answers. And her transport riseth often to that excess, that it takes away the use of the Senses, and even ravisheth her into an ecstasy, as we shown in our Discourse of Love.  
For what concerns the agitation of the body, it follows the disquiet or the motion which the soul makes towards Good: for when he who is troubled with this Passion changeth every moment his posture and his place, casts about his eyes here and there, turns now on one side, now on the other; now riseth, now sits; goes, and stops ever and anon: they are the effects of his irresolutions, and the divers designs which his disquiet proposeth: But if he reacheth out his head, if he stretch out his arms towards the desired object, if he goes and walks with large paces, and runs towards it; they are endeavours which the Soul causeth the parts to make to draw near the good which is distant from it. For although they are often useless, in the error she is she still believes she goes forward, and that casting the eyes, the head and hands towards what she desires, it is as much ground gotten, and that at last she shall arrive at the end she tends to.  
We have nothing more here to examine, but the necessary effects of Desire. But as the most part of them are to be found in those Passions of which we have already spoken, we shall without difficulty inquire the reasons, and send back the Reader to the place whence we deduced them: For sighs and ecstasies, loss of speech, sleep and appetite, have herein no other causes but as in Love. The face grows red and swelled by the arrival of blood and spirits which cast themselves on the outward parts, as is already said. Tears proceed from grief which the privation of Good too attentively considered, breeds in the Mind.  
The motion of the heart and arteries is great, because the soul endeavours to open them, to send forth a quantity of spirits; frequent, because of the violence and haste it makes to get them out; and unequal, by the mixture of other Passions.  
The body grows lean and dry, because those parts which digest the humours, and those which are to be nourished by them, being weakened by the flight of the spirits, perform it not as they ought and cannot convert them into their substance, as was said in the Discourse of Love.  
There remains nothing now but an effect of Desire, which, being extraordinary, deserves a longer examen than the former: It is, that a too ardent Desire makes a man grow old in a day, as Theorictus; that is to say, makes the hair grey in a short time, according to the ordinary explication of that passage. For my part, I must confess that the observation is particular enough, and I do not remember that I have seen it anywhere but in that Author. But since the same thing happens in Fear and in Despair, which in a night change the hair, and that cares and displeasures make a man grow grey before his time, it is impossible but Desire may sometimes cause the same effect: all the difficulty is to know how it may be done.  
You must then suppose with Aristotle, that hair grows grey for want of heat fit and natural for it; that it then suffers a kind of corruption and rottenness, and that it happens as to all other things that in corrupting it turns white: in effect we cannot deny but that it is the old age of the hair. And since that of all the body happens from the diminution of natural heat, it is likely it proceeds from the same cause; when this heat than diminisheth it produceth two effects in the hair; for the aliment which ought to nourish it, digests not but flies, into vapours, and the air fills the place of the Spirits. Now vapours contain much air, and air is the first cause of whiteness, as we see in scum; and experience teacheth us, that to make the hair white, we must wet and expose it to the air.  
And it is true that heat growing weak, either by little and little, or suddenly, indigestion is the chief cause of whiteness of hair, when the heat is consumed by dely grease; but when it readily dissipates, as it happens in sicknessess and vehement Passions, it is chief the air which whitens it sliding into the pores, and taking the place of the retired spirits.  
Some will say, If this be true, the hair of dead men should be always white; natural heat being extinct, and the air environing them, might easily insinuate itself into its pores.  
To this it must be answered, that after death there remains a natural heat in the hair, as in the bones, which are long preserved after the expiration of the creature whose parts they were. But this heat is , and incapable of any fruition of life, being deprived of the souls influence, which gave it efficacy and motion: So there are no more crudities made, because the aliments rise no more thither, and the air cannot occupy the place of the spirits which are there fixed and stopped.  
Certainly, we cannot but confess that the soul inspires some virtue into those parts, that she takes some care of them, and that she governs them as she pleaseth; otherwise, what should cause that delightful and regular painting in the plumage of Birds? what should so justly compass the eyebrows? what should so carefully regulate the hair of the eyelids? lastly, what should cause all that so well measured a diversity which is to be observed in the hair of beasts? As that commonly follows the species of every creature, it must needs be, that the soul wherein it is contained, conduceth also to this work, and that she at her pleasure disposeth of those parts wherein she causeth so many wonders. This being granted, it is not hard to say how Fear, Desire and Cares may change the hair: for, in retiring the spirits, they derive it of the influence it received from them; they dry up that spring of life which did rise to its roots, and draw away that vital heat which ran thorough its pores.  
It is true, this seldom happens, and there must be a great violence and a great disposition to produce this effect. For there are certain actions from which it is very difficult to withdraw Nature; and what tempest soever happens to it, she but seldom forsakes their rudder and conduct. Such are the functions of the Vegetative soul, which are principally made by the means of the fixed spirits; and being not subject to the power of the Imagination, or of the Appetite, remain quiet, whilst the others err here and there, and are agitated by the several motions which the Passions impress. But yet it sometimes happens, that, by reason of the conjunction which there is between the parts of the soul, the disorders of the one are communicated to the other; and that the Natural faculty is carried away by the Sensitive, principally in those whose spirits are more mobile, and the substance of their parts more soft. So that those persons whose imagination is very strong, and who have the weakest brain, more easily grow grey than other men, by the violence of those Passions which we have spoken of.    

CHAP. VI The Characters of Hope.  
HE who gave away all he had, and reserved only Hope, made not so ill a bargain as it may be imagined: He took for himself that which is the sweetest in life, the most durable Good which can be found therein. In a word, we may say, that he had for his share all what he had not, and that he truly divided for himself like a King.  
Indeed, as there are no other Goods whereof we are sensible, but those which we possess, and those which we hope for; it is certain, that possession affords not a perfect contentment here below, for that it cloys the Mind, and takes away the knowledge of the good it possesseth, that it even corrupts the Nature of it, and strait begets a distaste. But Hope, which awakens the Mind, and renders it clearer-sighted, represents the Good as it is, shows it in its purity, and gives a far more delicious taste of it then Enjoyment can: For it is so ingenious, that it separates itself from all the Ills which are mixed with it; it purifies itself from all the defects which accompany it: and as we may say, that it is then the flower of Goodness which it pours into our soul; we may also say, that the Joy it disperseth therein is the flower of Pleasure, and the most refined sweetness of Delight. Why should we then wonder, finding it so sweet and delightful, if we enter it into all our designs, if we mix it with all our actions, and if it be the last thing we abandon during life? 'Tis what alone sweetens the sharpness and bitterness thereof, which patiently makes us bear the disgraces thereof; and of all the good things which may accrue thereunto, this is the only one which is compatible with those miseries whereunto it is subject: For, should all ills overwhelm a person, should all mischances and calamities which we can imagine fasten on him, he yet may have Hope, which perhaps alone may be worth more to him then all other Goods can be without it.  
Of a truth, also, it is of all the Passions the most natural to Man: he is sensible of its growth, as he grows in perfection; and feels it weaken, when he fails in that. He ceaseth to live, when he ceaseth to hope; and, to speak soberly, there is none but he alone that hopes: for all other creatures have no more but a shadow of Hope, as they have of Reason; the Intelligences scarce know it: And when Man passeth into their nature, although he still be capable of Love or of Hatred, of Joy or of Grief, of Fear or of Despair, yet is he no longer capable of Hope.  
Certainly, since it is that which leads us to felicity, and which gives us the first taste of it, it would be useless to those who are already happy, and to those which cannot be so: And Man, who alone is in the way of felicity, ought also to be only touched with this Passion. In the tempests wherewith his life is continually agitated, it was necessary that Hope should be his lantern, and the star to lead him to his last port; and that in the length and dangers of his voyage, he might at least have the satisfaction to see afar off the end he tends to, and to possess in Idea and by way of advance the happiness he aspires to. For Nature, who never suffers things to arrive at once at their last perfection, would have Man here below have some sensibleness of his, that he might as it were make ' say and taste, if we may so speak, of the Sovereign Good, before he should perfectly possess it.  
But since that is the true use of Hope, we ought not otherwise to employ nor abuse so noble an help, in pursuit of so many vain things which occupy our Desires, and which are unworthy of the excellency of our Minds. That which is destined to nourish and breed up Virtue, must not serve for the nourishment and subsistence of Vice; and that which ought to lead us to Felicity, should not estrange us from it, and precipitate us into misery. For it is certain, that if Hope be not regulated by Reason, there are no ill designs form, nor evil actions performed, neither are there any ill habits which take not their beginning and their growth from it: It is the seed of all the evil which is committed in the world; it is the source of all the miseries which flow thither: and in Truth, as well as in the Fable, it may pass for one of the greatest mischiefs which befell Mankind. Whatever it be, it is most true, that their weakness is in nothing more discovered, since, as the Wise man says, all their hopes are but a light froth, which the tempest dissipates in a moment; but a smoke, which the wind carrieth away; and but a dream, which troubles our life with phantasms and chimaeras. But we must leave these meditations to Divinity, and see whether we can describe the Characters of this Passion.  
The Poets had reason to feign that Hope only remained in the bottom of Pandora's box: for it is certainly hid in the very bottom of the soul: It issues not forth as the others do; all its endeavours are secret; and the trouble it causeth may be compared to those tempests which often rise in full sea, without troubling the shore: What violence soever it brings, what stir soever it causeth, nothing appears outwardly; and, did not other Passions mix themselves with it, it would be very hard to discover it. Indeed, he that hopes is always amongst the disquiets of Desire: and the ravishments of Joy, Impatience and Satisfaction equally dividing his Mind; and the privation of good, with the imaginary enjoyment he hath thereof, cause a certain mixture of displeasure and delight, which at once almost renders him content and displeased. But this chief happens when his Hopes are uncertain: for the difficulties which are then greater, figure unto him the success the more doubtful; mixing Fear with his Desires, and Despair with his Fear: Then all at once relevating his courage, and flattering his designs with a favourable event, all his apprehensions vanish, and give way to Boldness, Joy, and Perseverance: He no more minds those obstacles which astonished him before; at least, after he hath measured them with his strength, after he hath seen them overcome by others, and that he may be as happy as they have been; he easily believes to compass it, and that it is sufficient to undertake a great matter, to oblige Fortune. He remembers himself of all the graces that ever he received from her; he in the same manner persuades himself that he deserved them, and that he ought not to expect less; and that having now more credit and power then ever he had, he ought not to doubt of the success he hopes for. He esteems all those which may serve him in this occasion: some he believes are obliged to it by duty or interest; others, by affection or honour. In fine, he promiseth himself the assistance of all those which he hath seen, or heard spoken of. And weaving thus intricacies with intricacies, he imagines his designs infallible, and that they ought to succeed according as he hath projected them: as if he were already master of the Good he seeks, he thinks he hath the absolute disposal thereof: He destinies those who shall share in his good success, and marks those who are to be excluded: and thus making whom he will happy or unhappy, he believes himself the dispenser of the favours and disgraces of his fortune, thence he grows presumptuous, rash, insolent; he fancies there is nothing that can resist him, nothing he ought not to undertake: He despiseth the designs of a jealous man, and the pursuits of a rival; and, as if they ought no longer to pretend to what they hope for, he scorns their weakness, and laughs at their despair. In this assurance he abandons the care of his affairs, he no longer minds his own preservation; and, without taking heed of the ambushes prepared for him, he by his negligence loseth the good he assured himself of, and often triumphs over an enemy who hath already gotten the victory over him. In fine, he becomes vain, importunate, and ridiculous; he continually speaks of the services he hath rendered, of the recompenses he hath merited, of the means he hath to oblige all the world. If you will believe him, there is none but he can procure graces and favours; they belong to him only, and he alone also who can revenge himself if he should be refused: Hereupon, imagining that in effect he may meet with a check, he becomes peevish, and grows angry: To some, he reproacheth their negligence, or their ingratitude; too others, their baseness or perfidiousness: and often, not knowing upon what to fall, he accuseth Heaven and Fortune for the mischief which perhaps will never befall him.  
Thus far Hope carries us, when it is unbridled. Yet must we not believe that it makes this progress successively without interruption; suspicion and mistrust traverse it every moment; Fear at every step retains it, Despair sometimes stops it all at once; Desire and Boldness succeeding presently after, it finds itself continually carried away, and restrained by contrary motions: and of the calmest of all the Passions, which it is, it appears the most unquiet and the most turbulent. But to speak truth, we ought not to accuse it for these storms; it is the Passions which follow its train: And if there be any thing which it can do alone, it is, that it establisheth the Mind against those difficulties which appear in the search of Good. So that it was not without reason figured with an Anchor, which truly stays ships, but yet hinders them not from being still agitated by waves and tempests. However, Hope hath no outward Character particular to it; and that which accompanies it, is but a confused mixture of touches which the other motions of the Soul imprint on the body. It may be compared to those ingenious Pictures wherein several figures are seen to represent another which is not there painted: For although you may therein observe the marks of Desire, of Joy and Boldness, and often those of Fear, of Despair, and of Grief; yet all that represents nothing else but Hope. Indeed, when it gins to be felt, it ravisheth the body, lifts up the head, raiseth the brow, the voice grows firm, the looks assured: And in that air which hath somewhat of severe in it, you may perceive a moderate Joy which sweetens the eyes, a certain serenity which sheds itself upon the face, and a blithe vivacity which animates all its actions. But this Calm lasts not long; from time to time impatience and disquiet disturb it: They cast their looks here and there, sometimes send them up towards heaven; they sigh at every moment; they cannot stay in a place: sometimes they grow peevish and doting; they grow pale, they lose courage: Then, by little and little retaking their first assurance, they feel their forces augment, they find themselves heated with a new ardour; they come, they go, they leap; they are in perpetual agitation. But, to speak home, these later sallies come not from Hope: As it is a Passion which naturally is the most moderate of all, it never riseth to these excesses: All the motions it causeth, are without violence, and without precipitation: It renders the Pulse firm, without being vehement; the Respiration strong, without force: It fortifies the actions of all the parts: It awakens languishing Passions; it retains those which are impetuous. Finally, it is the most useful of them all, for Virtue, and for Health: Let us therefore inquire what its nature is, and how it produceth all these effects.  

PART 2. Of the nature of Hope.  
HOpe is so fine and delicate a thing, which forms and ruins itself by such weak means, which so subtly mixeth itself with other Passions, and which shows itself so little, as we have said, that those who have enquired the nature thereof, are to be excused if they have not encountered it. Indeed, the alliance it hath with Desire and Boldness is so great, that it is very hard to separate them, and to discern the motion which is proper to every of them: For Boldness is never without Hope, nor Hope without Desire. Besides, the action of the Imaginative faculty glitters so much in this Passion, that that of the Appetite scarce appears: and that is the reason some have defined it by the expectation of good, which is a pure effect of the Imagination, as being nothing but a belief and an opinion which we have of a good to come.  
But besides that we may expect Good without hoping for it, as we will show anon, Hope would not then be a Passion, being no motion of the Appetite. As for those who have placed it in the rank of Passions, some have said that it was the consummation and the perfection of Desire: Others, that it was a certain confidence we had that the desired good would come. But the first confound it with Desire, the others with Boldness: or at least, if Confidence be a kind of Hope, as it is most likely, it were to define the gender by the species, and an obscure thing by one which is less known. In a word, all the definitions are faulty, being either too much stretched, or too much contracted; and none of them observe the particular motion wherewith the Appetite is agitated in this Passion; which nevertheless alone makes all its essence, and without which it is impossible to know its nature. We must then make it our Ground, that Hope respects but good to come, and that Desire always precedes it, forasmuch as Desire is the first motion which the soul makes towards that kind of good, and that we never hope for any thing, without having desired it before. But because there are also those which we desire, which we cannot hope for, (for well may we wish for Beauty, Knowledge, Glory, Sceptres, and Diadems, which are most commonly beyond our hopes) that makes us judge them two different Passions, and that their objects, motives and motions ought also to be different.  
Now it is not enough for the object of Hope, that the things be thought possible, (for they have that of common with Desire, as we have said;) but besides that, we must believe that they will effectually happen. Yet this belief is not most certain and infallible; for we never hope for those things which necessarily are to happen; but they must be doubtful, and we must imagine that there are difficulties to obtain them. But where can the difficulty be? For it is not always to be found in the things we hope for, since there are some which move that Passion, which yet are very easy; not in the means we employ to acquire them, being often without difficulty to be performed.  
We may then say, that in the things we hope, we always imagine we can never enjoy them but by the means of some other man, whether in effect he labour to make us obtain them, or that he no ways hinder us: For it is certain, that if they were wholly in our own power, and did we believe that nothing could hinder us from the possession of them, they could never beget Hope in us; and the Soul would be content to add to the Desire, which she would then form faith and assurance that it would happen; which is an effect of the Judgement, and not of the Appetite.  
The difficulty then in Hope, comes always from a third, which is as the medium betwixt him who hopes, and the thing hoped for; in whose liberty we suppose it is, to do or not to do what we hope. For although we should often hope good from those things which do not freely operate, even from those things which are inanimate; as when we hope that Lands will be fertile, and that Seasons will be pleasant; that a beast will delight us, or be serviceable to us: we fancy them to ourselves as if they had that liberty; whether it be that there is in beasts an image of true liberty, or for that we have a natural instinct which secretly instructs us that there is a Superior power in the world, which disposeth thereof at will, and according as it thinks fit: So that what we hope depending from the will of others whose masters we cannot absolutely be, it is impossible but we must esteem it difficult, and but that the success must seem doubtful. It is not but that sometimes the difficulty may be in the thing itself we desire, and the means we use to obtain it: but it is not considerable in this Passion, being not essential to it. However, from what part soever it comes, we must take it for granted that it is necessary to form Hope. Let us now see what its design is, and what the motion is which it causeth in the Appetite.  
All the difficulties presented to the Soul, either in the search of Good, or assault and flight of Ill, appear greater or less than its forces; that is to say, she believes she can overcome them, or that she cannot resist them: If they are the weaker, they beget Hope, Boldness, and Anger; if they are the greater, they cause Despair and Fear. Now it is likely that in difficulties the Soul doth in it self what we outwardly do when they present themselves to us: For as we bend ourselves against them, if we suppose we can overcome them; and as we lose strength and courage, if they appear invincible; it must needs be, since the motions of the body follow those of the soul, and that there is some relation and resemblance between them, that the soul bends or slackens herself as the body doth, in the encounter of the difficulties she fancies. And indeed, it is the only difference which can distinguish the motions of the Irascible appetite from those of the Concupiscible: For in these the Soul hath no occasion to employ her force or courage, seeing no enemy she ought to assault, or against whom she is obliged to defend herself. Or if she pursue Good, or flee from Ill, it is without bending or slackening herself.  
Since it is then a thing common to Hope, Boldness, and Anger, to bend the Soul against difficulties; let us see wherein they are different; and chief, what Hope hath particularly therein, it being the subject of this Discourse. We must then suppose that in Hope the Soul distinctly observes the Good, but confusedly sees the difficulties: on the contrary, in Boldness and Anger it considers the difficulties more than the good. For although in these the soul assaults ill, to enjoy the good she expects by victory, she chief fixeth her thoughts on the enemy she fights against, and thinks only on the good which shall thereby accrue, but as a thing at a distance, which provokes not as the presence of ill doth. But in Hope, she nearly faceth the good which presents itself; she attentively considers it, and sees but by the way the difficulties which besiege her; so that they do not appear so great, and consequently do not oblige her to use such endeavours to resist them as in other Passions.  
Indeed in Boldness and Anger she riseth up and assaults the ill, because she thinks it so powerful, that she believe she cannot overcome it without assault or combat: But in Hope it appears not so strong, as that it ought to be assaulted; nor so weak, as to be slighted: She keeps herself in a certain mean betwixt heat and neglect; and, without animating herself 'gainst it, she puts herself in safety, & stands upon her guard: which she doth in stiffening and fortifying herself in herself; as it happens to the body, which, its parts being all equally stretched, without changing place, and almost without moving, makes a vigorous motion, which keeps it firm and extended; which for that cause is called in the Schools, The Tonick motion; The Soul than doth the same in this Passion; without assaulting or fleeing the ill which might traverse it, she fortifies herself, stands on her guard, and with assurance expects the good she seeks. So that we may define it to be A motion of the Appetite, in which the Soul, in expectation of the good it desires, strengtheners and stiffens herself in herself, to resist the difficulties she may encounter therein.  
Indeed, the whole nature, the properties, and conditions required in Hope, are contained in this definition. Desire and Expectation, which consist in the opinion that the good will come, are marked as the necessary conditions which always precede it; the desired good, as the object which moves it; the appetite, as the subject where it is received; and that firm assurance, as the difference of the emotion which is proper to it, and which distinguisheth it from all other Passions. For although Boldness and Anger stiffen the soul also, as we have said, yet are they not content to keep it fixed in itself; they make it rise up, and drive it against the ill, and force it to fight with it.  
But this breeds a very reasonable doubt: for, did the soul keep itself stiff & steady in Boldness & Anger, as she doth in Hope, it would follow that Hope must always accompany them: And yet it is true; a man may cast himself into danger without hope of ever getting out; and that sometimes we desire to be revenged of an injury whereof we know we shall never have satisfaction: yet it hinders not but that this proposition is most certain, and but that it is true that Boldness and Anger are ever accompanied with Hope: For it is not always the only good which Boldness proposeth, to get out of the danger which it casts itself into; honour and glory, which spring from generous actions, are often the Goods it aspires to, and the enjoyment of which it always hopes, what mischance soever happens to it: although it fall under the difficulties it assaults, it still thinks it will be to overcome them, if they do but serve to obtain what it pretends to; as in the Discourse of Boldness we shall more fully show.  
For Anger, we will in its place make it appear, that the satisfaction it expects in Revenge, and the principal end Nature hath assigned it, is to hinder the thing which injures us from continuing to do so: so that what can stop the course and continuance of the III, appeaseth Anger; and we are satisfied, when he who hath offended us reputes himself of it, when he acknowledgeth that it was not his design, when he flees, or when he hath been hurt; for that then it appears that he wants either power or will to mischief us, or else we suppose we have taken them from him. This then is the satisfaction which Anger always promiseth itself: and if it happen that we despair of obtaining it, as, when the things which offend us appear so powerful to us, that they seem beyond our strength and endeavours, and that we have no hope to be able to stop the malice they have to injure us; we are then no longer capable of Anger, having lost our hope to be avenged, that is to say, to beat back the ill on him who caused it, that he may cease to do us more. If there be then a satisfaction which Revenge is out of hope to obtain, it is not natural to the Passion; it must be a stranger, as what comes from the custom of the Country, from the humour of the person, from the weakness of judgement, and the like. But this shall be in its place more carefully examined. Let us betake ourselves to our former Discourse.  
The Soul than stiffens itself in Hope, and in some sort suffers that Tonick motion which (as we have shown) happens to the body. But we may say, that what image soever this example may give of the manner wherewith the appetite is moved, it doth not fully satisfy the Mind, and leaves always in it a difficulty to conceive how the Soul can move so: For it is not as of Bodies, which have nerves and muscles, which stretch the parts, and keep them extended, drawing them equally on every side: We can imagine nothing like it in the Soul, which is wholly simple, and which would rather suffer to be compared to subtle and fluid bodies, which this effect cannot reach, then to those who are massive and heavy, where it is commonly performed.  
Now although this be true, yet it destroys not our proposition: for it's certain, the Soul stiffens itself aswel as the Body, but that the manner is quite different. It is not always necessary that the same motions should be made in the same manner: and we see that creatures bend and stretch out their bodies, although by different means. Amongst those which are perfect, the muscles perform this effect by contracting and losing themselves: But there are divers in whom these parts are wanting, as in those which are so little, that we can scarce discern them, and in which most likely it is the spirits and the nerves alone perform these actions without the use of other organs. There are a thousand other examples in Nature, which clearly manifest this truth; but were there none, the Schools teach us, that spiritual substances carry themselves from one place to another; that they may occupy more or less room; that they drive and draw bodies; that, in fine, they perform almost all the motions which we observe in animate bodies, although the manner and the means be quite contrary. Which being granted, we ought not to doubt but that the Appetite can stiffen itself as well as living parts; it being needless it should do it in the same manner, or by the same means as they are usually accustomed to do.  
But if it were enquired what this manner is, and what particular means the Appetite useth in this motion; we must confess it to be a bold enquiry, to which it seems the mind of man is not able to give satisfaction: For since its knowsedge, how high soever it be, draws its origine from that of the Senses, how can it have any in those things, when the Senses forsake it? How can it discern the ways Nature takes in the motions of the Soul which are not sensible, when it is ignorant of those it keeps in them of the body, which touch the Senses, and are visible to our eyes? Indeed, all our Philosophy must confess, that it toucheth but the extremities of motions, and that it almost never speaks of what passeth between both. And we may say, that Nature, which so freely gives all things, seems to be jealous of the art wherewith she doth them, and is unwilling we should see the springs of her works. However it be, I believe more cannot be assured in this matter, then that the soul stiffens itself in exciting and quickening its vigour, and putting it, as the School says, out of the power into act. And truly, since Angelic natures can move and even transport bodies from one place to another, it must be granted that they give to themselves, & to them also, a certain impetuosity, which changeth the situation and consistence they had; some particular virtue must disperse itself wheresoever they extend, which renders them stronger & more agile: and this virtue, according to my opinion, is nothing but their Will, which moveth itself; or else their very motion: for things get a force in motion which they have not in rest. The same thing may proportionably be said of the Appetite, which is the first moving power in creatures: For by exciting itself, it agitates & corroborates itself; and being agitated with an equal and uniform motion, which holds it so suspended, without advance or recess; it remains stiff & steadfast, to oppose the difficulties which may present themselves. But, without engaging ourselves further in this enquiry, which exceeds the limits of our design, it will be sufficient to take away a difficulty which springs from what we have already said.  
For if this motion of the Appetite be only an equal and uniform agitation, whereby the soul remains fixed in itself, without advancing or receding; it must follow, that Desire can never be with Hope, since it darts out the soul, and drives it out of itself, and that this restrains it. We must then say, that it is true, Desire is not always with Hope, although it always precedes it. And indeed, when we desire any thing ardently, we perceive that Hope slackens itself; as Desire also diminisheth, when Hope increaseth. Certainly they destroy one the other when they meet; Forasmuch as the Soul, in Desire, considers the Good but as absent, and takes no other care but to draw near unto it: but in Hope, she fancies it so near, not seeing any difficulties which it cannot overcome, that she almost thinks it as if it were present, (whence it happens, that Joy is greater in it then in Desire:) So that she makes not therein those sallies and dartings she doth in this, unless she be by some other things forced to it. On the contrary, she stops to receive the Good which seems to be produced and advanced towards her. This truth discovers it ' self in these ordinary phrases in these Passions: For when we say that the Desire is urgent, ardent, and violent; that it moves itself towards Good; that Hope is fixed and assured; that it upholds those who hope; that it expects the desired things; we unawares manifest how the Soul darts herself out in Desire, and retains herself in Hope. So that these two motions being opposite, it is impossible that they can be performed at the same time, and that those two Passions should be there together, but necessarily they must form themselves the one after the other; as we said it must happen in those of which we have spoken in the foregoing Discourses.  
Yet it is very true, that this is not always so, but that Hope mixeth itself most commonly with Desire, Boldness, and Anger; in all which, the Soul never fails to cast forth herself: for the steadfastness she keeps in that, is not contrary to the darting out of herself which she makes in this; the first being a motion of the parts amongst themselves, and the other a motion of the whole thing. And as you see a body may keep itself stiff in itself, and move itself from one place to another, you must conceive the same in the Appetite, and imagine that Hope remains stable, whilst those other Passions transport it out of itself. But, neither doth it then stop, as we have said; the cause of these sallies being stronger than that of her restraint; which, to speak truth, is not essential to Hope, but a pure accident which never meets with it but when it is quite alone.  
Let us now observe what moves the Appetite to stiffen thus: for although it have the virtue to move itself as it pleaseth, and that it bends itself to resist difficulties; yet, being a blind power, it knows not the difficulties, and the Fancy must necessarily propose them to it; and consequently, it must be that which gives it the first shake, and teacheth the motion which in this encounter it ought to employ. After it hath then discovered the difficulties which might traverse its designs, and that it believes it may overcome them, it commands the Appetite to stand upon its guard, and hold itself firm, for to make resistance. But whence comes the belief it hath to overcome them? From the good opinion it hath of its own strength. Whence it is, that those who have many friends, much wealth and honour, those who have suffered no disgraces, and to whom all hath happily succeeded; those who are young and lusty; in fine, all those who think themselves potent in the goods of the Body, of the Mind, and of Fortune, easily hope, because they believe they have strength enough to oppose all obstacles, and overcome all difficulties which can happen.  
This good opinion is so necessary for Hope, that it makes almost all its kinds and differences: as it is greater or less, it causeth the strength or weakness, the excess or defect of that Passion: It is that which produceth Presumption and Confidence, which renders Hopes either doubtful or certain, good or ill, which augments or enfeebles them. Indeed, Presumption is nothing but an immoderate hope, which proceeds from a too-great opinion we have of our own strength. Confidence is an assurance we have of an expected help: 'Tis like the faith we give to promises which the things seem to make in these encounters: for we say, The season promiseth us fruit, That we promise ourselves such and such a success from our courage, forces, and friends. Finally, Hopes are either doubtful or certain, great or little, good or ill, according as we conceive the difficulties strong or weak, or as we suppose them to be more or less easy to be overcome.  
Yet I think some distinction were here necessary: for the most certain hope is not always the greatest; and it is likely it is the greater, the more the soul stiffens itself, since it is the particular motion which forms this Passion. Now she stiffens herself the more, the greater the difficulties are she encounters: But when the hindrances are light, she moves not herself so carefully, & consequently Hope is less, although it be more certain. Our common phrase confounds these things: for we say that we have great, strong, and good hopes, when we would speak them assured; and that they are small, ill, and weak, when they are doubtful. Yet for all this, we ought to observe the distinctions we have made: for it is evident, that there are hopes which are weak and small, not because they are uncertain, but because the success is so sure, and the difficulties so small, that the Soul makes no motion at all for them. And truly we can never call these hopes ill, although vulgarly great and strong ones are esteemed good.  
It may be demanded how there may be hopes which are certain, since the belief we have of the event of the things we hope for, is always doubtful. Certainly we must confess that the certainty which is therein to be found, is not infallible and of necessity; it is only likely, and moral; And we call those certain and sure hopes, which are the less doubtful, and in which there is the least to be feared.  
But what? it seems then as if Fear were always mixed with Hope, although they are two contrary Passions. It is true, there is always some cause of Fear, there being reason always to doubt. But it follows not that Fear therefore forms itself and mingles itself with Hope, although even the Soul were surprised therewith. The Passions rise not always up in sight of their objects, whether it be that there are stronger which restrain them, and stifle them at their birth; or whether the Mind considers not attentively enough the causes which ought to move it. In Hope, the Soul is more attentive to the Good, then to the difficulties which besiege her: She looks upon them but by the way, and believes she can overcome them. Even then also, what subject soever there be of Fear, without examination she in effect fears it not. But if she consider the difficulties more than the good, and if she take an opinion that she is unable to overcome them; Hope gives place to Fear, which flees in its turn, out of other considerations; causing a flood and ebb, which is often so swift and rapid, that it seems as if these two Passions mixed and confounded themselves together. But we must review these things in the Discourse of Fear. Let us now consider what the motions of the Spirits and of the Humours are in Hope.   

PART 3. What the motion of the Spirits is in Hope.  
SInce the Spirits move in the Passions conformable to the emotion of the Soul, they must, when she stiffens and confirms herself in herself when she hopes, in some manner suffer also the same agitation. All the difficulty than is, to know how it may be done: for it is not easy to conceive how those fluid and subtle bodies can get a quality which belongs to those only which are gross and solid. Neither must you believe they congeal here, as they say it happens in some diseases; or that they fix, as those Metalick spirits do whereof Chemistry relates such miracles: for, besides that those we speak of are much finer, and perhaps of another kind than those are, they must at that time become , and consequently, all the parts whereto they are to run, must remain without action, since they can work only by their motion: Which yet cannot be true: Experience and Reason show us, that the organs move freely in this Passion; and that Desire, which often mixeth with it, as we have shown, causeth the spirits to move, without ruining the setledness and consistence which Hope gives them. We might perhaps imagine that they contract and gather themselves together, that, by uniting and crowding their parts together, they become stiffer and stronger, and so put themselves in posture the better to resist the assaults might be made against them. And certainly, there is a great likelihood that some such thing is done in this encounter: For the Soul, which knows that what is united is stronger then what is divided, never fails so to fortify itself when ill appears. Now the difficulties which are always found in Hope, are taken for evils, because they oppose themselves to the possession of good: And it is therefore likely that the Soul contracts the Spirits, the better to defend herself from that enemy which crosseth her design. Yet as in this Passion she is wont but by the way to consider of those difficulties which consequently seem not so great, nor so uneasy to be overcome; we must not doubt but that, if she contract the spirits, it is so little, that it is neither considerable, or powerful to confirm them in the manner they ought to be.  
And indeed, the Spirits cannot much contract themselves without retiring inwardly, and consequently making the face look pale, forasmuch as they draw the blood along with them, and rob the complexion of the colour it had before. So that Hope having the property to maintain the countenance equal, and not to change its colour; if it renders them so firm as we have said, it must be by some other means then by contracting or reuniting them together.  
To conceive then how this is done, we must observe that the Soul can hope for nothing but what she first loved and desired: it is necessary that the Spirits should move conformably to these two Passions, before Hope can agitate them. Now they dilate and open themselves in Love, to embrace the good; and in Desire they commonly recoil a little, that they may the more easily dart themselves towards it. Being in this state then, if Hope intervene, it changeth nothing in the situation of their parts, it retains them only in the proportion they had together; and from free and wandering, as they were, they subject themselves to a certain order which they keep amongst themselves as long as Hope lasts; which is made by the souls intermission, which hath an absolute command over them, placing them as she will, stopping them as she pleaseth, and holding them as it were by the hand in the rank she had placed them: And for that time, they remain firm and stable, without confounding themselves with others, or inwardly retreating, or advancing outwardly; which is the particular motion of the spirits in this Passion.  
Some perhaps will say, that if these parts remain firm and stable, they will not move, and consequently, that the Spirits would have no motion in Hope. But there are things, which, although they do not change place, forbear not to move. Thus Elementary bodies which are not in their centre, although they are retained and seem , yet they make a kind of an endeavour to return to their natural place, which makes them seem either light or heavy. We may say the same of the Spirits, which being retained by a strange violence, are not truly at rest, but suffer a secret agitation which holds them in continual suspense.  
Now although the Spirits remain thus firm and stable in Hope, it hinders not but that at the same time they may be agitated by other Passions which mix themselves with it. So Desire and Boldness may cast them forth without mixing their steadfastness, because it consists but in the order of their parts, which this darting forth destroys not, as we have said, seeing we may move a thing from one place to another, without disturbing the order and motion which those parts may have amongst themselves.  
It is also true, that as Desire grows weak when Hope is strong, if the Spirits are very stable, their darting forth cannot be so great, because they are not so free, nor so easy to move as they would be were they not restrained: That if Passions rise whose motion quite destroys that of Hope, as Joy and Despair; then we may be sure that Hope ceaseth for a time, to give place to those others; and that the Spirits lose their firmness, to disperse or slacken themselves, afterwards resuming their first consistence, if the Soul sees new subjects of Hope; which sometimes happens so readiry, that it seems as if it were done in an instant, and that these motions confound themselves the one with the other.  
I see nothing more here to stop us, but that some may chance to imagine, that if it were true that in Hope the soul and the spirits did bend themselves to resist difficulties, somewhat must appear on the outward parts, and they also must bend themselves for the same purpose; since that in Laughter we see the muscles retire as the soul doth, that in Desire and in Anger they cast themselves out as she doth; that they slacken in Joy, and that all other Passions make the same impression on the Body, as the Objects do in the Appetite. But we must consider, that the organs of a voluntary motion move not in the Passions, but through the strength and efficacy of the object, which urgeth the soul, and obligeth it to employ all the means she hath to attain the end she proposed herself, as we see it happens in all violent Passions; or else out of a particular design she hath to show outwardly what she inwardly resents, as she doth in Laughter and in Caresses. So that there being none of those motives in Hope, she needs move none of those outward parts, and contents herself with the agitation she gives the spirits; not considering the ill but by the by, she esteems it not so great, as to employ all her endeavours against it: so that she commonly agitates but the most mobile parts, as are the spirits, the eyes, the brows, and some other parts, as it happens in all other Passions which are weak or moderate.   

PART 4. The causes of the Characters of Hope.  
BUt since we have spoken sufficiently of the secret tempests, let us now see whence those come which appear outwardly, and examine why Hope renders men bold, presumptuous, temerous, insolent, credulous, negligent in their affairs, and impatient in their actions; although it be the most moderate and the calmest of all the Passions of the Mind.  
It is easy to discover the cause of its moderation, after having showed how it moves the Soul and the Spirits: for it is impossible it should keep them stiff and stable as it doth, and that it should be subject to those agitations which are abservable in other Passions: On the contrary, those languishing and impetuous ones which mix with it, assume a conformable mediocrity to that kind of motion which suspends the soul between ardour and neglect, as we have already said; wherefore it enfeebles the Desire when it is too ardent, and stirs it up when it is remiss; it is a spur to Laziness, and a bridle to Violence; it hinders Boldness from being rash, and takes off the transports of Joy: and if it chance to be with Fear, and with Grief, it so moderates them, that they fail not of their courage, and refuse not to admit of the sweetest Passions.  
But whence comes it then, that it renders men rash, vain, and impatient? How can Anger and Fury be compatible with it? And if it excite and animate the Courage and the Desires, how doth it beget Negligence and Idleness? And yet we cannot doubt but that in some sort it is the cause of all these effects. But they also who will consider the manner of their production, will confess, that it is neither the nearest, nor even the true cause: For Hope indeed begets Boldness; but afterwards Boldness runs to Temerity: it excites and awakens the Desires; but these bring Disquiet and Impatience with them: it brings Joy with it; but aftewards' Joy flees into raptures and ecstasies: it inspires the Appetite with Revenge; which is afterwards converted into Fury: Finally, it gives Confidence, and that begets Presumption, vanity, and the scorn of all things which may traverse our designs; whence, after, Negligence and Laziness are bred. So that all these defects come not immediately from Hope, but from the other Passions which accompany it. And it is clear, that when these are raised to this excess, it quite vanisheth, or becomes extremely weak: For when we are sensible of a great Joy, at that very moment we have no sense of Hope: it scarce appears in violent Desires, nor in the transports of Anger; the soul suffering herself to be born away by the particular motions of those Passions: And Presumption itself, which seems nothing but an excess of Hope, wholly ruins it; imagining that there are no difficulties which can oppose its designs: for, where there is no more a difficulty, there remains no Hope.  
However it be, Boldness is easily joined with Hope, because the Soul having confirmed herself by this to the resistance of difficulties, is already in state to assault them if they appear very strong, and if she betake herself to consider the danger wherein they may cast her, for want of fight and overcoming them: Besides that the good opinion she hath of her strength, heightens her Courage, and persuades her that it is not enough to maintain the defensive part, but we must pursue and assault our enemy. If her forces are not proportionable to this good opinion, and that she believes them greater than in effect they are, thence ariseth Presumption; which, joined with Boldness, reacheth to Temerity; and thence grows Insolence: in the same manner as with Joy she begets Vanity, Prattle, and Importunity, as in its place we shall further show.  
Impatience reigns powerfully in this Passion. Forasmuch as it commonly accompanies Joy, Desire, and Fear, there is always somewhat of these three mixed with Hope; and even they are often found all together. So that we must not wonder if we are unquiet when we hope, whether it be from the apprehension we have that we shall not soon enough possess the good we expect, or from the urgency of pressing desires, or from the sparkling which accompanies pleasure.  
There is no Passion so credulous as Hope: for others give credence only to the Good or Ill proposed, but this equally gives in Both. Indeed, pleasing things only persuade Joy, Love, and Desire: those which are troublesome make no impression on them, without destroying them. On the contrary, Ill only is resented by Grief, Fear, and Despair; Good hath neither audience nor admittance among them. But Hope hearkens to both of them, forasmuch as being in the midst between both, it easily inclines towards those extremities: and she no sooner believes what favours her designs, but she hearkens to what renders them impossible.  
The Corporal characters which are found in this Passion, are of two kinds, as in all the rest: The one by the command of the Soul, the others by Necessity. The motions of the head, brows, eyes, and voice, and of all the body, are of the first rank: The rest are in the form of ordinary effects.  
The body sets itself upright, the head is lifted up, the brows are raised, for the same intention. For the Soul, which would obtain the good, and resist the difficulties which oppose it, puts itself in posture to do both. Now besides that this posture is advantageous for to see afar off what may happen, it is so also in pursuance of Good, or in defence of Ill, if one be assaulted by it; it is the most natural situation which bodies require for action; it is the motion which gins all other actions of creatures; whether to pursue pleasing things, or to flee or assault ill ones, the first thing they do is to lift up the head and the body. The Soul now putting herself in posture of defence, disposeth thus of those organs, that she may not be surprised; and raiseth them, to make them the firmer; as in Despair, and in Fear, where she slackens herself, she bows the body, hangs the head, and casts down the eyes and brows.  
An assured countenance is made by a wide opening of the eyelids with vivacity. A fixed and steadfast look, it is common to Anger, Impudence, Boldness, and Hope; yet with this difference, that in Anger the eyes are too ardent; too open in Impudence; and too rude in Boldness. But in Hope they have none of these defaults; all is therein moderate; and it seems as if sweetness and severity were confounded together in all its motions. The eyes than are more open than ordinary, the better to see the good, and the difficulties which present themselves. The steadfastness of the looks, is a sign that impediments astonish not the Mind, and that it believes it shall overcome them. The vivacity of the eyes comes from the Spirits which Desire hath driven to these parts, or which Joy hath there dispersed. In fine, sweetness and severity are therein mixed together, because that at the same time the soul sees the Good and the Ill, and is touched both with the one and the other, and is not so sure to obtain what she pretends to, but that she still hath cause to doubt of it.  
This Passion often also makes a man turn up his eyes, for that having need of the help of others to acquire what he seeks, it casts his eyes towards heaven, as to the fountain of all good things, and the common helper of all Nature; and hath recourse to superior causes, being not always assured of the assistance it promised itself from others.  
But when the looks are urgent and unquiet, they are effects of Desire and Fear, which mix with it; in the same manner as Joy often causeth its transports, sparklings, and agitations.  
To conclude, the voice and the speech are firm, that is to say, strong, without vehemency or inequality, neither heightening nor talling, neither trembling nor precipitated: For the Soul, which bends itself to resist difficulties, is in no condition to fear: but because also she will not assault them, she makes no great endeavour. Wherefore, the voice falls not, because there is no weakness in the Mind; it riseth not also, there being no violence therein; neither is it trembling, being without fear; nor precipitate, being without impetuosity: but strong and equal, the air being beaten strongly and equally by the Soul, which hath assured and confirmed herself against difficulties.  
There remains now only the Necessary Characters which follow the agitation of the Humours and of the Spirits. The first, and that which seems the most proper for Hope, is, that the colour of the face changeth not; the reason whereof we touched at the beginning of this Discourse: For the Spirits, which become stable, stop also the blood, and hinder it from retiring inwardly, or dispersing itself outwardly. So that if sometimes we grow pale, it is an effect of Fear, as blushing is of Love, Desire, Joy, and the rest of the Passions which drive the blood into the outward parts.  
Sighs follow Love and Desire also. It is Fear that cools and makes us lose Courage; it is Boldness heats and reanimates it. Finally, Disquiet chief comes from Desire and from Fear, which are augmented by tediousness and delays, which retard the possession of the desired Good. But these Characters are strangers to Hope, whose examen is not here to be made: Let us only consider those which seem fit and natural to it.  
It renders the Pulse steadfast, without being vehement: for the heart and the arteries, which confirm themselves as well as the spirits, make the Pulse appear somewhat harder than it was; and by the touch you may perceive a steadiness which it had not before. But this is without vehemency, forasmuch as the soul makes no great endeavour to assault, as we said; and the heat is temperate, which require a moderate and equal motion. It is true, if Hope fall into some cold and weak nature, it causeth a higher and greater Pulse than it had usually, forasmuch as the Soul, which knows her weakness, and whose design is to fortify herself, somewhat augments the heat, which hath afterwards need of the greater refreshment. But at that time the Pulse is nothing quicker; the heat being not so increased, that the Soul had need to trouble herself to temper the ardour it might cause; she contents herself to enlarge the heart and the arteries, to receive the greater quantity of air. For it is the order which Nature holds when heat increaseth, that first she makes the Pulse greater and higher; after, she makes it quick; and, at last, renders it thick: imitating herein what she makes beasts do, who, to go to a place, begin to march with great paces; which, if urged, they double; and at last betake themselves to run. Howsoever, what we said of the Pulse, happens in respiration, excepting the hardness, which the Sense therein cannot be sensible of; although it be likely that the substance of the Lungs may therein harden, as Hypocrates saith it happens in Anger, because it is almost impossible that the Spirits, which run thorough all the parts, should not imprint the quality they have, in those which are soft and obedient, as the Lungs are.  
In a word, Hope fortifies all the parts, because the spirits therein are more vigorous: and as it stops, and in a manner retains them, that they cannot dissipate, nor make any violent motion, it is not to be disputed, that of all the Passions it is the most advantageous for Health, for Length of life, for Virtue itself, which with so great a care seeks Moderation, which naturally is to be found with Hope. I say again, It is advantageous for the Length of life: for, what serves for a great Health, is not always good to render Life long: Active and vehement heat produceth strong actions, but shortens our days, because the Spirits easily dissipate, and suddenly consume the natural moisture. So that, to live long, heat should be moderate, the spirits ought not to be violently agitated, nor also should they be languishing. Now if Nature give them not this justness, than it seems there is only Hope which can acquire it us, being the only one which retains it, and secures it, without suffering excessive heat, or irregular motion. And therefore we must not wonder, if those who feed themselves with good hopes, live longer than other Men: And if death often follows high successes, it is because it makes us lose Hope, which is the true Anchor which holds fast our Soul, our Lives, and our Years.    
FINIS.   

THE Second Part OF THE PASSIONS.  
Wherein is Treated of the Nature, and of the effects of the COURAGEOUS PASSIONS.  
Englished by R.W. Esq  
LONDON, Printed by T. Newcomb, for H. Herringman, at the Anchor in the New-Exchange. 1661.   

The Stationer to the READER.  
A Gentleman of quality during these late unhappy times, having betaken himself to a retired life, made it his business to study this our Incomparable Author; and that he might the better imprint him in his Mind, aswell as render him beneficial to others who understand not his language, made it his pastime to transscribe into the English the First and Second Part of the Characters of the Passions, which having been formerly severally brought to light, he easily persuaded us to reconcile them, and obliged us upon a Review to present them this second time in one volume, being confident that they cannot but begratefull to all learned Men, no Man as yet having ever treated of the Passions in his inimitable way, which hath truly gained him the reputation of one of the Chief Philosophers of our Age. Amongst the most eminent wits of his Nation who are his fittest Judges, the One calls him, The most splendent light of the time, and one of the greatest Genius of learning. But none flies higher than Mounsieur de Balsac, who tells Mr. Chapelin in two of his Letters to him; in the one, What great matters he expects from the learning and judgement of Our Author; and in another he breaks forth into these expressions, Wishing his Book had been far greater, that his pleasure might have been the more lasting; that he never read any thing with more delight; and that he was sensibly charmed with the beauty of his Passions. Others (says he) have given us touches and essays of trash and trumpery, with disguised translations, and borrowed conceits, but he shows us the truth in its original perfect lustre; and were all the parts of Philosophy rendered as intelligible in our language, Non esset cur Greciae suos Platones, Zenophantes & Theophrastes invideremus. Nor (continues he) do I know why he omitted Aristotle, whose sublime & methodick stile is most remarkable in this Author, which is indeed so very necessary for the search and illumination of the Truth. According to my opinion Celsus his latin hath not the graces of his French. Imo vero tersam & elegantem dictionem ipsae Gratiae vid●ntur mihi ijs manibus formasse quibus, ut vos Poetae vultis, Dominae Veneri ministrant. So far he. Give me leave to add; his Greatest Glory is from himself; His Design himself dares acknowledge the greatest and fairest conceivable. Through all his Discourses he discovers the vivacity of his knowledge, and the perspicuity of his judgement, clothed in a stile of inimitable elegancy; and in fine throughout he witnesseth himself so eminent a Philosopher, Nor in the judgement of the best, can he be denied to be Doctor of the Chair. And were his Great design but perfectly finished, Our age might truly boast, That by him alone Philosophy had been brought to its Achme. I shall not cloud him with any farther Eulogy; But desire thee to read him, and be thankful; And so farewell.   

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PASSIONS.  

PART. I.  

CHAP. I. The Character of Boldness.  
IF it be true, 
The Elegy of B●ldness.  that Love is the Queen of the Passions, we must believe that its birth, and not its desert hath given it that advantage; it being the first which is raised in the Heart, those which are form afterwards, finding her in the Throne, find themselves obliged to submit themselves to her, and to give place to their elder, a right which they might contest, were Reason and not Nature judge of the difference.  
In effect, so turbulent and so factious a state as that of the Passions, ought not to be governed by one that is blind or effeminate, who is born to serve, and which would cease to be what she is, did she but cease to command. Boldness were the rather to be employed, which is a noble and generous Passion, which is the Mother of Valour, and the only one which can fight, which can overcome, which can triumph.  
It's she who hath established all the Powers and all the Empires of the World, who hath made all the great Princes, and all the Hero's, who first opened the way to glory and immortality, and who only lawfully dispenseth Victories; For although Fortune vaunts to be the Mistress of them, to give them when and to whom she pleaseth, they become shameful, if Boldness makes them not meritorious: And those who conquer without her, yield to the conquered the honour of the combat, and leave them the fairest part of the Victory.  
To conclude, it's she inspires Virtue with that noble ardour which makes her undertake the high & most difficult things, which lends her arms to combat Vice, which affords her strength to quell the Passions, and which after she hath made her triumph over all the Monsters of the Earth, opens Heaven with that holy violence wherewith it would be violenced, and 〈◊〉 her in possession of those immortal Crowns which to be justly possessed aught to be ravished. For we must not believe that the most noble employments of Boldness are to gain Battles, to take Towns, and to conquer Kingdoms: Nature thinks not of these disorders, when she sows the seeds of this Passion in the Soul. She minds more important Combats and Conquests which are far more useful, and much more glorious.  
Knowing that Man is destined for Felicity, that there are a thousand kinds of Enemies which defend his entry, and that himself most commonly opposeth himself most of all, against his own good; She gives him Boldness, as a necessary succour to overcome obstacles, and to enter into the enjoyment of those goods for which they contested him.  
So that we may say without her, he would be exposed to the violence of all both within and without himself; That his life would be but a continual sense of fear and of despair. In a word, that he were the most impotent and most unhappy of all creatures. For although he boasts to have a more perfect composition of body, clearer knowledges, more noble Appetites than all other Animals: And that he is not subject to that corruption which destroys all other things; yet when we have well examined these advantages, they would be useless to him, yea they would be pernicious if he were without Boldness; since the perfect temper which he hath, renders him weak and delicate, that his Reason is naturally timorous and suspicious, that his Passions are base and effeminate, and that immortality without a good issue is a mischief without end, and without measure: So that Boldness bereaving him of Weakness and Fear, raising him to generous actions, and conducting him to Felicity, we cannot doubt but it's she who corrects the defects of our birth, which makes it enjoy prerogatives which she affords it, and to which it owes all its nobility, all its excellency, and all its good fortune.  
But as this Passion follows the destiny of the most perfect things, whose disorders are always the greatest, and their corruptions the most dangerous: So it happeneth also, that when she passeth the bounds she ought to keep, none causeth greater disorders, nor is more an Enemy to Man, and to Civil Society.  
It's from her that Vice, which of itself is timorous, and loves to hid itself, takes heart and strength, becomes insolent and proud, that it shows itself brasen-faced, and appears in public: All those detestable crimes which have ruined so many Families, and so many Republics, had never entered into the thoughts of those who committed them, or at least would have remained in them without effect, had not Boldness been a Complice of their wickedness.  
No, without her there had never been seditious persons, nor Rebels; Usurpers, nor Tyrants; Parricides, nor committers of Sacrilege; without her we had never seen so many Armies defeated, so many Provinces desolate, so many People ruined, so many Empires destroyed without her. In fine, Pride and Ambition which are the sources of all our mischiefs, and of all public calamities, had been unknown or impotent Passions; And if we may so speak, perhaps Peace and Justice had never retired out of the World, had Boldness never entered in.  
So that if we rightly consider the goods and the ills she brings, she may fitly be compared to the heat which the Sun defuseth on the Universe; for like it she heats and stirs up all languishing Virtues, she inspires strength and vigour into all the world, she causeth the noblest effects which are to be found therein, and if she produceth not gold and precious stones, yet we may say she makes Sceptres and Crowns.  
But like the same heat also she commonly corrupts all the best of things; she brings forth monsters and prodigies, she forms thunders and tempests; and there are whole Climates which she hath turned into Deserts and Solitudes. Even she so much the more resembles it, that as that quality makes use of the light to produce its dangerous effects, this Passion also makes use of glory to execute its evil designs. At least she fancies to herself that honour is still to be acquired in all those undertake; and although they are criminal or unhappy, yet she imagines, that the shame to have committed a crime, or to have had an ill success, is far short of the glory to have dared much.  
But neither is this a place to defend or condemn her; we must only therefore describe her, and according to our proposed order, make those Characters appear which she imprints in the Soul and Body of those who are sensible of her.  
To design the picture of Boldness, a man had need of the Art and Pencil of those great Painters, 
The Description of a Bold Man.  who represented only Gods and Hero's; for it's a Passion altogether heroic, and which at all times hath been placed in the rank of Enthusiasms, and of divine Furies. In effect, when it enters the Soul it fills it with so much splendour and majesty, it inspires such noble sentiments, and gives it such wonderful motions and transports, that it seems as if it were for us to wrong it, to seek its birth here below, and that with reason we may believe that Nature is ●oo weak to produce a thing that is so excellent.  
But whether it be a present from Heaven or no, it is certain it is the greatest and most advantageous that the Soul could ever hope for: It completes all its glory and all its riches; and if it be true that the Sun hath Houses, where he is sensible that his power and forces increase, we may say that Boldness is the Throne where the Soul finds its greatness and its elevation, where she placeth herself above all those Powers which assault her, and where she despiseth all those dangers wherewith she may be threatened.  
And to speak truth, it's matter of astonishment, to see that a man should have none at the sight of precipices, shipwrecks and of all the most frightful things in the world; Danger environs him on all sides, his Enemies press him on all parts, Death presents itself to him in a thousand places, and in a thousand manners; all these things astonish him not; nay, he often takes them for illusions, and laughs at them as vain phantasms, which in his opinion are fit only to terrify timorous minds. But if he expects to find resistance, and that he judgeth it to be an honour to combat or to overcome them; then his Courage swells, his Vigour awakes, his whole Soul seems to increase with his Forces, and as if in effect she were grown greater, he entertains himself only with great thoughts, he forms none but great designs, and suffers himself to be moved with none but by the most noble and most generous of the Passions; For his spirit is filled with nothing but the glory and the immortality which he intends to acquire. He imagines that all the World makes ready Crowns for him alone to deserve, and as if the approach of the Enemy did hasten him the Victory, he sees him with pleasure, he accosts him with assurance, and believes that the beginning of the Combat is but the commencement of his riumph.  
You must not at that time think of withholding him; the advice you give will be cowardly counsel, the ill omens which you observe will be superstitions or weaknesses. In fine, all the cares we take to withdraw him from the danger wherein he is going to cast himself, are injurious to him, and those that take them are esteemed timorous Souls, or Enemies of Glory.  
The forbiddings of a Father, the tears of a Family, nor the reverence of the Laws are not able to stop him; he tramples all manner of respects under his feet, and like a torrent which is irritated by obstacles, which throws down Dams, and becomes more rapid by resistance, it adds fury to his passion, he makes way with force; and what is opposed against him serves but to make him with the more impetuosity run to the place of combat. He will not there spend his time in unprofitable discourse; he speaks, but at the same time he strikes, and his words rather serve to express his Courage then his thought; for he employs them not in injuries, nor in reproaches, nor in clearing himself, nor in vain threats; they are but interfering words and short exclamations, which his transport wherein he is, draws from the mouth; they are as if they were the boilings of that ardour which agitates him within, or to say better, they are like the claps of thunder which come pouring down on his Enemy.  
And truly it can be better compared to nothing then Thunder; like that, at the same time it causeth the lightning, the noise, and the blow; like that, at the same time it strikes, it pierceth, it casts down all that resists it; and if it be true that it disdains to touch dead Bodies, and spares those which sleep, it's still the more like unto it; never assaulting those who have lost heart, or are not in a condition able to defend themselves. For although in the heat of the Battle he seems only to breath cruelty, and that his fury ought not to be glutted with aught but blood and slaughter, yet it's very certain that none make use of Victory more moderately: He never proceeds to insolency, and we may say he at the same time disarms his Passion when he disarms his Enemy; As soon as he sees him on the ground he raiseth him up, he embraceth him, and not remembering the blows he received, he complains only of those which he hath given; he speaks modestly of the advantage he had over him, and how great soever a lover of glory he is, he yields to the chance of Arms, the greatest part of what he hath acquired. It is not that in his Soul he believes not but that his Valour made his Fortune good, but that he ardently seeks the praises and the honours which Victory hath made him merit, and but that he esteems all those stupid or envious who admire not the wonders which he thinks he hath done: But it's the nature of the Passion which moves him to fly unto glory, by such noble and civil ways, and to cover his ambition by free and generous proceed and by a modest either discourse or silence: In a word, his freeness is ambitious, his generosity is interest, and his modesty is proud.  
And in effect, there are a thousand encounters wherein he loseth his discretion, and cannot hid that high and imperious humour which accompanies him. For if he hath any design in hand, he will always be chief of the Council, and of the enterprise; He believes and speaks high, that he is the only man, who knows the means to make it succeed, and it's he only can execute it. And as if Prudence and good Fortune could do nothing without him, he confidently assures that the success cannot but be unhappy unless he hath the conduct of it, or at least if he be not of the party.  
In the mean time, it's certain that commonly there is no man less capable to give or to follow good counsel than he; Presumption makes him despise the best advice, precipitation bereaves him of foresight, and the great confidence which he hath in himself, exposeth him to all manner of dangers, and makes him fall into all the ambushes which are prepared for him.  
It's true, that he perisheth nobly in them, and that the proofs which he gives of his Courage, may wipe away the shame of his temerity or of his imprudence; for although he be surprised by his Enemy, that he sees very well that resistance is useless, and that all what presents itself before his eyes declare his loss; yet all this makes him not lose Courage nor Judgement, after having without trouble, and without apprehension, considered the greatness of the danger, a certain generous choler and a noble despair seizeth on him, which transports him beyond himself, and carries him through fire and sword, and makes him perform such wonderful efforts, that they seem to surpass his natural strength. He strikes, he casts down, he kills all those whom his sword can reach; and after a long fight finding himself rather cast down then conquered, he leaves a sad Victory to the Victor, and an ample cause of admiration and of jealousy.  
But we labour in vain in one picture to represent all the motions which this Passion can form in the Soul; they are so different amongst themselves, that its impossible they should be found in one and the same subject. And we may say that Boldness is a fire which produceth as many several sorts of heat and flame, as it is taking in several matters. There is no inclination nor profession which hath not its own particular; and although this Passion be naturally generous and modest, and be far estranged from choler or cruelty, and be imcompatible with fear or astonishment; yet some are found to be base and insolent, some which are Bragadocio's, brutal and cruel. Choler almost always accompanies that of Women and Children; and many of those who boldly run into danger lose their courage as soon as it presents itself before them. But that which is most strange is, Fear often devanceth the most noble Boldness; those often who are most valiant in fight, dare not speak in public; and as the most furious Beasts are frighted at the sight of Spectra's, and of the feeblest amongst Beasts there are some who without cause are afraid at the first encounter of some persons, who cannot endure the presence of some things, and even without horror cannot so much as walk in the dark: We will here examine the cause of these differences. We will now therefore see whether Boldness hath as much power over the body, as in hath over the soul, and whether she can imprint out wardly as fair characters as those which she forms within.  
Certainly we must confess that no Passion gives so advantageous a Mind, nor so noble and becoming a port to a man as this doth; all others corrupt that masculine beauty which he naturally aught to have; some render him fierce and savage, as Anger and Despair, others make him soft and effeminate, as Love and Joy; Boldness only gives him that majestical air, that graceful stateliness, and that bold pride, which becomes his Nature and his Sex.  
In effect, can we behold any thing more august, more full of pomp, than a man whom Boldness leads into danger? That generous coldness which appears in his face, that settled look, his proud march, and the noble efforts which he makes in fight, inspire in the mind I cannot tell what kind of veneration, and in my opinion, make the most magnific representation of virtue which can be imagined. For it is not only in the progress of this Passion that it takes this heroic air; it forms itself from the first motions it makes in the heart, and he no sooner perceives the danger, but we may see in his eyes the resolution which he takes, and the confidence he hath to overcome it.  
He coldly considers it, without emotion, without changing colour; and if sometimes he trembles, and grows pale at the encounter thereof, we may believe it is not that he fears it, but it's the greatness of his own Courage which astonisheth him. Neither doth this trouble last long; he presently recomposeth and reassureth himself, and looking through and through his Enemy with a severe smile, he makes us judge that he at once both scorns and threatens him.  
If he thinks he ought to assault him, he marcheth towards him with large paces, but gravely, with an erect and stable stature, with his brow lifted up, and his sparkling eyes seem as if they would go out of their place, and begin the Combat before they come to handy blows. For without winking, and without heeding any thing else, he keeps them always fixed on him; he considers his port, his pace, his arms; he measures him, and seems to seek afar off those places which are weakest, and marks those which are to receive his first blows. Afterwards he accosts him with a silence both fierce and disdainful, with his forehead shrivelled up betwixt his brows, stooping his head, and all his body bowed and shortened in itself; he assaulteth him, he thrusteth him, he presseth him; and calling to his succour that noble fury which reigns in Combats, he suffers himself to be carried away by it, and at last abandons himself to all the turbulence and impetuosity whereof it is capable.  
Then it is that fire flies up into his face, that his looks become terrible, and that all his air, his port, and his mind render themselves formidable. His hairs stand on end, his Forehead wrinkles, his Nostrils widen, and all his veins are swollen and extended. Sometimes he blows with impetuosity; sometimes he keeps in his breath, and shuting his Lips and his Teeth, he displays his Arms, and dischargeth his greatest and most heavy blows; Sometimes he sighs under the endeavours he makes, and from time to time he sends forth the short and penetrating lightnings of his Voice wherewith it seems he would provoke his Courage, and startle his Enemy. He stamps the ground with his Feet, he puts forth himself, he leaps, he bows himself; and the sweat running from all the parts of him mixeth itself with the blood and dust wherewith he is covered, and forms I know not what frightful colour which renders him still the more formidable, whilst his Breast all red and inflamed, raiseth up itself with grievous secourses, and causeth a strong and fond respiration; his heart beats with violence, and did you feel his Pulse, you would easily judge by the greatness, swiftness and vehemency of it, that the Soul hath none of its powers which are not employed in this Passion. But let us finish his Picture with this Combat, neither is there ought else to be described therein, but either his Victory or his Loss, which can add nothing to the Characters of Boldness, but those of Joy or of Grief. Let us therefore seek the causes of all these effects in the Nature of this Passion.   

CHAP. II. Of the Nature of Boldness.  
THe Soul proposeth not more difficulties in forming Boldness, 
The Difficulty that is in defining of Boldness.  than the Mind encounters for attaining the knowledge thereof. It must combat monsters, and assault whole Armies to acquire this knowledge; and at a less rate then to be of its party; it's impossible to resist so many opinions, and so many errors which have hid or corrupted its Nature. In effect, there is none of the Passions which hath more divided men's minds, which hath been more diversely defined, and of which more strange and more different pictures have been made. For there have been some so extravagant that they would not have placed it in the rank of Passions; believing, that to be bold was nothing but to despise danger, or not at all to fear it. And that Scorn being an effect of Judgement, and want of Fear, a privation, neither of them could be a motion of the Appetite; but who can believe that a man that assaults his Enemy, scorns him? Contrariwise, if he scorned him, he would not assault him, since we never assault but those things which may hurt us, and we despise those only which can do neither good nor hurt. And again, who will believe, that not to fear is to be bold, since stupidity and sleep take away fear without making us bold. Others affirm it to be only a powerful desire to assault and overcome what is hurtful; but since we do not desire to assault any more, when we have once effectually done it; in such an encounter Boldness must cease to be, since then even the desire ceaseth; yet it's certain, that Boldness continues and augments its self even in fight.  
Others will have it nothing but a great and a strong Hope; but besides that, there are great hopes often found without any Boldness; what would you say of a Slave whose Masters goodness hath given him a very great and most assured hope of his liberty, would he then have a very great Boldness? To what purpose should he employ his Courage? must it be to combat his good fortune, or to assault his succeeding ill hap?  
There are others which call it a resolution of Courage, which makes a man promise himself power enough to overcome the mischiefs which threatens him, that he without astonishment sees them come, neither is he frighted when they are come; But besides that resolution is an effect of judgement, and not of the Appetite, and that often without being bold we are not astonished at the danger because we know it not; All the utmost endeavour of this Boldness seems to be employed to bear misfortues without daring to assault them; and yet this is the most noble, and perhaps the only employment it can have.  
Besides this, they will have, that one of the Passions of the Soul must fortify it, and render it assured against all those ills which are to be shunned with most difficulty, and encourage it to pursue those goods which are acquired with the greatest pains: But force and assurance belong not to the Appetite, and instead of being the effects of Boldness, they are rather the causes of it; for the Soul must feel itself strong and assured before she engage herself in Boldness.  
To say also with the Schools, that it is a motion which the Appetite makes to obtain a good which is to be acquired with difficulty; it's to be ignorant of the true object of Boldness, which obligeth itself to peril and danger. It is to confound it with Hope and with Anger, even also with Fear, which according to their Maxims, are also motions of the Soul to obtain a difficult good.  
To conclude, what definition soever may be given, if it express not the particular motion which the Appetite suffers in this Passion, it doth disguise it, instead of making it known; and rather presents us with the shadow and phantasm of Boldness, then shows what it truly is. Let's therefore endeavour to discover it, and without staying to observe the ill ways, let's conduct the Reader into that which is the best and most assured.  
To this purpose we must suppose a thing known to all the World, 
That Ill is the object of Boldness?  That true Boldness is stirred up at the sight of danger; that Combats, Shipwrecks, Precipices, and death itself, are the most worthy objects which employ it. In short that she appears most where the difficulties are greatest, and where she thinks to find most resistance.  
Now as we said in the discourse of Hope, the difficulties and the ills appear unto the Soul either greater or lesser than her forces; if they are greater, she flies them; if less, she scorns or else she assaults them. And truly the Schools say not enough when they establish it for a Maxim, That the Soul hath but two sorts of motions, the one by which she pursues good, and the other whereby she flies ill; for she is not in a worse condition than other things of Nature, which have not only an inclination to seek what is fit for them, and fly what is hurtful, but they also have that to destroy what is contrary unto them. However it be, it's certain that the Soul flies not all kinds of ill, that there are some which it assaults; and that if there be any Passion which it employs to execute so noble a design, it ought to be Boldness.  
Now because that when an assault or a combat is to be made, 
That the Ill must be present.  the ill must needs be present, otherwise the endeavour which were to be made would be vain and useless: It thence follows, that the difficulties and dangers ought to be present, which stir up this Boldness; for if we consider them as absent, they may then perhaps oblige the Soul to prepare itself, and to put itself in a condition to resist it, when it presents itself. But they cannot draw from her any endeavour to assault them; for as much as the presence of the Enemy is absolutely necessary when we ought to fight; then indeed it may be an Assurance, a Confidence, a Resolution of Courage, but not a Boldness.  
In effect, the order which the Soul observes to form this Passion, is to consider the evil to come, and to compare its forces with her own, and then having found hers great enough to surmount them, she forms a desire of fight, and a hope of Victory; and at the same time she prepares herself for the assault by the assurance and certainty which she takes of the success of her undertaking, by the resolution she makes to employ all those Faculties which ought to obey her, and by the command which she gives them to prepare themselves for the Combat; then the Appetite obeying her orders, strengthens itself, stiffening and settling itself in itself, that the Enemy may not surprise it, and that it may be in a condition to resist it, if it happen it should present itself.  
Yet hitherto there hath been no Boldness, there are only the dispositions which go before her. For even then when the ill suffers itself not to be foreseen, and that it presents itself all on a sudden, these actions must still precede the assault which she ought to make, and there must be some moments which give the Soul time to make all those preparatives which are necessary for her; otherwise in this encounter she would endure no other Passion but that of Astonishment, of Fear, or of Despair.  
In a word, all what precedes the assault which the Appetite makes, 
Objections which show that absent ill may raise Boldness.  is not Boldness, no more than the preparatives for War are the Battle▪ And truly, as the presence of good raiseth in the mind different motions from those which its absence produceth therein; the presence of ill must also cause other Passions than its absence causeth: Now so it is that she assaults the present ill, and that there no Passion employed for that effect but Boldness; And therefore all those which she forms in absence of the ill, and which she raiseth before she combat it, deserve not the name of Boldness, or at least the same name must be given to Passions which are altogether different: I know that some will say, that we are often sensible of the motion and of the effects of Boldness, although the Enemy appear not; That Anger which is never without her, is sometimes raised against those that are absent; That Hope always accompanies it, which respects only the future: In fine, that our common way of speaking affords not only the name of Bold to him who affronts danger, but even to him who proposeth himself to combat it, even to him who hath already fought it. So that there is no likelihood to restrain Boldness to nothing but the assault, nor to require the presence of the ill as a necessary condition to produce it.  
Answ. 1 But all these Reasons do not destroy the truth which we have established; for it's certain, that when Boldness and Anger rise in the absence of ill, the Imagination fancies it to itself as present; that strong and lively apprehension she hath found thereof having bereft it of the remembrance of its absence. Neither is this difficult to conceive if we do but consider the manner with which she works, which makes her easily fall into this error; forasmuch as not seeing the things but by their Images, which being present with it, ought also always to represent the things as present unto it; did she not make reflection on their absence, which is but a stranger and exterior condition of the body of the image, so that being no party of the principal figure, the Imagination cannot be never so little diverted, but she must lose the remembrance thereof, if Sense and Reason call it not back and stop it not, that they may consider it; whence it happens that in Sleep and in all the strong Passions, wherein their guides are wont to abandon it, all the things which she imagineth seem unto her as if she saw them, and communicating its error to the Appetite, she causeth it to make the same motions for them, as if they were truly present. When therefore the ills appear not, and that Boldness and Anger forbear not to rise in the Soul; yet for that are they not absent from her, seeing they are present to her thoughts, and of necessity we must believe, that to raise such kind of Passions that she fancies to herself, that her Enemies are at hand, that they are falling on her, and that she is going to be oppressed by them, unless she assault them.  
Answ. 2 As for Hope, its true, that Boldness is never without it; that a bold man always hopes, and that still there is some good to come which seems to be the motive of his undertake: But from thence it follows not that the present ill should not be the true object of Boldness, or that he is obliged to do aught else but to assault and combat it.  
For there is a great deal of difference in saying, That Hope always keeps company with Boldness, and in saying, That Hope and Boldness have one and the same object, one end, and one employment; they both of them serve as well as the rest of the Passions to attain the end which the Soul proposeth itself; but it's an end which is strange to them, and concerns them not; every one hath his own proper and peculiar one, which it at first encounters, and whereto it naturally tends, without taking care for the general which concerns the Soul; they properly are Soldiers which march and fight without knowing the design of the Head which conducts them. But to understand this, we must observe, that the end of actions is that which terminates them, and that they are terminated by their effects. Now there are effects which are near hand, and which are produced first, and others which are made in pursuit of them, and which for the same reason are farther off. In the actions also there is an end which is near, and another which is farther off; that is uniform and changeth not; the other is several and inconstant, according to the divers use whereto the principal cause hath destinated it. So the first effect and the nearest and natural end of Heat, is to warm; the rest which follow for example, are to roast or to burn, according to the Design which Nature or Art propose.  
As the Passions therefore are actions and motions of the Appetite, they have also two kinds of End, the one which is near, and which is nothing but the first effect which is produced by them; so Union is the proper and true end of Love; the approaching to the Good is that of Desire; the Enjoyment is that of Joy; the Combat is that of Boldness, and so of the rest. All those other ends which follow this first belong not at all to the Passion, but only to the principal cause which is the Soul, which destinies it to what use it pleaseth her. So that the Combat being the first effect of Boldness, is also the only and true end: And if there be any good which it afterwards expects, it is not she that considers it, but Hope, or rather the Soul, which stirs up the most generous Passions to sight with those difficulties which hinder her the possession thereof.  
The present Ill is then the only object of Boldness; 
What the end of Boldness is.  the Combat is the only End she tends to; and if that afterwards serves to obtain some good, 'tis a success which happens unknown to it, and which she did not at all propose herself; otherwise we must say, that Hatred and Fear, and the rest of the Passions which fly from ill, have good also for their object, since we fly not from ill but for some good which may thereby accrue.  
But if any man ask what good and profit the Soul may make by this Combat, in a word, what the principal motive is which engageth her to assault ill: There is no man but will readily answer, That it's to overcome it. But this is not to give a full Answer to the Question; we would know what she pretends to by this Victory; for it is not sufficient to say that it's to defeat or chase away an enemy, that it's to have pre-eminence over him, or to acquire the glory to have overcome him: Forasmuch as these latter motions touch not the Sensitive Appetite, and that the other two leave the difficulty entire: Since we may further demand, why the Soul would defeat or drive away an Enemy? and what ever we should say, that it were to fly from ill: besides that this Reason is too lose and too general, and befits all the angry Passions; It's certain, that in flying she estrangeth herself from it in another manner then when she drives it away; so that we must inquire the particular which in this encounter she proposeth herself: Now he that will consider that the Soul stirs up forces in Boldness, and that she employs them only when she thinks that her enemy makes use of her own to ruin her; it's to be believed that she hath no other design in assaulting it, but to take away from it the power and strength of ill-doing: For which cause we are not satisfied to see our Enemies fly, but we pursue them, that making them lose either their life or liberty, we may bereave them of all their wreacking power. But we shall insist upon this matter in the Chapter of Constancy.  
After which, 
What the Nature of Boldness is.  we believe we shall have satisfied all the proposed difficulties; for as to what concerns the common manner of speaking, which gives the title of Bold to him who is no longer in danger, it's sufficient to say that we speak not here of Boldness as of a Habit which keeps its name, even when it acts not, but as of a Passion, which is altogether in motion, and out of which it no longer is the Passion of Boldness.  
Let's then conclude, that Boldness is nothing else but the motion which the Appetite makes in assaulting ill. But how doth it assault it? It can be by no other way but by that whereby all things use to assault their Enemies; for as they fortify themselves, raise themselves up, and throw themselves on them; the Appetite doth the same, stiffens and fastens itself in itself, it animates, it lifts itself up, and shoots out itself against ill. In effect, either we must not fancy motions in the Soul, nor qualify the Passions with the name of Motions, or of necessity we must confess that that of Boldness is such as we have said it to be. It's so natural, and so conformable to Reason, that we cannot'assure that the Soul pursues good, and that she runs after it, that she estrangeth herself from ill and flies it, but we must be forced to confess, that seeing she ought to combat it, she is also obliged to raise up, and throw herself against it.  
And did not Reason persuade this, let's but consider the motions of the Body, which provokes it, with which hers must necessarily have a correspondence; for it's impossible to see the putting forward of the Head, the start out of the Eyes, the elevation of the Muscles, the motions of the Arms, the precipitate course, and impetuous sallies which all the parts perform in this Passion, but we must presently fancy, that it's the Soul which raiseth up itself, that throws itself abroad, and even goes out of itself, to join and fight against her Enemy, so that we cannot err in saying, That Boldness is a motion of the Appetite, by which the Soul throws itself forth against ill, to combat it.  
For this shooting forth is the different motion which distinguisheth it from all the rest of the Passions in which the Soul shoots not herself forth, as in that of Love and of Hatred, of Joy and of Grief, of Hope and of Despair; and the motive of this springing forth, which is to assault ill, and to combat it, renders it different from Desire and Aversion, from Fear and from Anger; forasmuch as if the Soul cast itself forth in Aversion or in Fear, it's to estrange itself from ill, and not to assault it: In Desire it's to approach the Good, and in Anger it's to revenge itself, as in its place shall be declared.  
It's true this definition is very different from that which Aristotle gave us in his Rhetoric, where he says, That Boldness is nothing else but a Hope which comes from the opinion which we have that expected Goods are near, and that things, which we fear are far off. But who fees not that it is the true portraiture of Confidence, which is a kind of Hope; and that Aristotle in that place pretended not to define that of Boldness? seeing that in that place where he was obliged most carefully to observe its Nature, he says in express terms, That dangers ought to be very near to provoke this Passion. Beyond all, what definition soever he hath given it, he considered it not as a Passion, but only as a Habit. Without stopping therefore at these things, which concern us not, let's fall on those which are more important; and first, let us see whether it be true, That the Soul hath a design to assault and combat ill in all sorts of Boldness.  
There are two things which make us doubt this proposition, the first is, 
Whether all sorts of Boldness assault ill.  That Boldness is not only employed in assaulting of ill, but also in resisting and sustaining it: Since a man may support a mischief, and suffer even death with a Courage. The second is, that there are certain Boldnesses, wherein there is no combat to be made, there being no apparent ill: As when a man runs into danger without knowing it, when he is impudent or ambitious; for this considers nothing but honours, and boldly pursues them, and the other is bold, and takes delight to commit dishonest actions, where it seems he hath no enemy to fight.  
But these Reasons are easily answered, for as for the first, although we may say, that resistance is a kind of combat, since the Soul cannot resist but by opposition, and that to oppose, she must stiffen herself against ill, which in some sense is to assault and combat it; Yet it's certain, that simply to resist ill, or constantly to suffer its encounters and violence, without making any other effort, properly are not the effects of Boldness, but of another Passion which we call Constancy, or staiedness of Courage, of which in the following Chapter.  
As for the second, it's most certain, that there are those which run into dangers without knowing it, and that in such an encounter the Soul needs not assault the ill, seeing it sees it not; but neither then is there Boldness: For as no man will say, that a blind man is bold when he passeth a precipice which he thinks not of; nor that a Child is courageous that will touch the flame and take up coals of fire, being ignorant of the effects thereof: It's the same of any other, who goes or lights into dangers which are unknown to him: He will only appear Bold to such as are like him, blind, or ignorant. In a word, the Appetite moves not itself but through knowledge; and when that enlightens it not, it remains , and forms no Passion. It must have an object to raise it; and if there be any which it knows not of, it is no more touched with it then if it were not at all. So that the danger which is unknown to him, is to him no danger, and therefore he neither flies nor assaults it, and hath neither Fear nor Boldness for it.  
It's true, that those who are in that condition do often seem to be bold, because we see them in the midst of dangers without astonishment, that difficulties stop them not, and that they march with assurance through those obstacles which present themselves before them, but indeed are not such as they appear, and they are rather possessed with blindness and stupidity then with true Boldness.  
Yet it's that wherein we are most commonly deceived, forasmuch as it is nothing easy to discern those deceitful signs from those which are true, and chief when the Soul is agitated by some ardent Passion; for carrying her with precipitation whether she would go, she takes from her the thought of all what may cross her, and makes her run after her object, without regarding the lets and dangers she meets in her way. Now it's certain, that then it seems to be Boldness, which inspires her with that ardour, and which gives her those noble motions. Although in truth it is not she, but the impetuosity of the Passion which transports her; And it is thus, that the ambitious, the proud, and the voluptuous seem bold in several occasions, whereas in effect they are nothing so, because that not considering the difficulties which are in the pursuit which they make afree Honours and Pleasures, they neither see them, nor do they assault them. And without doubt, we are to place in this rank the most part of those who fear not dangers being accustomed thereunto as Soldiers and Seamen, or having never tried them, like those who engage themselves in great undertake, the difficulties whereof they never foresaw, or because they believe that they are not threatened by them, as such as think themselves far off, such as are happy, such as are good men, forasmuch as honest men fear nothing. For it's certain, that in the most part of those encounters Boldness is not, if you take it for a Passion. Forasmuch as to some dangers are not known to be so, and to others they are reputed so, although they be absent. Now so it is, that unknown or absent ill raiseth not Boldness, and therefore it is not really to be found in those we have now observed, unless as a disposition or a Habit. But we will have another touch upon this Subject. 
How Impudence assaults ill   
Let's now see how Boldness which is to be found in Impudence may assault ill, since we cannot now say what we have said before, that it may be taken for a Habit, or for a disposition, since Impudence is a Passion composed of the other two, to wit, Pleasure and Boldness: So that if there be nothing to be fought against in Impudence, there is some Boldness, which as a Passion is not obliged to assault it.  
Certainly to be Impudent, we must know the action we do, is contrary to civility and honesty, otherwise it were folly, or brutality, and not Impudence: For a Child, a Blockhead, one that is senseless, is never esteemed impudent, forasmuch as they know not what actions are uncivil.  
He therefore that knows them, and hath an intention to do them, at that time feels in himself the reason which opposeth it, and the honour which defends him to execute it. Now all what opposeth itself to the Appetite, is an obstacle against it, and seems unto it as an evil; and yet Reason, Honour, and Modesty are the Enemies which Impudence assaults, which she fights with, which she triumphs over. But we will examine this more particularly in discovering of this Passion. It's sufficient to show, That there is no Boldness which assaults not true or apparent ill.  
We have nothing more to inquire, 
What the ill is which Soldness asaults.  but whether all sorts of ill can raise this Passion; for besides that it is not said, that there is Boldness in fight with Enemies which are weak, nor that any aught to accuse his ignorance, impudence, or other defects which may be numbered amongst the greatest ills which can happen; Besides these, and many other such like reasons which might be produced on this subject: I say there is no likelihood, that what is properly ill should move this Passion, since that is nothing but a privation of perfection, and that the soul nor aught, nor can assault what is not.  
To resolve this difficulty, we must observe, that the Soul acknowledgeth not only this privation which we have spoken of, to be an ill, but even all the causes which it produceth, and all those disorders which customarily follow it. For there ever is some weakness or some inconvenience which follows the privation or absence of a perfection; and this weakness or impotency is a real quality, as the Schools teach us; we may therefore say, that Privation which is a Non ens, is not an object which can excite Boldness, because the Soul cannot assault what is not, unless she fancy it as if it were a real thing, as it is with Children who conceive death as a phantasm. That if there be any ill which she ought to combat, it's those causes which she brings forth, and the inconveniences which follow. And truly, she commonly confounds those two things with the ill itself; for when we say, a man suffers death with courage, we do not precisely understand it of death, for as yet it is not, but of the action of those causes which destroy life, and of the grief which they raise; and when with constancy we support the loss of goods, of honour, or of health, it is not properly the loss which occupies the constancy, but the impotency, the imcommodity and the affliction which are derived from thence.  
It's therefore certain, that all true ills are capable to stir up Boldness, so as they be proportionable to our forces; for there are ills which of themselves and by the common consent of men, are so weak, that without fear or fight we ought to despise them; and others which are so powerful that its imprudence to assault them, and which in reason we ought to fly. That if the Soul conceives them otherwise then they are, and esteems those great which are little, and those weak which are very powerful, there indeed the combat which she undertakes against those she ought to slight, is a motion of Boldness; but this Boldness passeth for cowardice, and the assault which she makes against those which are above her strength is Temerity; As it is audacity when she slights, chief if she witnesseth it by word or gesture. But we shall elsewhere have another touch upon these differences, which being not essential concern not this discourse, wherein we are only to examine the Nature and Essence of Boldness. She therefore consists in the assault which the Appetite makes against ill; and this assault is made by darting itself forth against it. Now we are to enqure how this darting forth is performed, and whether it be any way serviceable to the Soul, seeing that in casting forth herself she goes not out of herself, neither doth she approach nearer to her Enemy. But these difficulties have been cleared in the Treatise of Desire, and ought not to be here repeated.  
There remains only one which might make us doubt of all what hath been said, 
With what pashons Boldness is compatible.  did we leave it without examination and resolution. For although we confess that Boldness is a flying up, and a darting forth of the Appetite; yet because it commonly accompanies Love and Pleasure, and is never without Desire nor without Hope; that even Hatred, Grief and Despair do often call it to their succour, and that Anger is never without it; It seems there is no likelihood that this rising up which she makes can subsist with the particular emotion of every of these Passions, which ought to be different from hers.  
We must then say, That it's nothing difficult to conceive for what concerns Desire and Anger, since in these two the Appetite darts itself forth, as in Boldness, and that there is no other difference, but that Desire requires not the establishment nor the employment of the Minds forces, as the other two do. And that neither that nor Anger have the same motives with Boldness, for Desire casts itself towards the absent good, to get near it; Boldness, against the present ill, to combat it; and Anger against the cause of the ill to revenge itself.  
As for Hope wherein the Appetite stiffens itself, we have showed how that hindered it not from casting itself forth, and truly it necessarily aught to be agitated with these two kinds of motions in Boldness; Since to grapple with the Enemy he must throw himself upon him; and to combat him, he must fortify himself, which he cannot do but by stiffening himself. Nay, even it's certain, that as Hope and Confidence always precede Boldness, the Appetite must necessarily stiffen and settle itself, before it can either lift up, or dart forth itself, as we shall hereafter declare. There is therefore no inconvenience but that these four Passions may mix and subsist together. In effect they are all to be found in Anger; for this is never without Boldness, Boldness without Hope, nor Hope without Desire: And although Desire presuppose Love, yet we cannot say that Love is to be found in Anger, because it hath a contrary motion to the rest. So that commonly neither that nor Hatred at the same moment are to be found with Boldness, but must pass from the one to the other, as hath been already said in the former Discourses. Which is sometimes performed with so much swiftness that it seems as if they mingled together, that they confounded themselves, and never quitted one the other. Let's return to our first Discourse, and conclude, That Boldness is nothing but that motion whereby the Appetite stiffens and darts forth itself against ill, that it may combat it.  
Now howsoever it be, the true sense which we ought to have of this Passion, and that considering it exactly, and according to the Rules of Philosophy, its essence and form must be all shut up in this motion; yet must we not altogether condemn the common opinion which conceives it not so simple as we make it, and who mix with it Courage, Assurance, Resolution, Confidence, and the despising of danger. For although all these things are not essential to it, and are only Dispositions which serve to produce and preserve it, We may yet say, they are of her train, they make her appear, and that altogether they render this Passion perfect and complete. They are indeed commonly confounded together, and they are all used to signify one and the same thing: For we say a man of great heart and of Courage, a confident man, resolved, that fears nothing, and all to say he is Bold. And although it seems that this rather becomes the Habit of Boldness than the Passion; yet we forbear not to use them for the one and for the other; since we say an action of courage, an assured and resolute look, a man who fears not danger, which are ways of speaking, which undoubtedly point at the Passion of Boldness. After all, without contradicting the use of terms, yet must we have the knowledge thereof, and distinguish the things which Nature hath separated, and which the people have confounded.  
Courage in effect is properly the natural power from which Boldness proceeds, as the Heart is the subject and principal organ of it. And forasmuch as it is the most noble motion which that can have, and that the force of that part appears more in that Passion then in all the rest, as its prerogative, it hath gained the name of Heart; for to call a man Bold, we say he is a Man of Heart, for that he that is Bold hath his heart raised up by the most noble of all the Passions. Or else because his heart is as it ought to be; being hot and dry, which as we shall hereafter discourse is its proper and just temper.  
Now for Assurance, it's a pure effect of Judgement, which makes us believe ourselves exempt from danger, and it's nothing but the certainty we have to be safe. Now because this belief is a great disposition to assault ill, and that he who believes himself to be in safety, fears no danger, thence it comes that we confound Assurance with Boldness.  
Resolution is another effect of Judgement, which without hesitation or stopping at those doubts which the Enemy's presence inflicts on those who are timorous, readily determines him to fight with him; and because this design thus taken is an effect of Courage, and of the good opinion a man hath of his own strength, which are dispositions nearly related to Boldness, we confound them together: So that we take Resolution for Boldness, and a resolute man for a bold and courageous person.  
Moreover, We call it Boldness to despise dangers, and not to fear them, although in that there is no Passion; forasmuch as to despise an ill is a clear effect of Judgement; and not to Fear it, is nothing but the want and privation of Fear. Nevertheless, because it's the property of true Boldness not to value little ills which usually affright and astonish weak and timorous Spirits; and that in despising of these, and in assaulting the others, she makes it appear that she fears nothing; Hence it is we take that for Boldness which is only the effect of it, or to speak to the purpose, which is only the sign of it. For not to Fear is no action but a privation; yet it commonly means the presence of its contrary.  
But what shall we say of Confidence, which the Greeks and Latins, and we ourselves often admit for Boldness? It's certain, it's a kind of Hope; or to speak better it's the consummation and perfection of it. For after the Appetite hath found Hope by stiffening itself against the difficulties which environ the good it aspires to; the Soul which sees herself in a condition not to fear them, fortifies herself in the opinion she had taken that the things she expects help from, will not fail her, and after a manner gives credit to the promises it seems to have made; Thus we trust in our forces, in our goods, in our friends, forasmuch as we then believe that what we promised ourselves of them will succeed.  
And because that we think there are no difficulties in this opinion which ought not to be overcome, and in pursuit that we fear not their encounter; thence it is that it hath been confounded with Boldness, which ought to have the same sentiments, although it only is a disposition which precedes it.  
However it be, 
What the Dispositions to Boldness are.  and which way soever you will take these things, either as parts of Boldness, or for dispositions which precede or accompany her; they serve to make known those who are most susceptible of this Passion: For Assurance and Resolution to despise, and not to fear dangers, are effects of the good opinion a man hath of his own strength, without which there could neither be Assurance nor Resolution, Courage nor Boldness; lastly, without which the slightest evils move terror; and even those things themselves which can do no harm, possess us every moment with fear.  
Now this opinion is grounded on the forces we effectually have, or else believe we have; but because they are of two sorts; the one in us, and which depend from us, as the forces of the Body, and those of the Mind; others which are without us, and which are not absolutely in our power, as Goods, Friends, Honours, etc. Those who are endued with the former are most susceptible of Boldness; so that a strong and robustious man is commonly more bold than he that is not, and if he hath goods and friends also at his devotion.  
But yet we must likewise observe that a man may be strong and robustious several ways; for there is a force of Body which is only fit for resistance for to bear; in a word, to suffer; such is that of Camels, of Asses, of Oxen, and proceeds from a thick melancholy. The other is purely active, and all of fire, which comes from choler, or from subtle and stirring blood, as is that of young Dogs, and of generous Horses; the last is composed of the two former, and is observable in Lions, Mastiffs, and in wild Boars.  
Those who have this stupid and passive force, such as melancholy persons are, are but little susceptible of Boldness, being deprived of that heat which is as it were the sonl of strength and of courage; the others which are choleric, which have that which is ardent and active, are easily carried away with this Passion; but it hath this defect, that it quickly passeth away, and that it discerns not those ills which are worthy to be combated, from those which are not. The impetuosity wherewith she is carried away, precipitating her designs, before Judgement can examine them: But those who have both, and who are Choleric and Melancholy, have the Boldness of Hero's, which is not suddenly kindled, but having once taken, it's long lasting; this fears nothing, it scorns little dangers, it assaults great ones with assurance and resolution, and often with a transport which makes it to be thought divine.  
After the strength of the Body, we must produce the force of the Mind, for those who think they have it, and promise themselves great help from their address and good Judgement, how weak soever they be, easily undertake great matters, and believe that they can supply the weakness of other things by the force of their Spirits. Last of all, those who are powerful by their Dignities, by their Goods, or by their Friends, those who never endured a disgrace, and who believe Heaven, Men and Fortune are  to them, have always a good opinion of their forces, and are commonly Bold. But to take away all difficulties which may be made concerning these things, and to give that light which is necessary for clearing the following Discourses, where at every turn we are to speak of Courage and of Forces, it's fit we should more carefully examine the Nature of those two, and examine wherein it is they consist.   

CHAP. III. What courage is, and wherein it consists.  
WE must first suppose that Courage is a quality proper to Animals, 
That Courage is a power of the S●ul.  that they only are susceptible of it, and therefore that the Soul is the principle of it, and that its in her it resides, as in its root, and in its first and true subject; we call likewise a Soul courageous, and say, that the Soul must have Courage to assault Vice, and to resist the Passions thereof.  
Now if there be as Aristoile will have it, but three things in the Soul; to wit Power, Habit, and Passion, this Courage must be some one of the three: Perhaps it's no Passion, since it's very true that a man may have Courage, although he be agitated by none of the Passions, and even when he doth nothing; neither is it an Habit, because it's acquired by use, and that a man may be born with Courage; it's therefore necessary it should be a Power.  
But we must observe there are two sorts of Powers, the one, first and radical; the other, second, and derived. The first are parts or inseparable accidents of the soul, which for that reason are equal in all the individuals of every Species; So the power of Reasoning considered in itself, and as it is a Faculty of the Soul, is equally divided to all Men. Seconds are nothing but the dispositions of those organs which are necessary to make these first Powers move: Or to speak out, they are the same Powers which the disposition of Organs renders capable to perform their actions. And as those dispositions are unequal in their particulars, and that the one hath them more or less perfect than the other, so are they more or less fit to perform those actions; so that we use to say of him who hath them perfect, and who is most proper to act, that he hath the power and natural Faculty to do such a thing; and of him who hath them imperfect, that he naturally hath an impotency and incapacity of working.  
Now Courage is undoubtedly of the number of those derived Powers, because it requires certain dispositions in the Organs proper to elevate and stir up the Soul against difficulties; and the principal of these dispositions is nothing but the natural heat of the heart capable to kindle and inflame this noble ardour, which is necessary in these encounters.  
But we must here consider two things. 
What that Power is which makes Courage.  First, What this radical virtue is, which enters into the Courage, since the natural and derived Powers are nothing else but the radical, in that they are joined with their dispositions; certainly we must say, that Nature which hath distributed to all Animals as much strength as was necessary for their preservation, hath also given them the virtue to raise up and employ them when they have need of them. And this virtue is nothing but the irascible Faculty, which is the principle, and as it were the form and substance of Courage: Forasmuch as inflaming the Heart, and lifting up the Soul, it doth nothing else but move the natural forces of the Animal to oppose them against those difficulties which present themselves. And indeed these differences, and the effects of Courage are drawn from the quality of the forces; for as there are some which are proper for the Soul, and others which belong to the Body, every one hath its particular Courage, which stirs it up and sets it on work; such a man will be courageous in the greatest dangers of War, who dares not speak in public, or will suffer himself to be overcome by the least Passion. On the contrary, there are others who in such like occasions have courage, who lose it at the sight of a weak Enemy, or of the least little danger they encounter; and this proceeds from that the Courage being a virtue which stirs up the forces, when they fail it ought also to fail; and therefore those who are deprived of corporal strength ought to be cowards in War, and courageous in the actions of the Mind and Judgement, if they have the forces which belong to those two Faculties. Finally, as the forces are destined to assault or to resist, as we shall make it hereafter appear, the Courage also employs them in both the one and the other of those actions, and in pursuit brings forth two different Passions, Boldness which assaults evils, and Constancy or Strength of Courage which opposeth itself and resisteth their violence.  
The second thing which we ought to know is, 
Why beat is the principal disposition of Courage.  why Heat is the principal disposition that creates Courage, and what conditions are requisite for to produce it. The first is easy to be decided, because Heat is the most active of all the qualities, that it stirs up all the other natural Virtues, and makes the best part of the Body's vigour; neither need we to be astonished, if the Soul being joined to so powerful a quality, and conscious of the help she can draw from thence, have a good opinion of its forces, and if she trust in them, and if she readily oppose them to those difficulties which present themselves.  
As for the conditions which this Heat requires to form Courage, 
What that heat ought to be which forms Courage.  there must be three principal ones: The first that it must be natural; the Second, that it must be great and strong; the third, that it must be proportionable to the greatness of the Heart.  
In effect, a strange Heat as that of a Favour, although it inflame the Heart and the Spirits, yet it augments not the Courage, on the contrary it abates it, as not being conformable to Nature. Now for it to be thus conformable, it must have two things; One that it must be born with the life, and that it must be as it were a continuation of that first flame, which was kindled at its first birth; for if it be once extinguished, there is no means left to reinflame it; and how temperate soever that might be which may be substituted in its place, yet would it be strange and useless; The other is, that it must remain within those limits which Nature hath prescribed; forasmuch as every thing hath a certain measure, beyond which it ought not pass, without breaking that proportion which ought to be betwixt the organs and their principles to perform their Functions; so that that heat which is more violent than the nature of every Animal can bear, is not natural unto it.  
But how conformable soever to Nature it may be, unless it be great, it never will be accompanied with Courage. Wherefore those who are of a cold temperature, as Phlegmatic and Melancholy persons are, those who are attenuated with long sickness, with long griefs, and who by other Passions quench natural heat, are not courageous.  
Yet it is to be observed, that natural heat being not a simple quality, as that of Fire is, but a hot and moist substance, which is commonly called Spirits composed of the Humidum Radical, and of this heat which Nature inspired with life, it may be great two ways; to wit, in quantity and in quality; that's to say, that there may be much of the Radical Humidity in it, or many degrees of that heat: So Children have more of that natural heat, as to the quantity, as those which are older have much more as to the quality. So in the Winter and in cold Climates, the substance of heat is augmented, because not dissipated, and exterior cold hinders it from issuing out; although it be less burning then in Summer, the coldness of the Air somewhat diminishing its vivacity. On the contrary the ardour of the Climate, or of the season draws forth a great part of the substance of Heat, and imprints in what remains a certain acrimony which renders it more violent.  
Now although all actions are performed by means of natural heat, yet there are some which more depend on its substance, as concoctions and digestions are, being to be made by means of humidity; so that those who have most radical moisture as Children, perform these operations most perfectly, although they have a very temperate heat, such as it ought to be for such actions.  
But there are also those which more depend on the quality of heat, as are the actions of the Imagination, and those which we call Vital; for those who have the most ardent heat, have the strongest respiration, the most vehement heart beat, and the most fertile Imagination.  
Finally, There are those which equally require both, as those which employ motion, and the forces of the Body, and such Courage is. For it is not sufficient to make a man courageous, to have much radical moisture, since Children which have much of it have but little Courage; nor to have a more sharp and and vehement heat, since in the Summer, and in very hot Climates where the humours and spirits are inflamed by the heat of the Sun, men are but little courageous; but he must have both much humidity and much heat: Since in effect, we see that people which inhabit the most temperate Countries are more courageous than those of the South and North, having more radical moisture than those, and a heat more active than theirs. Even amongst Beasts, those which are of a hot temperature, and whose blood is thick, are most courageous, for the same reason, because they have much of the substance of Heat, which is not easily dissipated, being shut up and restrained by such humours as are gross; and besides their heat is stronger, as well by reason of the advantage which Nature hath afforded them, as because she raiseth many vapours which render it more sharp, and that she resides in a thicker subject which renders her more efficatious.  
And truly according as humours are gross or subtle, heat diversely operates, and also forms several kinds of Courage; for those which have them subtle and movable, as the Choleric, are ready to be inflamed, but it's a flame which lasts not, but it's presently spent; others which are grosser, and moderately hot, have a Courage which is not easily provoked, but which being heated is with difficulty appeased. To conclude, those who are violently hot, and whose humours are gross, fall easily into fury, and are of an undaunted Courage.  
But that which makes the principal difficulty in all these things, 
What the greatness of the Heart ought to be to make Courage.  is the greatness or littleness of Heart. For it's observed that all those Creatures, which proportionably to their Bodies have a less Heart, are courageous, as the Dog and the Lion; and that those which have a greater, as Dear and Hares, are timorous. Yet there are other experiences which render these observations doubtful; for even Man hath a Heart greater than all other Creatures in proportion to his Body, although he be one of the most courageous. It's certain, that large-Chested men have a great Heart, and that the breadth of the Breast is an undoubted mark of the Heart's heat, which causeth Boldness and Courage: Considering also that those, the temperature of whose Heart is cold and dry, have commonly that part very small, and are the most timorous. To answer to these Reasons which destroy the precedent Proposition, there are some who say that it's only true in the several kinds of Beasts, comparing the one with the other, and not in the individuals of the same Species; So that the Lion compared with the Stag hath a less Heart, and is more courageous; but that amongst Lions he that hath the greatest Heart, hath the greatest advantage over that which hath a less; yet this voids not the difficulty. For although it be true, that amongst every kind of Creatures which are naturally courageous, the greatest Heart is accompanied with the greatest Courage: It's also certain that in those that are naturally timorous, the greatest Heart denotes also the greatest Timidity.  
We must then say that the greatness of the Hearts doth nothing of itself, as to the Courage, and that we must add thereunto the abundance of heat and spirits; for if the Heart be great, and that it hath much heat and many Spirits, it will certainly produce a very great Courage. But if the Heart be small, and that it hath as much heat, and as many Spirits, as that which is great, it will make a more boiling, and a more impetuous Courage, because the heat is more active when it's shut up and restrained; but that also is the cause that it is not so noble and generous; forasmuch as that constraint makes it easily pass to fury, and that the smallness of the parts is an effect of the weakness of the formative Virtue, or a defect of the matter which in the principal parts is always vicious. On the contrary, if it have but few spirits, and but little heat, it makes Timidity; and in proportion as it is either large or straight, it will render it little or great. For even as a little fire warms a great Chamber less than the same would do a little one: So likewise a little natural heat, works less effect in a great and large Heart, then in one that's little and restrained. Wherefore although Timidity be common to both, it appears less in this, and is greater in the greater.  
We have now nothing to add to the understanding of this business, but to resolve two very considerable Doubts which may arise from the former Discourse. For if the Courage consists in the dispositions we have now spoken of, two things will follow which seem to combat Reason and Experience. 1. That Courage will only be in the sensitive part, because those dispositions are all material and sensible; although it be true that there be many which out of mere Reason only are valiant and courageous, without having this heat in the Heart, which we have observed. 2. That that Animal which hath not these dispositions, will never be moved by any Boldness, seeing he will want the Courage which is a power whence this Passion proceeds; and yet it's certain, that the most timorous in divers encounters perform actions of Boldness and of Courage, and that the weakest are most susceptible of choler, which is a kind of Boldness.  
We must then say that there are two sorts of Courage, 
There are two kinds of Boldness.  the one which belongs to the superior part, and the other which is in the sensitive Appetite. For since the Irascible Faculty is the principle, and as it were the substance of Courage, it must needs be that the Will which hath its irascible part, must also have its particular Courage, and must be as much different from that which is in the Appetite, as the Will is from the Appetite itself. It's true, that Courage consists not only in the irascible virtue, but that it supposeth also in it a certain disposition which makes it the more easily operate; for an Animal is not courageous for having the irascible part, but for having of it such that it easily may move itself against difficulties. But this disposition ever follows the nature of the subject wherein it is; and it must necessarily be, that if it be in the Will, it must be different from that which is in the Appetite, and consequently that there must be two kinds of Courage. Now as the presence of heat which makes the best and most considerable parts of corporal strengths, produceth this disposition in the sensitive Appetite, the force of the Mind and of Reason works the same effect in the Will: It inspires a secret sense of its power, and of the succour she may draw from thence; it fills it with confidence, and leaves it a certain facility and readiness to oppose itself to those difficulties which present themselves wherein Courage consists, as hath been already showed. Such is that which accompanies the excellent qualities of the Mind, whether they be natural or acquired. For a knowing man, hath the courage and boldness to speak; he that is virtuous, boldly opposeth himself against his Passions; and an expert Artist undertakes things in his Art, in which others durst not engage themselves, because that every of them have forces necessary to execute what they undertake, and that the will which knows what they can do, is ready to stir them up and employ them when it pleaseth.  
Now although these two kinds of Courage may one subsist without another, yet they are far stronger when they are joined together, and assist one the other. For a man whom Virtue or Knowledge hath inspired with Courage, is more bold in undertaking any thing, if he have that fair fire which at his birth is kindled in his Heart, then if he had a coldness which renders that part languishing, and causeth a natural Timidity; even as he whose temperature hath rendered him courageous, is far more resolute when the qualities of his Mind may second his natural disposition. On the contrary, were there but one sort of Courage, a man would be very sensible of the ardour it would inspire; we should know the endeavours it makes in itself, and the many things which it proposeth every moment the performance of. But the cowardliness which would be in the other part of the Soul at the same time, dissipates those fair resolutions. It checks all those noble motions, and corrupts all the good designs it had form. Thus it is with those who having all the advantages of the Mind, dare never produce themselves; and others who have much Heart, dare undertake nothing.  
But although this be the true sense a man ought to have of this power of the Soul; yet we must confess, that when we speak of Courage, we commonly mean that which our births shed into our hearts, and which is proper to the sensitive Appetite; because it's common to all Creatures, and that its effects are most sensible and most remarkable.  
As for the other Doubt which respects Courage; To wit, whether the dispositions we have observed, be always necessary to its production, is no less diffiult to resolve; For if it be true that Boldness is an effect of Courage, contrary to the experience which we have, those Animals which are naturally timorous, can never be susceptible of this Passion: Or that contrary to the Maxims which we have established, Courage should not depend on those dispositions.  
Certainly, we must here again say, that the common manner of speaking sits not so well the truth of the thing; for there is no Animal which hath not Courage, because there is none without some heat, for that its necessary to life; and how little soever it hath, it's capable to give that disposition to the irascible Virtue, which is capable to make it undertake something. In effect, there is no Animal which at every moment finds not some difficulty which it's obliged to oppose. And we every day see that the weakest and most timorous make endeavours to surmount the obstacles they encounter; they must therefore have Courage, Since Courage is nothing but the irascible Virtue, which the Natural heat of the Heart hath rendered capable of working. But because this capacity is greater in some, and lesser in others, the greater hath deserved by its prerogative the name of Courage, as the lesser is called Cowardice, or want of Courage. So that even as we say a man hath no wit because he hath but little; we also say an Animal hath no Courage, because he hath but little: And certainly if we should well consider this gender of Qualities which the Schools call Natural Impotencies, under which the default of Courage ought to be placed, we should find that it is different from Power only in respect of less or more. And that the word of [Impotency] means only a weak Power, and not the absolute privation of Power, because it's a quality, and quality is a real thing. So the default of Courage is rightly Courage, but it's little, weak, and hid, which operates but seldom, and undertakes but light Skirmishes, or at least, if it engage in greater matters, it must be very much solicited thereto; and the difficulties must have powerfully provoked it, as it happens in the Anger of timorous persons.  
Last of all, the common way of speaking affords not the name of Courage, but only to him who is most active, who boldly opposeth himself to the greatest dangers, and who is always ready either ro assault or to defend himself. But to have this Courage, and to be called courageous, a man must have all the dispositions we have spoken of. So that when we said that Boldness was an effect of Courage, we considered Courage in its Nature, and not according as it's used in our Language. For it's true, that this passion cannot proceed but from the irascible Virtue, in that it can operate, and when it operateth it's called Courage; but it is not always that active and boiling Courage, which marks a great facility of operating, for that it is necessary there must be much natural heat in the Heart to give it this facility. All which will be better understood when we shall have examined wherein Force or Strength consists.  

Of Force.  
To speak generally, Force is a quality which first and properly belongs to Power, Faculty, or Virtue, and by its means to those actions which it produceth, and to the subject it's found in. So we say that the natural Faculty is strong, that its operation is strong, and that the parts it resides in are strong: Now the Virtue is strong, when it can perfectly, and with efficacy produce its effect; and it's capable of it, when it hath those dispositions which are necessary for its operation. So that Force or Strength consists in these dispositions, which proportionably as they are more or less perfect, make that also more or less great, and its Virtue to be less or more strong.  
Yet it's very true, 
To what the name of Force is most properly to be applied  that although in that sense, Force be a quality common to all Powers, as well Spiritual as Material, all of them having need of certain conditions and dispositions to operate; yet so it is, that to speak absolutely of Strength, all kind of Strength is not to be understood, nor all sorts of Virtues; For when for example we say, That Force is necessary to assault, That an Animal or a Body is strong, it is not to be understood of all the Forces it may have, as of the force of the Stomach, of the senses, and of the like, but of a certain particular Strength, which being more noble and more excellent than the rest by its prerogative, hath deserved simply & absolutely to be called Force; and it's that which the Passions of the irascible Appetite use, the nature whereof must therefore consequently be here inquired. To this purpose we must suppose, that all the Universe being composed and filled with things which are contrary and opposite one to another, there is nothing which can be therein without Enemies which assault and seek to destroy it. So that it was the providence of Nature which gave unto all things, not only those Virtues which were necessary to perform their ordinary, and as it were, domestic functions, but even those which ought to defend them from foreign assaults, and hindering them from receiving those violences which it might receive from abroad. 'Tis for this reason that every thing hath its proper qualities to preserve its being, as also others to destroy its contrary; and that those Animals where those Virtues are more distinct, and less confused, have two different Appetites. The Concupiscible, to seek for themselves what is fit, and fly what is hurtful; and the irascible to resist ill, and if it be needful to assault and destroy it. But because there is more trouble and action to resist and assault, then simply to pursue good, or fly from ill; and that Virtues are the more noble, the more active they are, as we have showed elsewhere; it is certain, that in this respect the irascible Appetite is more active and more noble than the Concupiscible; and therefore those Forces which are the Instruments and the dispositions which it hath to work, are also more excellent and more considerable than the rest. It's also the reason for which the name of Force is due unto them out of excellency; and then when we speak simply of Force or Forces, we ever understand those which are destined to resist and to assault.  
Now because all Philosophers and all Physicians are agreed, 
The force of corporal things consists in the temperature.  that the Force of all the corporal Powers consists in the temperature which is proper and natural unto them, because the temperature is the first and the most efficacious of all the Dispositions which the Faculties find in the matter; and that the proportion and fitness which ought to be betwixt the instrument and the cause, require this temperature should be proper and natural to the Faculty, as is before said, speaking of that natural heat which forms the Courage; This Maxim, I say, being certain, we must see what this Temperature is, which ought to serve the Irascible Appetite; since it's a material Power. Certainly, since it is to assault, it hath need of heat, being the principle of action in Animals; and since it ought also to resist, it hath also need of dryness, which is the principle of this resistance. Now there is no temperature which hath these two qualities, but either the choleric Melancholy, or the sanguine Melancholy, forasmuch as Choler and Blood are Humours which furnish heat; and that Melancholy which is Terrestrial affords dryness, solidity, and stability.  
In effect, all Animals which are naturally strong and courageous, are either Choleric Melancholy, as Lions and Dogs; or Sanguine Melancholy, as Bulls, Bears, and wild Boars. And if we observe what hath been spoken of the Hero's in former times, we may easily judge they were all of the same complexion; and that choler and melancholy Diseases, to which they are subject, are certain marks of this temperature; In fine, he that will consider the body of a strong and robustious man, will see that all parts answer these two qualities. That a straight figure, a large Breast, quick Eyes, a strong Voice, and all vigorous motions proceed from that heat which extends and animates the organs; as the bigness of the Bones and Joints, the bigness of the extremities, the firmness of the Muscles, the hardness of the skin comes from a Melancholy and terrestrial dryness, which renders the humours thick, and the members solid.  
Now if it happen that heat alone predominates, it will indeed produce Courage and Strength, but it will be an impetuous and a boiling strength, proper to assault and not to sustain. On the contrary, if dryness be there without being seconded by heat, it renders the force stupid and passive, which serves to resist and not to assault, as hath been said.  
But we must here observe two very considerable things. 
Wherein the temper consists  First from the example of Physicians, we must not here take the temper for the only mixture of the first qualities, but also for all the other dispositions of the matter, as are second qualities, the conformation of parts, and the concourse of spirits. As when we say that Force consists in a hot and dry temperature, we understand not that the parts are simply hot and dry, but also that they are of a thick succulent and firm consistence, that nothing is wanting to their conformation, and that the spirits slide therein easily and abundantly. For if this temperature meets with a subtle and lose matter, as is to be seen in those purely choleric, it will indeed produce Courage, but the Forces thereof will not be perfect, and cannot long neither maintain a Combat, or a strong assault, because the spirits presently dissipate themselves, and that the parts have not that massive and firm consistence which is necessary for resistance; and should they even have these conditions, if they receive not those spirits which are necessary for their functions, or if there be any notable defect in their conformation, they will be weak, and cannot execute the orders which the Appetite imposeth on them.  
The second thing which is to be considered is, 
That ●her ●re two principal parts in which the ●●t and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 o●ght to b●.  That the Appetite which is the principle of all those motions which Animals make, useth two principal faculties, which have the direction of those actions; to wit, the Vital Faculty which resides in the heart, and in the Spirits; and the Motive Virtue which is seated in the Brain, and in those organs which depend on it; so that it's chiefly in those parts which we are to consider, and wherein this temperature whereof we have spoken aught to be.  
But because the Irascible Appetite is itself placed in the Heart, and that the strength of that part is consequently nearer unto it, then that of the other organs of Motion; and that we may in some sort say, that they are Arms which it hath in hand, or its domestic Forces, and that it leads them itself; and this is the reason it hath more confidence in them then in others, and that they alone are capable to give him both Courage and Boldness.  
For the heat of the Heart is a violent and impetuous Minister, which incessantly solicits the Soul to follow its motions, which abuseth it out of the ostentation it makes of its forces, and persuades it, that with them, and without other help it can undertake all things: It's properly an ambitious Favourite, which engageth his Master in a difficult War, without considering the weakness of the State. He hath Courage, Arms and Men; but the Nerves of War are wanting, neither doth he see that his Allies cannot favour him: So when Force is alone in the Heart, the irascible Appetite may well stir up those noble Passions, and declare War against its Enemies; but the Nerves and Muscles not seconding its Designs, its Enterprises are vain and timorous. On the contrary, when the Heart is weak, the Appetite is languishing and lazy; and although the Members are robust, it trusts not their Forces, and thinks it a succour too far off to make use of in such urgent occasions. Let's then conclude, That that Force which is necessary to assault and to resist, principally consists in the hot and dry temperature of the Heart; and that that may be perfect and accomplished, it must be accompanied with that of the Nerves and Muscles.  
But there are still two great difficulties to be decided. The first is, 
The Forces belong to the Irascible Appetite.  That all those Dispositions of the irascible Appetite serve also the concupiscible; for besides that Heat and Spirits are necessary for all the Faculties of Life, and that Love and Desire are ardent and impetuous Passions, it must needs be that those Creatures which are to go, fly, or swim, and which are often obliged to run after good, should have dispositions necessary to perform these great motions, to wit, Heat and Firmness; thus Force will not be particularly affected to the irascible part, but it will be always in common to the concupiscible, which yet is contrary to our ordinary Philosophy, which will have that different Virtues must have different Dispositions.  
To answer these Reasons, We shall first say, That it's true, all different Faculties require different dispositions. For if they are with things which serve to many Virtues and Actions, there must needs be some diversity which makes this difference, which every particular action requires. So natural heat which serves as the universal Instrument to all the functions of life, is diversified according to those operations necessary thereunto; it must for some be moist or dry; for others, great, little, or temperate, and every one hath its portion and measure different from all the rest. We then confess that the Concupiscible and Irascible Appetite both employ Heat and Spirits, and that there must be firmness in the motions of either of them. But there is this difference, that the one requires a sweet heat, moist, and pleasant; and that the other will have one that is lively, dry, and pungent, for the Reasons we shall hereafter deduce: And that that firmness which appears in the motions of the Concupiscible part, is outwards and purely accidental, not being to be found in the Soul, and happening to the parts out of necessity, instead that in others, it's first found in the irascible Appetite, which afterwards communicates it to the organs; for this Appetite only can establish itself, and when the Soul suffers this kind of motion, it even forms some Passion of the irascible Appetite. Indeed this establishment of the Soul seems to be the proper agitation of the irascible Appetite, because there is no motion more efficacious to resist and assault then that which reunites the Virtue which hinders it to yield, and which renders the assault the more strong; she also makes use of it in all generous Passions; and if she casts herself into Boldness and into Anger, it's certain, she first settles herself. And the only difference which there is betwixt the motion of Desire and that of Boldness is, that at first the Soul darts itself forth without settling itself, and that in the other it performs both together, as hath been said.  
The other difficulty is, 
How Force is different from Courage.  That if Force consist in the heat of the Heart where we also have placed Courage; it must follow that Force and Courage are the same thing; What ever is said, that a man hath Courage, but wants Force; and that Force and Courage must be joined for the execution of great Designs. We therefore say, that heat alone may make Courage all entire; but that it makes but a part of Force. Besides Courage is the power itself, and Force is to be considered as the instrument of this power. For heat is not Courage, but it produceth in the Faculty this disposition and capacity of operating, which we call Courage; instead whereof we may say, that Heat is Force, or at least that it is a part of Force; yet must we not from thence conclude, that Force doth not belong properly and in the first place to Power, because the nature and essence of the Instrument depends wholly from the relation which it hath to its Cause; and were there no Cause, there would be no Instrument. So Strength being the Instrument of Power, it properly and primarily belongs to it, and by its means to those actions and subjects wherein it is. But it's to go too far into the subtleties of the Schools. Let's return to our Discourse of Boldness, and see what effect it produceth in the Spirits and in the Humours.    

CHAP. IU. What the motion of the Spirits, and of the Humours, is in Boldness.  
HAving shown you that the Appetite stiffens and darts itself forth in Boldness, 
The spirits stiffen and dart forth themselves in Boldness.  we need not doubt but the same motions are made in the Spirits, since they usually follow the agitations of the Soul, and that they are the first organs which she employs to execute her designs; they do therefore stiffen and establish themselves, and then they rise up, and dart themselves out, just as doth the Appetite. Indeed he that will consider the countenance of a man before he assaults ill, but who only sees it coming, will perceive no sign of this sally of the spirits, forasmuch as he changeth not colour; and that fire which we see afterwards glitter in his eyes, appears not; for it's certain, that if these spirits cast themselves on those parts, they would carry thither redness and splendour, and would not leave them that coldness and equality with which he looks upon, and considers dangers.  
And truly since we must grapple with the Enemy to assault him, and that the endeavours we should make against him would be vain and useless, were he out of reach, the Soul would never rise up nor dart itself forth against it, did she fancy it to be still far off, and not near enough to prove her force, and resent the effects of her power. All what she doth in this encounter, is, to fortify and prepare herself for the combat; First, stiffening herself in herself, and afterwards inspiring the same motion to the spirits, and the rest of the organs, which may be serviceable to her in this occasion; in pursuit whereof it follows, that a man's colour changeth not, that his looks are stayed, and that without growing pale or without any disturbance he looks on the most formidable things, because the spirits which are mixed with the humours, and which cause all the other parts to move, stiffening themselves, render them firm and settled, and by that means hinder the blood from shedding itself abroad, or from retiring inwardly, not that those other motions of the Body either restrain or render themselves impetuous.  
This then is the agitation which the spirits suffer in the beginnings of Boldness, or to speak better, in those preparatives which the Sonl makes for this Passion; For Resolution, Hope, Confidence, and Staiedness of Courage, which are the forerunners thereof, require this kind of motion, and without it can neither form themselves nor subsist.  
But after the Enemy's approach, and that the Soul is risen up to assault and fight him, she moves the Spirits in the same manner, and all stiffened as they are, she with impetuosity drives them forth to the exterior parts, and so carries redness to the face, ardour and vivacity to the eyes, and violence to all the motions, as we shall hereafter declare.  
Now to explain how this darting forth is made, we ought here to repeat all what hath been said in the Chapter of Desire; for there is no difference in the motions of these two Passions, as to the agitation, since both in the one and the other the Soul issues as it were out of itself, and casts itself towards the object which moves it: They are only unlike in the end she therein proposeth herself; since in Desire she carries herself towards good, that she may get near it, and thereby afterwards enjoy it; and in Boldness she darts herself towards ill, that she may combat and overcome it. It's therefore here we must seek that satisfaction which this subject requires. As also in the Discourse of Hope, that which is necessary to make us understand how the spirits settle and dart forth themselves at the same time, we are only to observe, that when we said, that the motions of Desire and of Boldness were alike, it ought to be understood in this darting forth. For its certain, that the Soul never stiffens itself in Desire unless it be accompanied with Hope, with Boldness, or with Anger; forasmuch as she stiffens herself only to fortify herself, and that she needs not employ her strength unless difficulties present themselves, which are not in the Passions of the Concupiscible part, as elsewhere hath been already said.  
Now the first thing which follows this motion, 
Whence the Heat comes that raiseth up itself in Boldness.  is, the heat which sheds itself over all the Body, and which by degrees augments itself, and proportionably as the impetuosity grows greater. For at first, before the spirits darted themselves forth, when they kept themselves only firm, this quality was very moderate, as it is to be found in Hope; but when they begin to make their sallies and dartings which drive and throw them forth, it's then that it becomes violent, and that at last it inflames all the parts. But the difficulty is to know whence this heat proceeds; for although there be an appearance which the agitation of the heart and of the spirits causeth, since it's a Maxim received in the Schools, That Motion hath the virtue to produce; yet besides the experience which we learn, that Air and Water cool themselves by agitation; and that the shock and encounter of Bodies, by which we say heat is engendered, hath no place in those which are subtle and fluid, it is certain that there are Passions where the heart and the Spirits have a very quick and impetuous motion, as we see in Fear, yet even in them heat augments not, but even weakens itself.  
For my part, I believe that without sticking at common opinions, we may say that the Heart being the source of heat, hath also the virtue of producing it; and that being to lose this quality as a general instrument of all the functions of life, it must have the power to augment it according to the need we may have. Why should we deny it this Faculty, since there is no form which produceth not those qualities which are necessary unto it? The Water of itself alone, doth it not take back again the cold which was taken from it? Doth not the Earth also recover the dryness it lost? but what is most considerable, Doth not Heat augment itself in presence of its contrary? And if it be true that that which inflames the Heart in violent passions, proceeds not from motion, as we have shown even now, what other source can it have, but this secret virtue we speak of? In fine, since the Soul resides in this part as in its Throne, and that she is therein stronger than in any other part, what need we doubt but she helps this production? She who in herself contains the virtue of all inferior things, as we have showed in the discourse of Light. We must therefore believe, that the Soul and the Heart augment the natural heat when it is necessary, and that in performing their endeavour, and stirring itself to produce it, they cause it to issue out of those principles where she potentially was.  
Besides, Since the Soul hath Forces which she employs when she will, which she awakes and stirs up at her need, she must needs have the same power over natural heat, which is the most considerable part thereof, and that she may raise it up and increase it when its help is necessary. And certainly as the motive Virtue contains in potentia the motion which it afterwards produceth, when it hath received the orders of the Appetite; So the Vital Faculty hath in itself a secret source of Heat, which it stirs up and brings to light, if we may so speak, when the Soul commands and judgeth it necessary. Now there is no occasion wherein this succour is more profitable for her, then when she expects the ill either to resist or to combat it, because she hath then need of its Forces, which principally consists in heat, as we have made it appear in the precedent Discourses: But forasmuch as there needs more Forces to assault then to resist, that is the cause that there is less heat in Hope and in Constancy, where the Soul stands on the defensive, then in Boldness and in Anger, where she assaults and destroys ill. As also that in these two latter the agitation of the spirits is greater; for we do confess that their motion serves for something, not of itself, but by accident, as we say in the Schools, because they bring the heat which they have, and that of the humours which they draw after them, to those parts where they light, and ever solicit the fixed heat which is therein entertained, to awake and to render it active.  
As for those Passions which oblige the Soul to flight, they make a quite contrary effect, and because the Spirits retire unto the centre, and the Soul also finding itself too weak to resist the Enemy, loseth all its Courage, nor cares it to repair its strength, and so suffers the natural heat to be extinguished without endeavouring to rekindle it.  
But that we may well conceive what the endeavour is she makes in other Passions, 
Wh●t the quality of heat is in Boldness.  we must not consider the quality of the heat which accompanies them, and compare it with that which is observed in those Passions which seek good; for in these it is sweet, humid and graceful; and in those it is sharp, dry, and pungent. So that it's very likely that in the first the Soul employs it and sheds it abroad without violence, and in the other she raiseth it and drives it forth with impetuosity, that in those it only needs its ordinary virtue, and in these it must be greater and more active. Finally we may say, That in the one she useth it as a follower accompanying of her to her friends, but in the other it's an Assistant which she leads with her, even against her Enemies.  
In Love indeed, in Desire, and in Joy the outward parts receive not heat, because it's sent thither, but because it flies from those spirits which are sent thither, forasmuch as the Soul needs not that quality to approach or unite itself to good, but only the Spirits which force it to the place where it is. On the contrary, when she is to fight, she sends heat as a powerful instrument to act, and to destroy what is contrary unto it; as also in this design she renders it as strong as she can, whether it be by degrees augmenting it, or stirring up the Spirits by a continual agitation, or in removing the humours when she is most active, as choleric are.  
And certainly, what the sensitive Faculty doth in these encounters, the natural also doth it very often in those ordinary functions, as is easily judged by the Favour, which is just like Boldness and Anger, the same heat, the same tempest of the Spirits and Humours, and the same design which the Soul hath in those Passions it encounters in that disease. For we must not think that the Favour is kindled in the Heart by some stranger fire. It's the Soul its self, or rather the Vital Faculty which reunites its force, which stirs up natural heat, and which lifts itself up to fight those causes which destroy the harmony and constitution of the Body. This is readily proved by its crisis, which are those fits of the Favour which the endeavours of Nature, and not the Disease stirs up; by the inflammation which the coming of the spirits and of the blood causeth in the infested parts, by the cessation of the Favour in the height of the sickness, when the Humours are so malignant that Nature is overcome with them, and that she dares no longer assault them; And by a thousand other Reasons which we might produce, had we room for them; by which we might evidently make it appear that the Favour is nothing but an innitation and a rising up of natural heat to drive away the ill; and that therefore it's a motion like to that of Anger, and that in the lowest part of the Soul, as well as in the highest there is an Appetite which hath its irascible Faculty to raise itself up against those difficulties which present themselves. However it be the Soul increaseth Heat in Boldness and in Anger, producing and adding new degrees to what it had, and stirring it up by the continual agitation of the Spirits.  
For although they stir themselves impetuously in Love, 
Boldness entertains the motions of the Spirits.  in Desire and in Joy, yet their motion is not therein maintained; and the Soul takes no care for their entertainment, the transport and the ravishment which the approach, or the possession of good affords her, bereaving her of the remembrance of what she ought to do, for which cause languors and soundings follow these Passions, unless Hope, Boldness, or the like, mix not with them, and call back the Soul to her Duty, as it often happens in Love and in Desire, which being commonly accompanied with Fear and Hope suffers not such great and violent accidents as those in Joy are; the Soul therefore is more careful to continue the motions of the Spirits in Boldness and in Anger, then in the rest of those Passions, because the danger she is threatened withal keeps her in breath, and continually solicits her to oppose new forces, and to make new endeavours against the pressures of the Enemy, which she cannot do, but by producing every moment new Heat and new Spirits, and sending them to relieve those which made the first assaults.  
Nay often, 
What humours are moved in Boldness.  as if she mistrusted her succours, when the ill appears too powerful, she raiseth up the most working and the most malignant Humours that thereby she might the more easily destroy them. From thence it is that Choler is stirred up in the violence of those Passions; and that in venomous Beasts, that poison which is quiet and hid in the centre of the Body, casts itself forth into the outward parts, and chief into those which serve them for arms and defence; which may oblige us to judge that it's the Soul which brings it into those places to assault and destroy the ill, and by a very probable consequence, that she doth the like with those others which have any proper quality for that purpose. To confirm this Truth, we need only to consider those dreams which are form when choler predominates; for they evidently make it appear, that the Soul is accustomed to use this humour to assault evils, and that presently as soon as she sees it in a condition to be thereby relieved, she prepares herself for the Combat, and during sleep she forgeth Enemies, Battles and Victories. At least its certain, that Choler being agitated in these Passions, renders the Heat the more strong and pungent. Or because it's naturally dry, and that dryness is a quality which gives most efficacy to Heat, or because those sharp fumes which this humour exhales, when it's moved, cast themselves on the parts, prick them and give them that angry sentiment which the heat of those Passions useth to cause.   

CHAP. V The Causes of the Characters of Boldness.  
TO follow the same method we have held in our former Discourses, 
The morol characters of Boldness.  we must here examine two sorts of Characters; the one immediately form in the Soul, which we call Moral, because they consist in those actions which we call Moral, or at lest which respect Manners. The other which are Corporal, and which are remarked in the change and alteration which this Passion imprints on the Body. Those of the first order which accompany Boldness, are truly very numerous, as may be seen in the description we have made of a Bold man; but we may reduce them to certain principal Heads, the knowledge of which will easily bring us to that of the rest: For he that shall know why a Bold man Hopes, and why he is a lover of Glory, will at the same instant know the cause of the greatest part of the other effects which Boldness produceth, and which in some sort depend from those two.  
Let's then begin with Hope which ever precedes Boldness, and never abandons it; 
Hope always accompanies Boldness.  Certainly, it's nothing difficult to give the reason thereof; for after having shown that to form Boldness, the Soul must know and measure its Forces, that she must believe them greater and more powerful than those of the Enemy, and afterwards she must employ them against him, that she may vanquish him; It's impossible but she must hope for the Victory, since she desires it, and that in her judgement she hath all what is necessary for the obtaining thereof. Perhaps some will say, that there are many who fight without hope of conquest; it's true, but also Boldness which is employed in such fights, is not found in the sensitive Faculty; nor is it of the common order of the Passions. It's particular to a man whose reason prepareth often other designs then those which Nature and the Senses are wont to inspire in Animals; For its certain that they never assault any thing which they believe not they shall conquer; and if sometimes they are forced to combat Enemies, which they did not dare to assault, or even before whom they had already been put to flight, it's the fear they have of falling into a greater danger, which awakes their Courage, reanimates their Force, and so brings to life again the hope of overcoming those to whom they had yielded before. But it is not so with men, who often engage themselves in Combats, and cast themselves into dangers, out of which they never hope to come with any advantage, and even where they know their loss is certain, because Reason proposeth them a more considerable end then the Victory would afford them, and obligeth them to undertake impossible things, to gain honour, and other goods,, which always follow generous actions. But if in these encounters they despair of overcoming the Enemy which assaults them, they still hope to vanquish those difficulties which environ the glory they aspire unto; and we may say they yield a small Victory to gain a greater, and hazard a little to gain much. But in the following Chapter we shall again touch this subject. It's sufficient to have here shown that in Boldness there is still Hope enough, and that a Bold man is never without Hope.  
Now the same principle from whence we have drawn this truth, ought also to furnish us with the reason why a Bold man hath so much Confidence and Presumption in himself, why he is not astonished at the sight of dangers, that even he is pleased when he encounters them, and that very often he despiseth them; why he is not superstitious, choleric, or dissembling; In fine, why he hates subjection, and will always command.  
For if Confidence be nothing but a consummated Hope, fortified by the opinion we have that those things whose help we expect will not fail us at our need, it's certain that the Soul which knows its forces, and believes them more powerful than the difficulties, and employs them against them with Hope to overcome them, must also be assured that they will not fail her in this occasion, and that she hath cause to trust to the help which she promiseth herself from them.  
As for Presumption, which is an immoderate Hope, and proceeds from the too great opinion we have of our Forces, although it doth not always accompany Boldness, yet it follows it, because heat increasing, and kindling itself in this Passion, it stirs up the Soul by its vivacity. It troubles it, by its agitation, and afterwards easily persuades it, that its forces are greater than indeed they are, and that they are all in a condition to serve her, although there often be but one part of them; thus it is when Wine, Fury, and Love inspire the weakest and most timorous persons with a blind Confidence, and a temerous Boldness, which engageth them to undertake things above their power; for the Judgement being weakened by the vapours of the Wine, or by the violence of those Passions and heat, being become stronger by the impression it made on the humours, we need not wonder if the Soul finding itself upheld with the most powerful assistance which she can use in her functions, be deceived in the opinion she hath of her strength, and that she believes them greater than indeed they are.  
These Reasons make it appear also, 
A Bold man is not astonished at sight of dangers.  that a bold man ought not to be astonished at the sight of dangers, because astonishment being ever accompanied with Fear and with some Despair, cannot be susceptible of those Passions in the belief he is, that his forces are greater than the difficulties, and in the hope he hath to overcome them. On the contrary, as he flatters himself in this thought, and placeth all his happiness in the Victory, all these things which are to contribute thereunto are pleasing to him; he takes a delight to handle Arms, the found of Trumpets animates him, he beholds the Enemy's approach with joy; and if there be any thing which disturbs his contentment, it is the impatience he hath to be at him, and to begin that Combat which is to crown his valour. It's the same with him who is bold to speak or to write, or to undertake any other design whatsoever it be; he pleaseth himself in the encounter of those difficulties which are to employ him, and to make his courage appear; the place, the occasion, the subject of his enterprise far from astonishing him, do but the more assure him, and he is never so content, as when he sees himself ready to set his hand to the work.  
But if it be true that he runs thus into danger, that he assaults difficulties, 
A Bold man despiseth dangers.  and that he will overcome them, how can he despise dangers? For it is not to slight an Enemy when we assault and seek to overcome him. Certainly, we must confess that he despiseth not all manner of dangers, not all sorts of Enemies, but only those who are far beneath his strength, and that therefore he judgeth it unworthy for him to exercise his care and Courage; for since in Nature which gives Animals the knowledge of their strength and weakness, and instructs them to fly when they are too weak, and to assault when they are strong enough; it's very likely that being so wise and so just, as she is, she would not engage them in a too unequal combat, and that she would restrain them when they meet an Enemy incomparably less powerful than they are, and which cannot offend them. In effect we see that among domestic Beasts, those which are naturally strong and of a great size, scorn the assaults of those who are little and weak; a Mastiff grows not angry, nor ever defends himself against a little Cur which barks at him, and snaps at him, as if he scorned his temerity; he goes on without regarding him, or stands still without being disturbed at the endeavours he makes against him. A child securely plays with the most angry Beasts, beats them with impunity, and hurts them without moving them, which they would never suffer from another person.  
Some say the same of those which are wild and savage; and some of them have deserved the name of generous, not only because they disdain to assault those who are not able to resist them but also because they often content themselves to cast down their adversary, as if in that condition it were unworthy for them any more to exercise their strength, and that it were a shame for them to end a Combat which they had made so unequal. It's true that they forbear not often to pursue the most timorous creatures; but it is not as Enemies, it's as their prey; and it's not to fight them, but to take them and feed on them; in a word, it's Hunger and not Boldness which animates them; for when they are not pressed with this hard and implacable necessity, they never assault but only those which they think strong enough to harm them, and scorn the rest which have not that power.  
Whatever we believe, it's certain that when the Soul is persuaded that the difficulties which present themselves are too weak to traverse her designs, she scorns and disdains to fight them. Now this persuasion is grounded on the certain knowledge which she hath of the greatness of her forces, or on a false opinion which she hath conceived of them. For although those who are truly strong and powerful, have reason to make no reckoning of the greatest part of those things which alarm others; yet when Boldness hath heated a Courage, how weak soever it be, it abuseth it by a vain confidence it gives it, and makes it believe that the obstacles it meets are nothing considerable, that there are none which ought to stop its course, or which is able to make the least resistance: This is commonly observed in the anger of Women, of Children, and of Men who are naturally timorous; they fear all before they are possessed with this Passion; but when this hath gotten mastery, shame, respect nor danger can never bridle them. They slight all that opposeth their fury, and blindly run wheresoever rage and despair leads them.  
Since Boldness scorns the greatest part of difficulties and dangers, 
A Bold man is not choleric.  neither can it be Choleric or Superstitious, because Anger and Superstition are not compatible with the confidence it hath, nor with the despite it hath of most of those things which assault it.  
And indeed we are not angry with what we scorn, because this Passion raiseth not itself up but against things which may offend, and that scorn supposeth that they are without that power. So that if a Bold man do very much slight Enemies and dangers, we may at least say, that he meets not with so many subjects of anger, as he who is not in that condition. Moreover if it be true that Anger comes from the opinion we have to have been offended, he that that presumes much of his strength, and values not that of another man, never hath a thought that he can be offended: Thus Magnanimous Men, and those which are naturally strong and courageous, are not easily angry, because Reason persuades the one that most injuries are not so in effect, or that they are so slight that they deserve not to be revenged; and their strength makes others believe, that it's impossible, or at least very difficult for any to hurt them. Last of all, if there are Boldnesses which are susceptible of this Passion, it's at least certain, that the true and heroic is not for the Reason's beforesaid.  
Neither is it Superstitious, 
He is not superstitious.  because Superstition proceeds from weakness and fear, with which Boldness could never subsist; and truly it was never seen that a bold man did heed or give any credit to Auguries and to all other vain observations which have been introduced by Superstition. Those great Men of times past, although they were bred and instructed in those errors, did often despise them. And Homer forgot not to say That his Achilles stopped not on the presasages which were told him of his death; That Hector mocked the Augurs, and that in heat of fight he scorned both men and gods.  
To speak truth, Boldness having so great an opinion of its Forces, believes not that it needs foreign help, and its presumption making it forget that natural inclination which Nature hath given to men to have recourse to Heaven in their necessities, far from becoming superstitious, it falls to the despising of divine things, and easily gives itself up to Blasphemy, Sacrilege and to all other impieties, which we see reign amongst Soldiers.  
On the other side, he that shall consider the source of Superstition, will find no other but the weakness of Men, and the mistrust they have had of their own Forces. For believing themselves exposed to all kind of injuries, and being instructed by Nature that there was a Power above theirs, they did seek it every where, to gain such relief as was necessary for them: Those who were basest did believe to find it in mortal and corruptible things, and so rendered them the worship which was only due to the true Divinity. Others indeed acknowledged it immortal, but have divided and multiplied it into as many gods as there were things they stood in need of. To conclude, all men which are born weak, being moved by fear or mistrust, imagined it was hard to be inclined and to be pleased, that there ever was some want in the duties which were rendered unto it, and that to render it exorable, new respects ought to be added to those which Reason had already dictated unto them; and to observe all those extraordinary things which were as Oracles, which it gave them of their good or ill Fortunes, these are the springs whence all Idolatry hath flown; the vain observations of things to come, and the superfluous Ceremonies in the true Religion. In fine, these are the undoubted witnesses, that all Superstition proceeds from weakness and from fear, and that it's a Vice proper only to weak and timorous persons, as may be judged also by Women and melancholy persons, to whom it's more familiar than to any; By Southern people, who have ever been accused of Cowardice and of Superstition, and by persons that are unhappy and overburdened with misery, who easily fall from Piety to Superstition.  
Freeness is also one of the Companions of Boldness, 
He is free & without dissimulation.  because a man who believes himself strong enough to overcome his Enemy, will never call Artifice or Treachery to his help, which are signs and common effects of weakness. Indeed all timorous Animals are more cunning and crafty than the rest. Women are naturally more subtle than Men, as amongst them the melancholy are more suspicious and more dissembling. Now this happens from that they are conscious of their own weakness, and therefore are obliged to use Artifice and deceit to supply the defects they have. Boldness then is not subject to these Vices, seeing it hath so much confidence in its Forces, and speaks freely and open-hearted; its procedure is free, neither is there any deceit or treachery to be feared from it, because it fears nothing. By reason whereof there have been some Captains, who have often been hardly persuaded to use stratagems, which are even allowed by the Laws of War, as if they were unworthy of their Courage and of their Valour. We every day see that in the heat of a Battle, and when Boldness is highest, we despise the rules and postures of Fencing; and even those who are naturally weak and timorous, when they are animated with this Passion, or transported with anger, they forget their slights and subtleties, and pursue their Enemies with open force.  
Finally, 
It will always command.  It hates subjection, and would always command; for having a good opinion of itself, it's persuaded that it ought never to submit itself, and that it deserves to have the pre-eminence above all the rest. And certainly, although this inclination be common to all men, who being born free, think that their Liberty ought to be preserved more entire, and more absolute in command then in subjection; yet there are some to whom it seems more natural and more proper then to others, because they truly have, or think they have those qualities which are fit for command. Now if strength be one of the most considerable, and if it be the most powerful, and perhaps the only Instrument of Dominion, we need not doubt but Boldness which fills the Soul with so much confidence, and gives her such an advantageous opinion of her strength, doth also powerfully imprint this haughty and imperious humour, which makes him take the upperhand in all encounters, and renders him incapable to submit himself to the advice and conduct of another: Whence it happens that Bold men are commonly haughty, and but little courteous; that they are opinionative in their resolutions, and that they will always be the head both in Counsels and in Enterprises. In fine, it's one of the causes which makes Mutineers and Rebels in a State, which make Heretics and Atheists in Religion, and which fills families with disobedience and with licentiousness: For all these disorders can proceed from nothing but a presumptuous Temerity which will not subject itself to lawful Powers, which will be independent in all things, in a word, which will Command.  
The second Head which must lead us to the knowledge of the other Characters which we seek, is the Love of Glory; for he that shall well understand the Reason why a Bold man hath this inclination, will at the same time perceive why he affects Praise, why he is modest, generous, etc.  
Let's then conclude, 
Boldness desires honour more than all the rest of the Passions.  That there is no Passion which inspires the desire of Honour and Glory like unto Boldness; for if they are recompenses or duties which we are obliged to give to the excellency of persons, Boldness is the only one which gives us the right to exact the debt, since it alone gives men the superiority and excellency which they seek so ardently. In effect, all the Passions whose object is good, in some manner subject man to the good he pursues; those which fly ill, oblige him to yield to the ill as the more potent; constancy indeed resists it, and yet commonly she believes not herself stronger than it, so that this only dares assault it, and hopes to conquer it, which is more powerful, and which ought to inspire the sentiments of excellency and of superiority, whose just price is honour. Now Boldness alone hath this advantage, and if Anger pretends any share, we know it is from that Boldness is always of its company.  
But why doth it fancy That there is honour to be gotten in all its undertake? 
It fancies honour in all its enterprises.  since it's a strange thing, and hardly to be found in the rest of the Passions, that the worst actions it produceth should appear glorious and praiseworthy; certainly it is because they are led by Force and by Courage, which are qualities which Nature hath rendered so noble, having destined them to be the foundation of power and of superiority, that it's impossible but all their effects must also be so, and but that consequently they must deserve the honour which is due to the nobility and excellency of the things. And this is so true that men have formed the first knowledges which they had of Virtue on actions of Force and Courage; At first they knew none but that which was employed therein; at least it appears that they gave it the first place, since they honoured all the rest with that name, which ought to have been proper and peculiar unto it; for amongst the Grecians, the word which signifies Virtue, draws its original from War; and amongst the Latins, those who spoke most purely, did believe that the name of Virtue was in the first place due to the Military Virtue. And this in my opinion happens, from that nature which destined man for a civil life, hath also inspired in him an advantageous sense of all those things which are necessary to maintain it; now because none is more so then that Virtue which conducts Force and Courage, that alone having right to command, to establish order in Society, and resist those enemies which would destroy it, it's certain, that naturally we ought to have more esteem of it then of all the rest, whose object is a good less common, and less considerable; for this reason also more care hath been always taken to render it more duties and respects then to any whatsoever. At all times, and in all kinds of States, the most worthy and the most noble rewards have been reserved for it; the first Crowns which ever were, have been consecrated to it, and it's the only one to which the glory of triumphs hath been destined for the reward of its actions, which is the highest top of all the honour of the earth.  
As it is then a Virtue which Nature itself obligeth us to respect by reason of its being destined to the government of a civil life, we must not wonder if that Passion which serves for matter and instrument to those actions, pretends the same right, and bearing with it the same destination, it conceives that by a just claim it ought to have the same advantage in all its enterprises. For although Reason make it appear, that Temerity, Cruelty and Insolency, and other Vices which sometimes are mixed with it, render it unworthy so noble a recompense: yet so it is, that it doth not always hearken to their devices, and that it more willingly follows the inclinations of nature; so that looking at nothing but what is honest, and having no other guide but the instinct it hath for glory, it imagines it ought everywhere to encounter it, and that it's a prize due to all its actions, how evil soever they be.  
Moderation in victory, Modesty in speech, 
The virtues which accompanies Boldness.  Generosity, Sweetness and Courtesy towards the vanquished, accompanies not all kind of Boldness, but only that which is conducted by Reason: For Passion alone is not able to produce such perfect actions without being guided by virtue. But as regulated Passion forbears not to be Passion, we may speak these to be the Characters of Boldness, since they are proper to one kind of Boldness; Add also that there are some seeds and dispositions in the principles of this Passion, which naturally render it inclined to produce these actions; for there are generous Beasts which content themselves with the Victory, and which hurt not those they have thrown down: we see even that all Bold men although they have not Virtue to regulate their Boldness, and that they propose not honesty to serve them as the motive, forbear not to act the generous and the modest, even like those who have true Valour. And what inclination soever they have to take all the advantages they can over their Enemies, yet they restrain themselves, and render not their Victory insolent. Now this partly happens from that natural Justice we spoke of, which defends Beasts from pursuing a Combat which is too unequal, and partly from the violent desire of honour which this Passion inspires in men. For finding himself continually pressed with this secret spur, and by experience knowing that insolency and vanity dishonour a victory how brave soever it were; That on the contrary, Moderation, Modesty, and Generosity render it the more glorious, they easily are moved to those actions which ought to content their desire, and which promise them the richer harvest of honour and of praise, for which cause we had reason to say, that their Modesty was proud and ambitious, because they consider not the Honesty which virtue proposeth therein, but the glory only which redounds from thence, and that they respect Honour but even for Honour's sake.  
Besides, 
Whence those Vices come which mix themselves with Boldness.  although in these occasions they follow this shadow and appearance of virtue in all other ways they commonly are Arrogant and Proud, because esteeming themselves more than others, they think all is their due, and will have the pre-eminence, as we have already said; They boast and speak advantageously of themselves, forasmuch as the heat of the Passion kindles the desire they have of glory, and makes them seek praise even from their own mouths; and certainly we need not doubt but that Boldness is the source of all those defects; but when it appears base, artificial, choleric, or cruel, we must not lay the accusation of these vices upon it, but the ill inclinations only whereto it's received; For it is like that of torrents which enter into great Rivers, and seem presently to break the course of the water, and to make a passage from one shore to the other, yet their impetuosity must yield to the current of the River, which swallows them up, and carries them away with it. What Passion also soever it be which is mixed with the ill inclinations, must follow the course they take, and suffer itself to be carried away with those defects and vices which are proper unto it. Now these inclinations come from the temper, or from custom; for this corrups the best Natures, and there are men whose births have given them all the dispositions which are necessary to true Boldness, yet which have those defects which we even now mentioned, having for a long time been nourished in them; and the habit they have gotten hath changed all those seeds of virtue which Nature had given them.  
But besides custom, the general source of their ill inclinations is in the temperature, 
The effect of weakness.  and chief in that whence weakness proceeds; for it's that which makes men undertake base actions, unworthy of a true courage, persuading them they must fear all things, that no enemies are little, and that we ought even to assault those enemies which are weak, or those which are without defence. It's that which makes them become Artificial and Perfidious, forasmuch as it would supply the defects of those forces by cunning and deceit, as hath been already said: It's that which renders them Choleric and Vindicative, because it is exposed to all manner of injuries, that it's easily hurt, and that the vengeance it takes is a necessary means to keep the rest in their duties. Finally, it's that which makes them Cruel and Bloody, because in that mistrust which it hath of itself, what advantage soever it hath over its enemies, it still doubts that it wants strength sufficient to effect its own revenge; so that to put itself in safety, it moves even to extreme violence, and so renders its victory brutal and cruel. But we shall more particularly examine these things in their due place. Let's finish this picture by those shadows which Fear gives unto Boldness.  
For we have said, 
Whence that fear comes which sometimes accompanies Boldness.  that Fear often went before that which was the most noble and the most generous; that on the contrary there were men who went boldly into dangers, and presently after lost their courage; that the most part of the most valiant, durst not speak in public; and that some without cause apprehended the encounter of some things which were but little considerable.  
To give a reason for these extravagant events, we must first remember, that there are two sorts of Boldness; the one which is led by Nature, the other which is regulated by Prudence. The first considers not always the greatness of the danger it's engaged in, or else it wants strength to entertain a long-winded combat; Wherefore when it finds the danger greater than it imagined it to be, it's surprised with astonishment, which makes it take slight; which commonly happens to new Soldiers, and to those who undertake things without having fore-seen the difficulties which therein were to have been encountered. And if it be upheld by this active and glittering force which accompanies delicate tempers, as those of Children, of Women, and the like, its first fury and first impetuosity is only to be feared; for its forces being unable to furnish it for a longer fight, it quickly gives ground, and makes way for Fear, unless some new relief arrive. But it happens not so with that Boldness which is conducted by Reason; before that undertake the Combat, it exactly considers the forces of the Enemy, the greatness of the danger it is entering upon, and all those obstacles which may traverse its design; for which cause it hath not at first that impatient ardour which is to be observed in the other. On the contrary it appears cold and restrained; and sometimes even paleness, trembling, and such other accidents of Fear which surprise it in these encounters, do so hid it, that a man might believe that it was not there at all, or that it was associated with its enemy. And certainly the Soul might conceive the danger so great that for a time she may not be capable of any motion unless it be that of Fear; and in that case she could not be agitated with the Passion of Boldness, although she might have the habit thereof. Now although we must say, That the image of the danger being carried to the sensitive Faculty by the Knowledge which the Senses or the Judgement may have given her, the Soul will form Fear in the inferior part, whilst the superior will be raised with a true Boldness; and then a man will boldly go to the fight, whom we shall see look pale and tremble at the sound of the Trumpet, and at first sight of the Enemies. It's true, this disturbance will not last long, Reason presently getting the mastery either by re-assuring itself, or raising the Courage of its inferior part. Neither after a man hath taken this noble resolution, is he susceptible of Fear or of Astonishment; he meets with no difficulties which seem not less than he fancied they were; and if his strength fails him in this occasion, his virtue forbears not to hold fast, and obligeth him rather to perish then to fly, or rather yield to undergo the burden, then quit his undertaking.  
As for those who valiant as they are dare not speak in public, or who fear the encounter of certain things which in appearance ought not to give them the least apprehension, besides that this rather respects the habit of Boldness than the Passion, it's an examen which more fitly belongs to the discourse of Fear then to this: We can only say, That a Bold man is not so in all things, because he hath not, or believeth he hath not competent forces to undertake them, and to surmount the difficulties which are therein to be encountered, every profession, & even every action requiring its particular forces. Such a man may have the one, and want the other; so he may be bold in those and timorous in these. He who is naturally valiant and courageous, hath not commonly those dispositions which are fit for the great actions of the Mind; Coldness and Quietness which they require, cannot allay themselves with heat, and that tumult which accompanies Courage: So that if he find himself engaged to speak in public, or to do any other the like action, astonishment and fear surprise him, being sensible of his own weakness to execute a design beyond his strength.  
We are now to examine the Characters which Boldness imprints on the Body, 
The corporal Characters of Boldness.  which as in the rest of the Passions, are of two kinds. For some of them are form by the Souls command, and the others unknowingly, and out of a necessity, useless to her design, as we shall make it appear in the examen we intent of every particular.  
Let us therefore begin with the Eyes, which afford us the sight of all, and which are the Souls Looking-glasses.  
An assured Look, although it be common to all the generons Passions of the Irascible Appetite, belongs particularly to Boldness, because she assaults ill, and that she ought to have more assurance than the rest, which do only expect it; For we have said in the Discourse of Hope, That this Look was made by a wide opening of the lids with a fixed sight, and with vivacity. This opening is that we might see the enemy the more exactly; the steddiness of sight witnesseth that the Soul is not astonished, and this vivacity comes from the arrival of the spirits which dart themselves forth to combat it. And to speak truth, it must have at least these three conditions to form this kind of look. Most of the Passions makes us open our eyes to consider the good or ill which is their object, even Fear seems to be most careful of it, being most of all obliged to provide for her safety. But it hath no set look being not able long to suffer the presence of the enemy, the disquiet she is in rendering her inconstant and startled. A strong meditation settles, the sight but not with vivacity, forasmuch as the spirits retreat towards their principles, and so leave a dimness in the eyes: These three things therefore ought to meet to form the Look we speak of; and he that will but observe it, will find that the motion of the Eyebrows, the carriage of the Head, and the rest of the Face contribute somewhat thereunto.  
However it be a Bold man looks upon danger with assurance, 
Why a Bold man shuts not his eyelids.  without winking, and this partly is from that the soul stiffening itself in itself, stiffens the Muscles, and so hinders the lid from falling, and partly because she will not lose the sight of her Enemy, nor so much as one minute interrupt the looks she casts on him. Moreover we may say she hath not then so much need of winking as before, having rendered them stronger by the quantity of spirits which she sent thither. For it's certain, that when these parts are strongest, this motion is least necessary, for which cause Birds of prey, and all other Creatures, which have a strong sight, wink seldomer than the rest; as on the contrary, men whose sight is weak wink at every moment. Moreover this motion of the lids moistens the eyes and cleanseth them, and thereby preserves their transparency and mobility; it's chief destinated to assuage and temper by an interposing obscurity which it brings the splendour of the exterior, which continually beats on it. Now so it is, that those who have a strong sight, can longer and more easily endure the light than others, and consequently they are not obliged to close their eyelids so often. If it be therefore true, that Boldness sends a great quantity of spirits to those parts, and so renders them more strong and vigorous; It must also at the same time dispense with their winking so often as they did formerly. In fine, if weakness and fear cause them to fall, to cover and hid them from the ill which pursues them; Boldness which apprehends nothing, and sees peril and danger without astonishment needs not this vain precaution, nor to employ an unprofitable relief.  
A thorough Look is also common to many of the Passions, 
Why he looks thorough.  and chief to Indignation, Anger, and to Boldness; to form it, the Face must have somewhat of severe, the Eyes must impetuously cast themselves towards the Enemy, and the Head must be somewhat turned on the other side. Now severity is necessary, because we may cast our Eyes aside without looking through, as it often happens in all those Passions which pursue good and fly from ill; for Love, Desire, and Fear at every moment cast their Eyes aside, because severity is wanting in some by reason of the pleasure which they inspire, and in the other by reason of the astonishment which accompanies them: In effect, Severity is a certain rude, peevish stifness, which the presence of ill imprints in the whole countenance, and which is only to be found in these Passions which assault ill; forasmuch as the Soul stiffens itself only in these encounters which we have spoken of; the Eyes impetuously cast themselves against the Enemy, because the Soul having put itself in a posture of fight, employs its looks as so many darts which she intends to cast on it, but at the same time it turns the Head another way to show its aversion from it, that it fears it not, and that it disdains to employ greater forces against it; wherefore we commonly use this kind of look in threaten, where by the mind, and by words, without coming to handy-blows we seek to stop the ill, esteeming it not strong enough to need to be assaulted with its strongest arms, in Indignation, and in other little Angers, whereto we intent not Vengeance to all extremity, and in the beginnings of Boldness, before we are come to blows, when we think to decide the combat by little skirmishes. It's true, that it often happens that a man who dares not assault a potent Foe, will look through him; but that is but to hid his weakness, and make him believe it is not for want of force that he assaults him not, but rather that is out of generosity, and because he esteems him worthy of so great an endeavour.  
There are other kind of Looks which often happen in this Passion, 
Why he contracts and raiseth the Brows.  as those which are urgent and unquiet, those which are rude and furious; but the first proceed from Desire, and from Impatience, whereof we have elsewhere spoken; others come from Anger and from Fury, which shall be examined in the Discourse of Anger.  
Let's now come to the motion of the Forehead and Brows. To find the cause, we must learn it from Physic, that Nature hath not given to the Forehead a proper motion, for the muscles which cause it to move belong to the Brows, which ought to be movable for the preservation of the Eyes, and to help them in their functions; so that the Front never moves but when the Eyebrows move. Now amongst those motions which they are capable of, there are two principally which are commonly to be observed in Boldness and Anger; the one is to lift them up, and the other to strengthen them; but it's very hard to tell what the motive is which the Soul proposeth itself in every of them, nor of what use they might be in the Passions we have now spoken of; It's certain that according to the order which Nature hath prescribed to those parts, they lift themselves up, that they may the more freely see the object which presents itself, either by enlarging the circle of the sight, which restrains itself when they abate themselves, or that they serve to the opening of the lids, which after a manner they draw after them: And they strengthen themselves to strengthen the eyes, making as it were a rampire before them to stop those things which might fall from on high, and to defend them from the light which comes from without; for that the obscurity it causeth, tempers the splendour, gathers the spirits, and in pursuit renders the sight stronger and more exact. But if we consider these motions in the Passions, the Soul indeed must propose other motives than these. For I grant that the presence of ill obligeth it to seek all the liberty, and all the strength of the eyes, the better to discover the enemy, and assault him the more rightly; yet there are encounters wherein these cares seem useless, or at least where they are greater than they need to be, because it often happens that we that move the Brows and the sight, at such things as never so little displease us, and wherein it's nothing necessary to bring the least precaution. Let's therefore conclude, that the disturbance and the blindness which the Passions cast in the Soul, divert it often from those ordinary ways which Nature teacheth, which make her forget the true use for which those organs were destinated, and pursued her, that what ought to serve her for one end may also be useful for another. So in all vehement desires she brings water into the mouth, although it be only necessary in that of Food; so she makes those that are alone, laugh and speak, although all those actions are reserved for Society, and Conversation. As therefore she is accustomed to shrink up the Brows, to fortify the sight, and to defend the Eyes against what might offend them, she fancies she ought do the same in the encounters of all kind of Enemies; and by an error, like that of Creatures, which think they have hid all their Bodies when their Heads are covered; so she thinks that fortifying her Eyes she inspires the same strength in the other parts, and then all of them are in a condition to assault ill, having put that upon the defensive. It's even so also, that she raiseth up the Brows, when she raiseth herself; for although that serves her the better to see the Enemy; yet she fancies this elevation helps her rising up, and that it so far advanceth the execution of her design, as to make the organs move so also. Yet we may observe that that which furthers this error is that the parts are extremely movable and obedient, and that they are in action sooner than the Soul is ware of it. For the rest which are more heavy, resist these preparations, and require a greater deliberation to oblige them to stir.  
We may yet add to this reason, that the Soul will often by these external motions manifest the state and condition she is in. So that she raiseth the Brows, to show that she raiseth herself and shrinks them up, to witness that she fortifies and gathers her self together; and this is the more likely, for that without being moved with those agitations, she forbears not also to make those parts move when she will dissemble her weakness and her fear, and make us believe she hath a design to fight.  
And now in pursuit of those motions which are made by the orders of the Soul, the figure of the Forehead necessarily changeth and altereth; for of necessity, when the Brows are lifted up, the Forehead must wrinkle, and when they shrink up, that must gather itself betwixt the eyes; and then certainly if the skin be fleshy, it makes, as it were, a great cloud in the midst of the Forehead, which Aristotle calls for the same reason Nebulous, which is proper and natural to Lions and to Bulls, and which is one of the principal signs of the natural disposition a man hath for Boldness, as elsewhere shall be said.  
When the hair stands on end, 
Why the hair stands on end.  it is because the skin it's rooted in, is moved; but this motion may be made two ways; for those creatures which have a movable and musculous skin make it move when they please, and when they will assault or defend themselves, they shrink it up that they may render it stiffer and stronger, and then necessarily those plights and wrinkles which are form must make the hair or feathers stare with which it's covered. It is not so with men, their skin being not musculous, they cannot voluntarily move it, but only out of necessity; and that happens when the spirits with precipitation quit the outward parts of the Head, and fly away elsewhere. For the skin which is then forced to restrain and shut up itself, makes the roots of the hair retire, which are commonly obliquely laid in the thickness of the skin, and in reverting of it it makes the hairs rise and stand on end. Commonly fear and astonishment cause this flight of the spirits; and which calling them back again to the Heart, render the Face pale, and makes the hair stand: But this is sometimes also done by a great endeavour of the Courage. For the Soul seeing itself pressed by a puissant Enemy, gathers the spirits from all parts, in which its principal strength consists, and sends them to the Arms, and so those other parts which are appointed to assault and combat, so that those which are abandoned of them grow pale, and the skin shrivels, and the hair stands on end, even as they do in fear. Now as Boldness and Anger only can cause this endeavour, its only they which are capable to produce this effect in the manner spoken of. But when that happens, it's a sign that those Passions will rise either to fury or despair; for which cause we commonly say that a Man that looks pale with Anger is terrible, because the Soul never useth these extraordinary means, but when she is extremely pressed, and when she carries herself away to her last violences. To conclude therefore this Discourse, a Bold man's hair may stand upright, from the fear and from the astonishment which may sometimes surprise him at the sight of danger, or by the last effort of Courage, as hath been said.  
The Nostrils open and widen themselves, because the heat growing stronger requires a greater respiration, and obligeth the soul therefore to enlarge the passages; by reason whereof those who naturally have those parts wide and open, are commonly bold and choleric.  
The Smile comes from the indignation a man hath to see himself assaulted by a temerous or insolent enemy, or from our despising of his weak endeavours. But if we would know why these Passions cause these effects, we must see what hath been said in the Discourse of Laughter.  
Silence is proper to true Boldness, 
Why he is silent.  chief when it's going into danger, either because it is then entirely gathered up in itself to consider the greatness thereof, or because it disdains to speak to any body with whom it denies society, either because it hates or scorns them; or last of all, because it knows Words are arms of weakness, and with them Combats are not to be decided. And certainly, Boldness abounds not in words, unless in such who have their weaknesses, for the Soul which knows its defect, useth all those means which may relieve her, and employs besides those endeavours which she makes, threaten, cry out, and reasons to fright the enemy, and hid her own imbecility; such is the Boldness of Women and Children, such is that of Bragadocio's: And this Maxim is so general, that even amongst Beasts we see that little Dogs continually bark, when Mastiffs and great ones, which are bigger and taller seldom bark, and are readier to fall on then we are awares. A man that is truly Bold doth the like; he is silent when he sees the enemy, he goes towards him, and assaults him without speaking a word; but it's a threatening Silence, and which better expresseth his desire he hath to fight, and the confidence he hath in his forces, than even words themselves.  
Yet this hinders not, 
What the voice of a Bold man is.  but that in the heat of the Combat from time to time, some flashes of his Voice, short and piercing, may escape him, which commonly accompany the blows he gives, or the steps he takes; and this in my opinion is to astonish the enemy by those exclamations which remark Ardour and Courage; or to animate and provoke himself, his cry out producing the same effect with that of the sound of Trumpets; Or rather this comes from the endeavours and struggles which the parts make within; which with impetuosity driving the air to the Lungs, force it at its issuing out to resound again, and to form a strong and penetrating sound, because it's driven out with violence; Great, because the passages are enlarged by heat; and short, because it's made by sallies and shocks; it seems even as if it issued not with liberty, and as if the lips and the teeth stopping it in its passage would force it to return and retort it on himself, and to seek other passages, in which its inwardly heard to resound. This appears in the howl of Mastiffs and Bloodhounds, in the roaring of Lions; for all of these cast only forth a great sound, of a short and resounding voice, which loseth itself in the hollow of the Throat and Breast, and which they do not redouble but by long intervals, by reason that the Soul which trusts its strengths, thinks not it ought to double its shocks with that eagerness which always accompanies weakness. The voice of a Bold man is then constrained, disturbed, and as it were entangled in itself, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, as Aristotle calls it, which the Commentators understood not when they said it signified words which precipitated themselves the one or the other, and enterfered by the swiftness of the pronunciation: For this indeed may happen in Anger for these reasons we shall note; but not in Boldness, which is neither loud nor talkative, which shortens as much as possibly, not only its voice, but even its discourse; for besides that it never useth any long threats, it cuts them short at first, and leaves always more to be thought then is said. Quos ego?  
Sometimes he blows with impetuosity, whether the pant and shocks he gives his Breast cause the air violently to issue, or that from time to time keeping in his breath, he is afterwards constrained to use more blowing to drive out the fumes of the Heart, which could not get out during this constraint.  
But why doth he keep in his breath? 
Why he keeps in his breath.  Doubtless to fortify the motion of the other parts; for that we commonly never employ this action, but when we intent to give a great blow to do some other great endeavour. The reason of this Effect is drawn from the nature of the Motion, which is to be on some stable thing, whereon the body moving upholds itself. It's thus that Beasts move, that Birds fly, and that Fish swim, and that all other things move; for in all these motions, the Earth, the Air and the Water, or some other Body remains firm, and resists the thing agitated; and in proportion as the resistance and firmness is greater, the motion also is greater and stronger. Now as the parts of Animals lean more the one upon the other, when any of them is to perform any powerful motion, it's necessary the rest keep close and even to the furthermost which contribute thereunto. It must find without itself somewhat which may sustain itself; otherwise the motion of the first of these will be weak, and their actions will be the less perfect. Whence it comes that Birds are troubled to fly when their Legs are broken; that we run not so well when our Hands are tied, and leap but ill unless we stiffen our Arms, and shut our Fists; because those parts in the condition they then are cannot uphold, as they ought to do the motions of the rest.  
The Soul then which hath a secret knowledge of all what is beneficial unto her, and who knows that in violent endeavours there must be a great and strong support for those organs which are to move, retains the Breath, that that air which is stopped in the Lungs may keep up the Muscles of respiration, and that pressing them on all sides, she stiffens them to support the rest which are engaged in the action. So that we are not content only to stop the breath, but we drive it, and cause it to descend down that the diaphragma may dilate itself, and press the neighbouring parts which thereby are rendered more fit to support those which are in motion.  
In pursuit he shuts his Lips and his Tteeh, as well the better to stop the passages of respiration, as to confirm the parts, whether it be that their confirmation truly contributes to the great designs we have spoken of, or whether the Soul is abused in the choice she makes, as being useless; as it often happens in divers other occasions, wherein she is hindered by Passion to discern things, and to remember the true use of the organs.  
That Coldness which is observed in the beginnings of Boldness, 
Whence comes the coldness of the Face.  is nothing but a certain constancy and assurance of countenance, which is not astonished at the sight of danger, and which also witnesseth neither ardour nor impatience to fight. And it hath been so called, because that besides that, it is the property of cold to render things ; defect of heat is commonly called Coldness. Now this constancy and outward assurance comes from that which is made in the Soul and in the Spirits, and which retaining the humours and the parts in the posture she finds them in, hinders the blood from retiring or expanding itself, and the organs from moving. For in this condition the countenance must not change colour, must remain firm and settled, must appear cold and resolute at the encounter of difficulties: But the first cause of all these effects, is, that at that time the Soul raiseth itself not yet up against the enemy, only prepares herself for the combat, as hath been said; for when she assaults him, the Spirits must rise up with her, must carry blood and redress to the face, and fill all with vivacity, ardour, and impatience. 
The fierceness of the Countenance.   
This Coldness is followed with a noble fierceness, which animates the countenance of a Bold man chief when he goes into danger; for it appears not commonly in the first motions of Boldness, nor in the heat of fight, but only when he is ready for the assault, and marcheth towards the Enemy: So that it seems it is as a mean betwixt his staiedness at first, and that ardour which transports him at last.  
In effect, as this Fierceness is a kind of severe and disdainful Pride, which comes from the presumption and scorn which Boldness useth to inspire: The Soul cannot be susceptible of it before she hath conceived a great opinion of her own strength, because that is the ground of her Pride, nor after she hath found any strong resistance, because that makes her perceive the danger greater than she fancied it, and that therefore she ought not to slight it. It's therefore only when she is ready to fight, for than she is full of the esteem which she hath of herself, and then she disdains the enemy, whose forces she hath not yet experimented.  
However it be, the Head is then kept erect, and the Brow lifted up, the look quick, and full of assurance, the countenance swelled and double-gorged, and hath I know not what in it, that's rude and disdainful. Now all these are the effects and characters of Pride, as in its place shall be said. For the Soul which in this Passion swells itself, raiseth up the Head, lifts up the Brows, and swells the Face, as if she thought more room to enlarge herself, or by those exterior motions she would make that appear which she hath in herself. An assured look comes from that confidence which accompanies its Pride, and that severe and disdainful countenance from the indignation she hath to find obstacles in her designs.  
The Posture and the Gate contribute also to this Fierceness; for all the Body keeps itself straight and set, and if he stir, his march is haughty and proud. The Stature erects itself, because the Soul raiseth and stiffens itself, in the design which she hath to assault, which puts the Body into such a posture as is most advantageous for it to act, as we said in the Discourse of Hope.  
As for the proud Gate, it's that which Aristotle calls Magnific, which is natural to Lions, and is a sign of strength and of greatness of Courage. It's performed with great and grave paces, balancing the Body on either side, and at every step lifting inwards and forewards the Shoulders. But how difficult soever it be to express this action to the life, it's yet harder to find the true cause thereof. Some have sought it in the same temperature which renders the Body robustious, and have said that constitution being more firm and solid, their parts also were more united and shut together, and so they communicated the motion wherewith they were agitated to one another, and in pursuit that when the Legs did lift themselves up, and advance to go, the Shoulders must be moved in the same manner.  
Of a truth, if all those who were of that temper walked after that manner, this proposition would be somewhat probable. But besides that all those who are robustious walk not so: There are those which are not so, to whom this gate is natural, or at lest who in some occasions use it, as in Boldness, in Pride, and the like. We must then refer this effect to a more general cause, which must not be constant and unchangeable as the temperature is, but changeth according to its encounters. And truly if it be a Character proper to Boldness, it must proceed from the agitation of the Soul, whether it serve its design, or be done out of necessity. Now he that will consider that the Soul which will board the enemy, stiffens herself to fortify herself, and gins to raise herself, as to make trial of the assault she is going about, will judge for the reasons which we have so often alleged, that she ought to inspire the same motions into the organs, and consequently that she stiffens them, and drives them vigorously: So that the march and the other actions of the Body must suffer some change and must be performed after another manner than they were wont to be, by reason of that new and extraordinary impression which they receive: A man then which is animated with Boldness, marcheth with a stiffer and more vigorous pace, having a greater number of Muscles which stiffen it, and that all his body weighs and rests itself on that foot which upholds it: So that he the more strongly treads the ground when he walks, wherein the stediness of the things supported consists; and because he cannot so readily displace that foot which stands strong under so great a burden, of necessity his pace must be slow, and he must go the more heavily. But this slowness is recompensed by the greatness and largeness of his steps, his strength seconding the desire he had to get to his Enemy, mixing, if we may so say, haste with gravity: In pursuit of those motions, the Shoulders are moved and stirred, as we have said; Because all the Body stiffening itself, and laying all the weight on the foot, it must needs be that changing place, and carrying the same burden to the other, the Shoulder must advance and weigh down itself on the same side; and this being done with vigour, the impetuosity of the motion causeth it to turn somewhat inwardly, and passing so from the one to the other it ballanceth all the body in marching. Thus then Boldness useth this kind of gate, so that if it be natural and ordinary, in some it's a sign of greatness of Courage, because the Soul which hath a secret knowledge of the motions it ought to make by instinct, bears itself to this kind of pace, which is proper to Boldness and to Generosity, and marching without minding it, as if she ought always to affront the Enemy.  
Furthermore, 
Why he stoops his Head when he assaults.  when a Bold man is near danger, and upon the point of assaulting his adversary, he stooping his Head, throws himself on him, whether he thinks he should therewith knock against him, or that his desire of fight makes him advance that part, as it doth the rest of them; Or that stiffening the Arms to strike, the Neck must stiffen itself to support the endeavour of that motion, and in pursuit the Muscles shorten themselves and so cause the Head to stoop, or in fine, because it would cover itself, and not give aim to the enemy's blows; for this reason it is that he bows all his Body, that he gathers himself up, that he contracts himself, and puts himself on his guard, to use the terms of Art.  
In the heat of the Combat, His Face is inflamed, his Eyes become ardent, and his sweat runs from all parts; Forasmuch as the spirits and the humours cast themselves impetuously to the outward parts, and that the heat which the Soul stirs up in this encounter, expands itself every way, dissolves the humours, and causeth them to run through the pores which she keeps open. It's thus, That in great endeavours, we have often seen blood startle out of the Eyes, Lips, and other parts, and sometimes even from all the Body, in form of sweat. But when this last happens, the transport of the Soul must be excessive. For she must be much urged and constrained to do a very extraordinary endeavour after this manner to drive out of the veins this treasure of life.  
He beats the earth with his feet, to make his Force and vigour appear, and to astonish the enemy by the noise and tempest which at once his Foot, his Voice and his blows make.  
He darts himself forth, and leaps lightly, his forces being augmented by heat, and by the motion of the spirits which render him lighter and better disposed.  
His respiration is strong and impetuous, because heat is increased, which augments the force of the vital parts, and requires a greater refreshment, for which cause the Breast and the Lungs extend and enlarge themselves the more to attract the greater quantity of fresh air, and they fall with precipitation, the more readily to drive away the fumes which the boiling of the spirits and the humour excite.  
The Pulse is great, high, quick, frequent and vehement, for the same reasons; for the Arteries open and extend themselves very much, that they may receive the more air for the refreshing of the spirits; and as this opening satisfies not yet the need which presseth the Heart, the Soul adds to the greatness of its motion, swiftness, and frequency, the more readily to attract refreshment, and the oftener to discharge those fumes which heat raiseth up. To conclude, Because she gathers together her forces to assault and combat ill, we need not doubt but the vital Faculty grows stronger, but that she more powerfully moves her organs, and that consequently she makes the Pulse more strong and vehement. It's true, that all these divers beat of it are also in Anger; but when we speak of that Passion, we will show the difference she makes therein; Let's go to more pleasing subjects which hither to have been observed by no man, or at lest which our ordinary Philosophy hath not yet examined.    

PART. II.  

CHAP. I. The Characters of Constancy, or of the strength of Courage.  
IF it be true that Boldness hath no other function but to assault and combat; 
Constancy is different from Boldness.  yet is the Soul often obliged to labour in its own defence, and simply to resist those ills without daring to assault them; there must necessarily therefore be a Passion which must serve it in this encounter, and must be different from Boldness. And truly since Passions are motions, there must be several Passions where there is a diversity of motion. Now the motion which the Soul makes in resisting, is altogether different from that which she makes in assaulting, whether it be in the manner wherewith it's agitated, or in the end which she hath proposed to herself. For in resistance she knows nothing but how to stiffen and strengthen herself in herself to stop the effort of the Enemy. But in assault she goes out of herself, and casts herself on it to combat it; here she darts and precipitates herself, there she stays and remains stable; here she boldly bestows the blow, there she receives them with assurance. In a word, in the one she would overcome, in the other she is content not to be overcome.  
But if this Reason will not oblige us to distinguish these Passions which Philosophy hath always confounded, let's but follow the common opinion of men, and the ordinary way of speaking in such like encounters; For they never say, That a man with Boldness bears his ill fortune; nor that he suffers Infamy, Grief or Death boldly, but that he endures them, that he suffers with Courage, with Resolution, with Constancy and with Patience.  
If it be not Boldness therefore which produceth these effects, and if amongst the Passions mentioned by the Schools, there is none whereto we can refer them, we are constrained to increase the number of them, and to add to the emotions of the Irascible Appetite, that which serves to support ills, and to resist them.  
Now as those who discover a new Land, commonly give it the name of those Countries which are best known unto them, and which have some likeness together: We have by their example taken the liberty to give this Passion the name of Constancy, a virtue known to all the world, and whereto it hath a great conformity.  
And truly there are Passions which always carry the name of Vices, because they always appear to be vicious, as Envy and Impudence. It must follow, that those which always appear virtuous, should also bear the name of Virtues. Now this is of this kind; for in what condition soever we find her, what defects soever she hath, we still see some image of Virtue in her. And even when she is altogether irregular, we are forced to admire her, and to afford her those praises which are due to fair actions; let's boldly therefore give her the name of Constancy, since she is not unworthy of those advantages which are due unto Virtue.  
But if any man would object, That what we call Passion is nothing but the action of that Virtue; and therefore that it is nothing necessary to introduce a new Passion, since the actions of Virtues are not properly Passions.  
We must first say, That all the actions of Constancy cannot be reckoned for actions of Virtue, since some of them may be vicious, as when we resist ills, which necessarily we should fly, or when we do not resist them as we ought, nor when we ought, nor for that end which Virtue hath proposed to itself. Moreover an action of Constancy may be performed without possessing of the Virtue; forasmuch as Virtue is a habit which is gotten by custom, and that there is no habit acquired till we perform the first actions of Constancy. Now if there are but three things in the Soul, Power, Habit, and Passion, this first action must be a Passion, since it is neither a Power nor an Habit, as it is easy to be judged. In fine, If Constancy is a Virtue, it must needs have a Passion which serves for its subject, and which makes, if we may so speak, the body and the substance of this action; for Virtue, to speak properly, is but an order and a rule which Reason gives to the actions and motions of the Soul: So that we must suppose motions before they can be regulated; and these Motions are Passions, which for that cause are called the substance of Virtues. Constancy being then a Virtue, aught to have a Passion to work upon, which is no other but that which we have spoken of, for the reasons already declared.  
Now although we ought not to think it strange that both of them bear the same name, since the word Boldness is common both to the Passion and to the Virtue; yet if after all these reasons any shall think its to profane the name of Constancy to assign it to a Passion, I will not oppose him; he may if he please choose that of Strength of Courage, because the Soul stiffens itself to resist the ill which assaults it, as shall be seen in the following Discourse. Let's therefore no longer stop at words, but examine the things in that order which we have proposed.  
You must not think to meet here with an insolent and an ambitious Passion which like Love or Boldness would be Queen and Mistress of the rest. 
The Elegy of Constancy.  She is too generous to use flatteries and baseness, which the one employs to establish its power; and she is too modest to subject her Companions by force and violence as Boldness doth; what advantage soever she hath over them, she yields them the precedence without pretending to command, she contents herself not to obey them. And without marching at the head of the Passions, it's sufficient for her to be a follower of the Virtues.  
In effect, it's she which maintains and preserves them, it's she which makes them overcome, and which crowns them; and he who would more nearly examine what she doth for them, might boldly say, that if she brings them not forth, yet at least she accomplisheth them, and renders them worthy of the names they bear, and of the recompense they expect; and truly a virtue which yields and keeps not firm, which gives up its arms after the first fight, or flies after the victory, is an imperfect Virtue. And the perfection which it wants can be added unto it by nothing but Constancy, which alone can consummate commenced virtues, and make them deserve the glory they aspire unto.  
But I say further, that to examine them from their birth, we may see that they wholly own it unto her, and that after reason hath conceived them, it's she that brings them forth, which makes them operate, and makes them subsist. For it's certain, that what service soever Virtue draws from the Passions, they are the only enemies which resist her; they alone form those difficulties which cross her, and it's none but they which are capable to stifle her when she comes to light, and to destroy her when she is in her greatest strength. Without doubt, were there no Passions, Virtue would appear in the Soul like a pure light which would have neither vapours nor clouds to overcome. It would be a Star which would direct its course towards good without any let, and which would conduct us to felicity without trouble or disquiet. We should no longer speak of those vices and crimes, but as of such monsters as were invented by Fables; and all that great crowd of ills, which at every moment disturbs the tranquillity of life, would be unknown or impotent; at least if it yet caused any disorders, we should not rescent them, since its Fear and Grief only which render them sensible.  
But as it's a necessity imposed on Virtue to be born and dwell with its enemies; we must also confess that if any thing can defend it from their violence, and stop those endeavours whereby they seek to oppose it; certainly, it's she alone to whom it's obliged both for its birth and preservation, and to whom its obliged for all the good which happens unto it. Now it's Constancy alone which deserves this glory, since it's she only that is capable of resisting the Passions, stopping those passages whereby they might enter upon the Soul, and which dissipateth them after they are gotten in.  
And truly it's herein we are to admire the providence of Nature, who in the general revolt wherein she sees all these seditions have engaged themselves against reason, doth like a wise Politian, who casts division amongst the Rebels, who gains the most powerful, and makes use of their forces to destroy their own Confederates: For she makes Constancy quit the party of the rebellion, and inspires her with that noble perfidiousness, which causeth her to betray her Complices; in a word, she arms one Passion against all the Passions, against all Vices, and against all ills; and this was the only expedient to yield unto Reason that Empire which belonged unto it, and to bring it to the enjoyment of those Virtues and of that Felicity which it was destined unto: For being she could perform no action without the help of the Passions, had she been abandoned of them all, she must have remained always idle; and it was necessary that some one of them should be faithful upon this occasion, and that it ought to secure it in a design wherein it meets with such great obstacles and such powerful adversaries. Now it will be nothing difficult to persuade that she whom we have spoken of, is only one responsible in this expectation, if we consider that all her nature and essence consists in that stability which the Soul gives herself; and that even as water stops and loseth its motion when it freezeth, so also when the Soul settles itself, and that all its motions cease, that those Passions wherewith she was agitated, dissipate themselves, and the ills which assaulted her can no longer make any impression on her.  
And indeed, she is in the condition of a rock which remains  against the violence of the winds, waves and tempests; she cannot then be moved, neither by the impetuosity of desire, nor by the overslowings of lusts, nor with the storms of Fortune. She hath an impenetrable Hardness against scorn, against offences, and against injuries; and although she is assaulted with sickness and grief, we may say that they are floods which indeed by degrees undermine the shore, but which can never overturn her, nor make her change place.  
So that these advantages being not different from those which accompany Wisdom, we must necessarily confess, that Constancy is this same Wisdom, or that it is its general and inseparable instrument; and that amongst the Passions some are common to all Creatures, others proper to Men, but that this is only peculiar to the Wise; for it's she hath form all the Philosophers of Antiquity, which in all Ages hath produced so many wonderful examples of Fidelity, of Temperance, and of greatness of Courage; which hath made Religion triumph over Vices and Tyrants. Finally, which hath made the Virtue's reign on Earth, and which hath crowned them in Heaven.  
Yet we must confess that she owes all the glory of these fair actions to the counsels of Reason; and were she not enlightened with its light, she would continue in that blindness wherein all the rest of the Passions are born, and cast the Soul into those precipices whereunto her own evil inclinations commonly move her: When this wise Guide indeed forsakes her, she takes part with Vices and Crimes, and renders them the same service she is obliged to render to the Virtues; for she upholds them, and strengthens them, she completes and consummates their malice; and all the duration they have is but an effect of the unhappy perseverance which she affords their ill designs. It's she that locks up the Heart from all the persuasions of Prudence, from all the warnings of Heaven, from all the sentiments of Nature, which hardens it, and renders it  against all their endeavours, and inspiring it with opinionacy in its resolutions, with Hardness of heart towards the miseries of others, and with Obstinacy in all ill, it renders a man unworthy of civil society, and an enemy to God, to men and to himself.  
But we need say no more of it, nor by a long invective dishonour a Passion which is so useful and necessary to Wisdom, and which hath caused no disorders in the World but through the ill use which men have made thereof. Let's pursue our design, and content ourselves here to represent those Characters which she useth to imprint in the Soul, and on the Body of those who are sensible of it.  
Although at first this design ought to be neither long nor difficult in the execution, 
The description of a Constant man  and that this Passion making no change of countenance, and being not susceptible of that variety which is observable in the rest, so that we need but one figure, and as we may say but one simple touch to draw this Picture; yet besides that its difficult to express any motion, and that that is one of the most secret and most hid which is in the Soul: There are so many other things which are to be brought into the piece, that it's impossible but the work must be greater and more painful than any man could think. In effect, we must here represent shipwrecks and precipices, poverty, exile, and slavery; the loss of honour, of parents, of Friends; all what grief, and the most violent sicknesses; all what tortures, and the most cruel torments; all what despair and death have that is frightful and most hideous; and what is yet more formidable, all what the charms of Voluptuousness and Ambition have of most deceiving: For to conclude, these are the principal enemies which arm themselves against Constancy, which assault it and endeavour to overcome it.  
Let's therefore fancy a man animated with this Passion, and see what sentiments he may have at the approach of such powerful adversaries. Certainly, it's in these encounters that the Soul forms its most noble designs, and takes the most generous resolutions which it is capable of;  else where she expects and affronts ill, she thinks to be stronger and more powerful than it, she still hopes for the Victory, and never fights, but she is upheld by some stronger forces; but here she hath an enemy in front who appears invincible, whom she dare not assault, and against whom she alone must resist, and that without any other help.  
In the mean time, she sees him come without fear, and without astonishment; she considers him without trouble and without disquiet, and if she pretend not to conquer him, she at least assures herself that she shall not be overcome; as knowing that the strongest waves break themselves against the rocks, and that the banks hinder the overflowings of the most impetuous Rivers; she promiseth herself the same success from her resistance, and believes that the strength of her Courage will break off the violence of the ills, and stop the course of all those mischiefs which come pouring upon her. In her opinion there is no effort strong enough to make her yield; all the Elements would change place, without making her change her station; and were it possible the mass of the Heavens should break, she imagines that she could sustain its ruins without being over-turned.  
But what is more wonderful, is, that she often mistrusts her forces, and sees well enough that her resistance will be useless, and her loss inevitable. Neither is this capable to make her change her resolution; although even she might escape the danger by flight, she remains firm and expects the shock of the enemy, with the same tranquillity and with the same confidence, as if she were sure of the Victory. She also believes that a man is never overcome, if he loseth not his heart, if he delivers not up his arms; that yielding to force, we yield not to honour of the Battle; and that in that of Constancy, we have always this advantage, To triumph over the Conqueror.  
She in pursuit hereof represents to herself the glory which so many great Courages have acquired in torments and in punishments; the Crowns which they have deserved in the most difficult proofs of patience, and the immortal renown of such fair examples, make her hope, if she can but constantly suffer the ills which threaten her; with this thought she encourageth herself, and without hearing those reasons which might make her yield, she puts herself in a condition to receive the enemy, and vigorously to maintain his assaults.  
Behold her now grappling with him; behold her either assaulted with the violence of grief, or by the outrages of Fortune, or by the darts of Calumny: as if she were insensible of all their blows, she neither troubles herself to fly from them, or to repel them; and although she be cruelly wounded by them, she suffers not so much as a complaint nor a threat to come from her, which might make the least resentment of hers appear. She sees her body torn with tortures or with sickness, as if it did not truly belong unto her, or in effect, were but her Garment: She considers the loss of her Goods as a debt she repays Fortune, and thinks that an injury is ill only in the opinion of him that suffers it, and can truly offend only him that doth it.  
Whilst by these reasons she seeks to sweeten her ills, they forbear not incessantly to perplex her with fresh pangs, which sometimes are so violent that she cannot save the Body from succumbing under their violence, and from betraying its sensibleness by its weakness, and by that languor which appalls it. But for her own part, instead of growing weaker she becomes more strong and vigorous; and as the earth strengthens itself, when it's beaten, we may say, that the blows of grief harden her and render her impenetrable against all its attaints; Grief itself, which seems to be the inseparable companion of adversity and misfortune, cannot reach her; at least it never riseth to that high Region where she forms her designs, and where she entertains a calm and a continual serenity. It's from thence she securely beholds the storms and the tempests which agitate the inferior parts, the troubles and sufferings whereof she with pleasure often considers and sheds abroad a cheerfulness in the complaints and tears which the rigour of her ill often extorts from her Mouth and Eyes.  
And truly there is cause of astonishment to see her so calm in the midst of chains and fire, in the midst of public desolations, in the midst of so many things, the thought of which alone produceth horror and terror; but that in these encounters she should witness joy, that she should bless her persecutors, and that she should speak her pains to be pleasing and glorious, it's a thing which seems to combat Reason and Nature, and which is almost unconceivable: We must also confess that this is the last effort of Constancy, and that she then ought to be upheld by some great and noble Passion, to produce some great and wonderful effect: For commonly griefs and misfortunes use to convey into the strongest and most resolute Soul I know not what kind of bitterness which renders it peevish and wary, which at every instant forceth from it some secret complaints, and at length bereaves it of its strength, at least of that ardour and vivacity which it had at first.  
It's then there that the Soul employs Constancy against Adversaries: It's thus she defends herself from those ills which assault her with open force. Let's now see what she doth against those which under the appearance of good seek to seduce her, which to betray her, flatter her; and to overcome her, use no other violence but only those of enticements and charms. I mean Voluptuousness and Ambition, and all those unjust desires which continually present themselves unto her, which at every moment provoke and solicit her, and which are the more to be feared, the Senses keeping intelligence with them, and forasmuch as they promise felicity to those who suffer themselves to be overcome by their allurements.  
We must certainly confess that she useth no other arms to defend herself against such dangerous enemies, but only those which Constancy in these encounters affords her; she knows that to render their plots and their forces useless, she needs only to keep herself stiff and firm; and that in that condition she cannot be mollified with Pleasures, nor lifted up with the wind of Honour, nor carried away by the hope of those goods which she hath not; she knows that Pleasure is ever accompanied with Repentance, that Ambition never walks but on precipices, and that Desire is not so much a sign as it is the cause of Poverty. Moreover she knows that all the contentment, and all the good fortune which those deceivers promise are but empoisoned sweets which corrupt Health and Reason, and destroy the quiet of the Mind, and the tranquillity of Life.  
On such like Reasons being resolved to hold out against them, she puts herself upon her guard, and shuts up all the avenues by which they might surprise her affections; she turns her eyes from the most pleasing objects; she shuts her ears to the most charming words and persuasions; she flies the approach of all those things which might tickle or seduce the sense; For it's certain, that she expects not such kind of enemies in a steadfast posture, and that she receives them not cheerfully, as she doth the rest. She commonly defends herself from these by a wise retreat; and when she cannot shun their encounter, she puts on a certain disdainful severity, which checks them, and renders their caresses vain, and their flatteries of no use. We may even say, that as there are things which instead of being mollified, harden themselves by heat, it seems that the ardour of these Passions produceth the same effect in her, and that that pleasure which melts and liquifies hearts, hardens hers. She becomes indeed as if she were stupid towards all those things which are the most desirable, and the most delicious in the world; the charms of Beauty, the splendour of Riches, move her not; Praise and Glory have no allurements for her; but quite contrary to that unhappy man who is feigned to be environed with goods, which fly from him when he seeks to enjoy them, she appears in the midst of delights, which she flies as soon as they become sensible. If it happen that the Senses betray her, and that unknown to her, they taste the poison which they present them withal, she chastiseth them by the grief which she causeth them to suffer; and for fear lest she should herself be infected, she keeps herself peevish and austere, and takes a certain disgust of all sweets, and against all the enticements of Pleasure. It's thus also that she preserves herself from that Pride and Vanity wherewith Prosperity is commonly puffed up, from the disquiet and impatience which move violent desires, from those languors and transports which follow irregular contentments. In fine it's thus, she maintains herself in so just a temper, which renders her modest in good Fortune, severe in Pleasure, content in Necessity, and every way equal and like herself. These are the principal touches which Constancy imprints in the Soul: we must now observe those which she makes on the Face and on the other parts of the Body. But we may at first say that they are so like those which Boldness forms thereon, that did we know them no other ways but as two Sister Germans, we might easily by the likeness of their lineaments judge, that they are of the same family, or at least that they both have the same inclinations.  
For as soon as ill presents itself to a Constant man, he expects it with the same Eye, with the same Front, and in the same posture as if he were ready to assault and combat it; his look is firm and assured, his Countenance changeth not colour, and without stirring his Brows or Lids, he coldly considers the danger which threatens him, and seems to brave with a resolved mind the misfortune itself.  
You must not expect from him complaints of injuries, nor any of those exclamations wherewith Fear and Anger unprofitably beat the Air. Silence commonly shuts his mouth; and if he is obliged to speak, it's with a tone of Voice which remarks the tranquillity of his Mind, and the strength of his Courage; for his voice is neither weak nor vehement, slow nor impetuous, it is strong, equal, and settled; and it's upheld with a certain majestical accent which mixeth respect and admiration with the fear we have to see him so near danger. He holds up his Head without impudence; his port is noble without Pride; his pace is grave without Haughtiness; and in all his actions there appears a generous coldness, and a modest confidence.  
But it is not only before the assault that he appears thus resolved; he carries the same air and the same assurance into danger and into fight. When he is first pressed by the enemy, he stiffens his Nerves, he holds his Breath, and gathering himself up in himself, he confirms and settles himself in his posture. In this condition, without going back, he beats all assaults which are made against him; he feels fire and sword fall on him without looking pale; he sees his blood run from all parts without astonishment; and finds his Body wounded with wounds, and torn in pieces without complaining, and without so much as wrinkling his Brow. If sometimes any man makes him change colour, cast forth cries, or turn up his looks, it passeth so suddenly that we may easily judge, that the violence of the ill surprised him, and that it hath rob from him, if we may so speak, those motions from his Constancy. For at the same time he suppresseth his complaints and his sighs; he devoureth his grief, and bringing back a calm in his Countenance with a smile, and with the sweet looks of his eyes he doth not only reprehend his first resolve, but makes it appear more gay and better pleased. In fine, if he perceive the strength of his Body forsake him, and that he must succumb under the effort of the enemy which assaults him, in falling he makes it appear that his Courage is not cast down; that by his fall he raiseth up himself, and that it is not he that yields, but his ill Fortune.  
For he suffers all the insolency of the Victor without murmuring or so much as moving. He sees those blows come without being frighted, which will be the loss of his life, and he is already sensible of death, yet still hath a care to compose his Countenance, and to leave on his dying body the remains of his Constancy.  
But it's time to inquire the cause of all these effects; neither have we any thing more to say of those Characters which this Passion imprints on the body, when she resists those pleasing and deceitful ills of which we have spoken, since she adds nothing to her settled Countenance but severity, disdain, and frowardness wherewith she arms herself against their Allurements, and that we have already observed them in the first figures of this Picture. Let's now examine what its nature is, since its the source whence all these effects ought to take their original.   

CHAP. II. Of the Nature of Constancy, or strength of Courage.  
ALthough at our entrance into this Discourse, 
Why this Passion is necessary.  we have made the nature of this Passion appear, having been obliged to distinguish it from Boldness, to observe the difference of its motions, and the end which the Appetite proposeth itself; yet we must say that we have made therein but an imperfect draught wherein we have only traced out the most remarkable parts, and the grossest lineaments, and that now we must add the last touches, and those colours which were wanting thereunto.  
For which purpose we must again betake ourselves to those principles which we have established in the precedent Discourses, and say, that Nature hath inspired in every thing the care of its own preservation, having taught them to seek what is fit, and to fly what was hurtful, and to combat what was contrary to them; that the Soul as the most noble and the most excellent, hath this knowledge, and these inclinations most strong and most perfect: And that all those Passions wherewith she is continually agitated; are the means she useth to attain those ends; some of them being appointed to pursue good, others to fly ill, and others to assault it; That in fine she flies or assaults ills according as she believes herself weaker or stronger than they; and that Fear, Timerousness, and Despair are signs of Weakness; as Hope, Boldness and Anger are effects of Power.  
But because this division is grounded on more and less, and that amongst these two there is ever a middle, which is equality: It's not sufficient to have shown that the Soul is stronger and weaker than the Evil. We must yet add, that their forces may be equal; so that if she ought to fly when she is the weaker, and assault when she is the stronger, of necessity when their strengths are equal, and consequently being neither to fly nor assault, she must remain simply on the defensive, and that without yielding to the end eavors of the enemy, and without also undertaking any thing against him, she must content herself only to resist. It must needs, I say, be, that as flying she retires with precipitation, and that she darts herself forth with impetuosity when she assaults, she must also stop and keep herself stiff when she intends only to resist; and this stiffening having resistance only for its motive, and proceeding from the equality we have now spoken of, it must make all the Nature and Essence of this Passion, there being no other which this motion in all circumstances befits.  
But before we examine more particularly the manner wherewith the Soul is then agitated, 
Objections to show that Constancy is form with this equality of strength.  we must clear a difficulty which ariseth from those propositions which we have established; for there is great reason for us to doubt, That equality of forces should be the principle of this Passion, since it's certain, she often forms it when the Soul is stronger or weaker than those ills which assault her. How many have we seen of those noble Courages who have opposed enemies far more powerful than themselves, who have been firm and resolute in those dangers, wherein their loss was certain, and who have constantly suffered the greatest imaginable ills without hope, even without having a mind to shun them? On the contrary, is it not an ordinary effect of Magnanimity not to employ all one's forces against a weak enemy, and to oppose against him a man's own endeavours, only without fight with him, or pretending to a Victory, whereby he might gain honour? The Soul then may be moved with Constancy at the encounter of these ills which she esteems weaker or stronger than herself; and therefore the foundation on which we thought to have so well established this Passion, cannot sustain itself, and threatens the ruin of all the superstructure.  

Answer to the first Objection.  To answer to such strong Objections, we must first observe, that the opinion which the Soul hath of her forces is not essential to the Passions, but an action of Judgement, and not of the Appetite. And that it only is instead of a natural condition towards their production, in that general order which Nature hath prescribed those Powers; but forasmuch as this order is often changed in particulars, it also happens, that when the Passions form themselves, this condition is often wanting as all other things which are strangers to them, and enter not into their essence.  
Now this general order will have the sensitive Appetite immediately conducted by the imagination, as by a light which is proper and necessary unto it, and destinated to show it all what it ought to do. And as she would in vain propose unto it to do any thing, unless she thought it were in its power, these forces must necessarily be known unto it, and she must know whether they are great enough to oppose those difficulties which present themselves.  
So that if the Faculties be not put out of that road which naturally they ought to keep, the Appetite could never form any motion, but the imagination must first have compared her strength with the difficulties; but that she must have thought herself stronger than them, when she ordains them to combat them; but that she must have believed she was weaker when she counsels us to fly them; and finally, but that she must have judged that at least her forces are equal with theirs, when she obligeth it to expect or to resist them. For it sometimes happens that she thinks herself stronger, and yet she will not assault, whether it be because she slights the enemy's weakness, or because natural Justice forbids her to undertake too unequal a Combat, as hath been showed in the Discourse of Boldness. However it be, that order which we have now remarked is ever observed in Beasts, in whom these two Faculties absolutely command, and are not hindered in their Functions by any superior Power which they are subject to. But it is not so with Man, in whom Reason and Will ought to govern the sensitive Appetite, and cause it to move as it pleaseth them; for it often happens that these Faculties, without having respect to those motives which the imagination proposeth to the Appetite, oblige him to fly when he might assault or defend himself, and to fight and resist when he ought to betake himself to flight: It is not but that Reason sees that the Combat and the resistance which she causeth the inferior part to make, are uselsst to overcome those difficulties, or to stop their course. But as unprofitable as they are for these particular motives, they serve for others, which it judgeth more noble and more useful than those. And the vain endeavours which it then moves in the Appetite, are the means which it employs to attain the proposed end. Thus she often assaults an enemy, when she knows not very well who shall be overcome. But it's only to acquire honour and glory wherewith generous actions are rewarded; she suffers courageously grief, torments and death itself, not to avoid the effect which she believes inevitable, but to merit those Crowns which Heaven and Earth give unto Constancy. In a word, there are divers motives which may engage her in those designs, and which are good or ill, according as she is enlightened with false or true light. But it is still certain, that in all these encounters she goes against the general order which ought to regulate the motions of the inferor part, and which she herself useth to follow in her ordinary actions, there being nothing more reasonable then to fly when we are weakest, to assault when strongest, and to resist upon equal terms.  
But it is not enough to know that the Soul resists; 
Why Constancy resists ill.  we must see what the end is of this resistance, and what profit she gets thereby; for it seems as if it would be more advantageous for her to fly those ills which seem invincible, then to expose herself to its violence, and suffer those efforts which may give her, if not much discommodity, yet at least much trouble, considering also her natural aversion towards it, its principal effect being to put it by, and estrange it from her presence, she ought to follow the motion of this Passion, and not expect an enemy she cannot overcome.  
Did Reason only engage her to this resistance, it were easy to discover the advantages she pretends to make; those motives of honour and glory which she commonly proposeth in those encounters, would evidently make it appear, that she aspires to those noble rewards, and that those are the fruits which her Courage pretends to gather; but because these motives are extraordinary, and unknown to the fancy, as hath been shown, that they are not in beasts; and that in ourselves Reason doth not always force the inferior part, but suffers it to go its common road; we must seek some other end proper and natural unto it, and see what she pretends unto, when she takes a resolution to resist those ills which assault her.  
To speak to the purpose, it's not so easy to be discovered as some may think. And we must confess, that that light which enlightens the Soul in those occasions, is of the rank of those which Nature sheds abroad in all those things, which without knowing, know whereto they ought to tend, and which without perceiving it moves to their end. The Soul indeed knows that she ought to assault ill, and that she ought to overcome it; that she ought to resist it, and that she must oppose violence; but she knows not why; and the understanding itself, which often doth the same actions, is not always advised of the true motion which made it undertake them.  
Upon this ground we may say, that as the Soul assaults her enemy out of hope to overcome him, and that she seeks to overcome him; to take from him the power of doing ill; that she also resists him not to take away his power, but only to stop the course thereof, and hinder it from producing its effect; that the advantage she pretends to make from this hindrance, is to retard her own loss as long as she resists; or to cause the enemy to lose its will to contuinue his assaults, letting of him know that with the strength she hath, she cannot be overcome. And last of all, to shun the danger wherein she would be engaged, did she but yield or take flight; for she can never sly but she must forsake and quite abandon her Strength and Courage, and to augment those of her enemy, or at least give him freedom to do all the ill he is capable of.  
In effect, did we not oppose grief, fear, and other evils which are in us, they would overflow all the parts of the soul, and would bring her to languish and to despair: Did we not constantly suffer injuries, adversities, and other mischiefs which come from without the imagination, seeing no means whereby to stop their course, would fancy them greater than they are, and make them always appear extreme and insufferable; did we not even sometimes stiffen under the burden of our sufferings, we should be oppressed by their weight; and those parts which yielded to the violence thereof, falling on those which upheld them, would batter them by their fall, and fill them with grief. In a word, whatsoever ill the Soul would fly, she is in the same danger that a Soldier casts himself into who falls before his enemy, or that a whole Army incurs when it flies the sight of a Conqueror, who comes pouring down upon it.  
Let's then conclude, that the motive which she proposeth in Boldness, is to bereave the enemy of the power of doing ill, that in Constancy she only suspends its effect, and that in Fear she seeks to shun it by flight. Now as there is more security to have no enemy, then to have one who doth harm us; and neither is this so much to be feared as one who puts himself in posture to do it: So it's also true, that the Soul is more secure in Boldness which destroys ill, then in Constancy which hinders only its effect: As for the same reason, she ever thinks to fight before she thinks of her own defence, and never resolves to fly but at her greatest extremity, that being her worst condition and the saddest posture she can be reduced unto, leaving the enemy with full power and liberty to work her ruin.  
The soul than resists the ills which assault her, 
Why Constancy resists ill.  to stop the course of them; Let's now see how she resists them. For we question not here that exterior resistance, which is performed by the action of the parts which oppose themselves against the efforts of those things which might harm them. Besides that, there eaten ills, against which the motions of the Soul would in vain employ this resistance, as those which are purely spiritual are; for it resists not afflictions by the opposition of corporal forces, but by her own proper strength. Besides that, the motions of the Appetite do not always descend to the organs, whether it be because they are restrained by Reason, or because they are sometimes form so quickly, and move so readily that it's impossible they should have time to communicate themselves with the Body. It's certain that all these exterior motions, which are observed in the Passions, are the effects and sequels of those which are form within the Soul; so that if the Body resist outwardly, the Soul also must within herself perform the same action, or to speak it better, she must of herself resist before she can resist by the Body's means. So that we are obliged to seek in what manner she makes this secret and inward resistance, which she employs against spiritual ills and which is the source and cause of that which she causeth to be made in the organs. This will be nothing difficult, having so often shown that the agitations of the body are the images and the Characters of those which are made in the Appetite; that there is some relation and some resemblance betwixt them; and that the Soul exciting both of them, it's very likely she would render them as uniform as she can.  
Now we experiment it in ourselves, that when we must make an outward resistance against a puissant Adversary, we stop and remain firm; and to fortify ourselves against his assaults, we stiffen our Muscles and our Nerves, and there is no part about us which becomes not harder, and more solid by the effort which we give ourselves: Somewhat therefore like this must be done in the Soul, and consequently she must necessarily stop and confirm herself, that gathering her forces together she must stiffen herself in herself: In a word, she must take, as it were, a kind of a consistence, which yields not easily to the shock and assault of the enemy. 
The stiffening of the Soul stops the course of ill, and how.   
We are now to see how she can stiffen herself, and of what nature this Firmness is, which she makes use of in this occasion; but because this hath been already done in the Discourse of Hope, and that in that place the Reader may find wherewith to satisfy his curiosity, It will be sufficient to examine here what it is that makes this stifness, and whether it be a means able to stop the course and violence of the ills which assault the soul.  
For it seems at first, that this firmness serves to this purpose only but in corporal things, which being unable to penetrate one another are constrained to stop when they meet with any which yields not to their motion; so that in stiffening the Body, and keeping of it firm, we sustain the weight of a burden, we break the current of a wave and of a torrent; we stop the impetuosity of an enemy which presseth upon us, and would overthrow us.  
But in those things which have no Bodies, as the Will and Appetite, the stifness which either of them takes, cannot in all likelihood stop the course nor the motion of ill, whether corporal or spiritual, the reason of penetration having no place in those things. In effect, let the soul stiffen and strengthen itself as much as she can, she cannot stop the least corporal motion, unless she also stiffen the parts and the organs of the Body she animates. And if she assaults those ills which are truly or any way spiritual, such as are injuries, mishaps, afflictions, and the like; this stiffening we have spoken of seems to be a means altogether useless to resist it.  
Let's first therefore say, 
Two forts of Firmness.  that there is two sorts of Firmness; the one which proceeds from material qualities, and is only to be found in hard and solid Bodies; the other comes from the impetuosity of the motion, and is common to all things which move, whether corporal or spiritual. Thus Water, Air, and Wind which are of a fluid nature, and yield easily, acquire a firmness by their agitation, which stops the most solid Bodies. Thus Angels, Demons, and all separated substances restrain one the other, according as their motions are more powerful, as we have elsewhere manifested it. Now the Firmness which the Appetite hath is of this kind; for it proceeds from the only motion it makes in stiffening itself, even as the members become firm by the tonic motion, of which we have spoken in the Discourse of Hope. And as by the first stiffening the bodies resist, because they are hard and impenetrable; so also by the latter, all other things resist by reason of the motion which they make, which stops what it encounters, and is incompatible with it. So that the Appetite resists ills, by making a contrary to what they make.  
But because there are some which are corporeal, and other spiritual; it's certain, that the Firmness which this part of the soul takes in stiffening itself, cannot of itself alone stop corporal motions, how weak soever they are, but necessarily the exterior organs must contribute thereunto, and that if it be form without them, it would prove a vain and useless violence, and an imperfect motion, which would not move to that end which Nature had prescribed it. For she hath afforded the Appetite the power to stiffen itself at the encounter of corporal and sensible ills, but only to inspire the same motion in those Faculties which are under its direction, and cause the organs to make that resistance, which is necessary in those encounters.  
As for those ills which truly, or in some manner are spiritual, we must consider whether they have motion, as Grief, Fear, and the rest of the Passions; for it's certain, that these may be stopped and restrained by the resistance only which the Appetite makes by stiffening itself in itself. Forasmuch as water loseth its rapidity, and even its fluidity when it settles and congeals; so when the Appetite stiffens itself, the motions of the rest of the Passions must cease or diminish. If the Soul indeed shut itself up in Grief, if it dilate itself in Joy, if it retire itself in Fear, we need not doubt but Constancy foreseeing these motions, or arriving afterwards must needs hinder or restrain them, bereaving the Appetite of the liberty or facility of moving itself by that stifness which she imprints in it.  
But when the ills are without motion, as injuries, exiles, poverty, in a word, all those which are not in the rank of Passions, we cannot say that the Appetite properly and immediately resists them; for that it cannot resist those things which move not, as hath been said; consequently those ills must then have had some motion; but it resists them only by opposing itself to those Passions which they usually cause. Truly he that constantly suffers Poverty, doth not properly resist Poverty, but the grief, the impatience, the peevishness which follows after it. And he that suffers death with a courage, cannot truly resist death, since it as yet is not, but only Fear, Grief and Despair which the image of so frightful an ill raiseth up in the Soul. Neither are all these things Ills in effect, but only as we know that they are so; forasmuch as a Man who thinks not himself poor suffers not the Ills of Poverty; and that there are many who effectually are so, and who have the knowledge of it, yet place it not in the rank of Evils. So that ill is not ill but from the knowledge and the resentment we have of it. Now the knowledge is no true motion, there being no part of the Soul which moves but the Appetite, and therefore there is no resistance to be made against ill, when it continues in the Knowledge, but only when it descends in the Appetitive part, where it forms those Passions which the Soul may resist, as hath been said.  
Let's return to our former Discourse, and say, That after having cleared all those dfficulties, it seems as if nothing could hinder us from defining Constancy to be a motion of the Appetite, whereby the Soul settles and stiffens herself in herself, to resist those ills which assault her.  
But this definition raiseth new doubts; 
Wherein Hope and Constancy consist.  for if the Soul settle and stiffen itself in hope to resist difficulties; and if this stiffening is the difference of the motion which distinguisheth this Passion from the rest, as hath been said; Constancy, to which we give the same definition, is nothing different from Hope, or that neither of them are well defined. If indeed we ought to consider in the Passions nothing but the simple agitation which the Appetite gives itself, this consequence certainly were infallible; but it is not the only thing which specifies the Passion; there is another motive which regulates this motion, which is as it were the form of it, and restrains it to such or such a species. So that according as the corporal motions are different the one from the other, by the difference of the term and end which they tend unto; those of the Soul are diversified by the several motives she proposeth to herself. So we have observed, that she equally darted herself forth in Desire and in Boldness, and that notwithstanding she suffered two different Passions; forasmuch as in the one she darted herself forth towards the good, that she might draw near it; and that in the other she casts herself forth against ill, that she might assault and combat it. We may also say, that in Hope and in Constancy she moves after the same manner; that she stiffens herself in both to resist the difficulties; but that there are different motives which distinguish them from one the other. For in Hope she stiffens herself not actually to resist difficulties, but only to put herself in a condition to resist them, if it happen she be assaulted by them; Forasmuch as she considers not the ill but by the way, as a thing far off, as an enemy she can master; but in Constancy she stiffens herself effectually to resist it, because it's present that assaults her, and seems invincible: So that we may say, that the Soul in both these Passions, doth like the General of an Army when he passeth through an enemy's Country, and when he finds himself surprised in some Ambuscado; in the one being doubtful of meeting the enemy, he marcheth in good order, he keeps his guards, and puts himself in posture of resistance if he should be assaulted; in the other he finds himself engaged amongst them before he was ware of them; and of necessity, unless he will fly, he must defend himself: Even so when the Soul hopes for any good, she marcheth towards it through all those difficulties which environ it; and being in doubt of being assaulted by them, she stands on her guard, fortifies & prepares herself to fight if they should come and assault her; but in Constancy she finds herself surprised by the ill, which perhaps she had never expected, had she but had time to have discovered it; nor dares she assault it, being unable to do aught else but oppose herself to its violence, and bear its effort.  
Having cleared this doubt, another ariseth far more important, which also is more difficult to resolve; for if the Soul stiffens herself in Constancy, and if by its means she resists Grief, and Joy, and the rest of the Passions, the Appetite must be agitated with contrary motions; and for example, opposing itself to Joy, it must stiffen itself at the same time when it dilates itself, 
How Constancy may be compatible with the rest of the Passions.  and consequently suffer two opposite and incompatible motions.  
It seems very easy to answer this Objection, if it were true, That Beasts were not able to resist their Passions, and that this kind of Constancy were proper and peculiar unto Man, forasmuch as we might then say, that these opposite motions would not be found together, and that resistance must be form in the Will, whilst the other Passion did agitate the inferior parts; yet were it true that Man alone were capable of Constancy, as it is very likely, the difficulty would still remain entire, since its certain that the Will may resist its own motions; and that being susceptible of all the Passions which touch at the Senses, and there being some of them particular which are unknown to the inferior parts, such are Envy, Ambition and Impudence: Neceslarily in opposing the Passion of Constancy, she must at the same time suffer these contrary motions, even communicate them to the Appetite, when she is constrained by its to resist those motions which agitate it.  
Let's first therefore say, that the Will and the Appetite may engage themselves in so great a resistance, and settle and stiffen themselves so strongly, that they will not be able to suffer any other motion; and that in this condition if they have not hitherto received a Passion, they will altogether hinder it from forming itself; or if it already be there, they will stifle it and stop its course by the firmness which they have confirmed themselves in. And it is certainly so, that a strong and magnanimous man so strengthens his Courage against injuries, losses, and other accidents of Fortune, that they make no impression in his Soul; or if he be surprised by them, he presently stifles the resentment of vengeance, and of the affliction which they give him. Now in this case it's certain, that the inconvenience proposed is not to be feared, because that then the Will and the Appetite are agitated with one motion only, and that they are moved by no other Passion but this, Constancy and strength of Courage; but when they stiffen not themselves so much, and that their Firmness is not so great but that they may also suffer some other motion; than you must imagine that the same thing happens to them as unto the Air, when it's agitated with contrary winds, or the Sea when it suffers in some straits the encounter of several currents and the shock of the encountering waves; for as in those Bodies which are fluid, and yield easily, there are parts which make way through others, which are driven by a contrary motion; It's very likely that the Will and the Appetite have also several parts which may be agitated with different motions, and that in some of them the effusion which Joy requires, will be made whilst the rest stiffen themselves to resist it; And this may easily be persuaded, if we consider that the reasonable Soul and the intelligence which are altogether undivisible, have, as it were, divers parts, wherein we may receive different agitations.  
Or we must say, that even as the impression of two opposite motions makes not the Bodies which receive them move at the same time forwards and backwards; but it confounds these two motions, so that if they are of an equal strength, the body moves neither this way nor that, or else it moves but on that side whereto the strongest compels it, but more weakly than it would have done, had it not been kept back by the other: So when the Will and the Appetite are agitated with any motion, if another contrary thereunto happen, a certain mixture is made which weakens them both, and which also diminisheth those Passions which are form of it. And indeed by experience we know, that Constancy weakens affliction, but that this also abates very much of her force, and that from time to time the Soul had need to reanimate its Courage, and to take up new Arms for to continue her own defence, and not suffer herself to be overcome.  
Now for the rest, 
The Will only can resist the Passions.  how strange soever it seem that we have placed the Will and the Appetite as parallels to one another; yet it's certain that the inferior part alone is not able to resist these Passions, but that the superior must inspire it with the design and motion; otherwise the imagination which proposeth to the Appetite designs which it ought to take in its motions, must at the same time make unto it two contrary propositions, the one to form the Passion, and the other to stop it, which is above the power of a material and determinate Faculty; Nay, even the Understanding how separate soever it be from matter, and how universal soever it be, would never go so far, had she not those several stages, and those several degrees which its known to have.  
For those who have most curiously examined the nature thereof, confess that there are, as it were, two parts in it; the one of which is low, next to the sensitive Soul, and which by reason of that neighbourhood suffers itself to be easily carried away, and corrupted by the senses; the other is more pure and raised up higher, which for that cause is called the top and height of the Understanding, wherein God hath effused the light of true Reason, and the seeds of all the virtues; and it's that also which inspires the Will to resist those Passions which the other hath raised there, unknown or contrary to its advice; thus these contrary designs whereof we have spoken, are not form by one and the same power, since that which serves for Constancy is form in the highest part of the Understanding, and that which serves to that Passion to which it is to be opposed, is made in the lower region.  
But we have marched too far on precipices and on thorns; 
The Soul resists not ill but by Constancy  let's leave these byways, and these subjects, which with their difficulty astonish the mind: Let's only observe, that Constancy and strength of courage, is alone the only means by which the Soul truly resists the Passions; for although ordinary Philosophy proposeth others unto us, as to divert our thoughts from the object which raiseth them, to weaken their power by Ratiocination, to fall upon other contrary Passions, and the like. Yet to consider it well, therein there is no true resistance; they are rather flights or fights then a simple defence. For when we will not consider the injury which we receive, that is not to defend ourselves from Anger, it's to fly it; even as it is to assault it, when we employ a contrary Passion for to destroy it.  
But yet to deserve the honour to have resisted them, in what way soever it were, we must have had the design; for we may divert a man from being angry; we may also inspire another Passion in him which may appease his fury, and fear may fall upon him, which may take from him that fence of vengeance which he may have conceived. And yet a man will not say that in these encounters he resists his Passion, for that he had it not in his intention. It is even so with Beasts, in whom one Passion may weaken and destroy another, in whom the same Appetite may stiffen itself, and by its stiffening hinder itself from taking the impression of another motion: No, they do not for that resist their Passions, because besides that they cannot, as I have said, form the design of it; it must needs be that they must be able to reflect on their actions, against those maxims which we have elsewhere established. Let's then conclude, that Constancy is a motion of the Appetite, by which the Soul confirms and stiffens itself in itself, with an intention to resist those ills which assault it.  
To examine now those ills, would be to fall into useless and impertinent repetitions; for they are the same which move Boldness, and all what we have said of them in that place, may be here applied. It will suffice if we remember that under the notion of ill, we understand not only a pure privation, but also the causes which produce it, and the incommodities which follow it; and that the two latter are the true ills which the Soul resists. 
The differences of Constancy.   
We should have nothing more to say on this subject, did not the method which we have followed in the rest of the Passions oblige us to observe the most remarkable differences of Constancy, and chief those which may serve to afford us a reason for those Characters which she imprints in the Soul and in the Body. Let's then say, that there are none essential, forasmuch as the motion and the motive which cause all the essence of this Passion, are equally to be found in all sorts of Constancy; as for those which we call accidental, the most remarkable are drawn from the subject wherein she is found, or from the object which raiseth it, or from the relation which it hath with Reason: For if we consider its subject, it hath one which is in the Will, and another which is in the sensitive Appotite: In respect of the Object there are divers sorts, according to the several sorts of ill which assault the Soul; but the most considerable is that which resists the Passions, and that which opposeth itself to the violence and endeavours of exterior ills; this is common to all Animals, and depends altogether on corporal strength, namely on those which are most proper to suffer, such as are to be found in the melancholy temperature, of which we have spoke in the Discourse of Boldness; the other is proper and peculiar for Men, and principally for those which are most reasonable, because it's commonly Reason which moves us to oppose the Passions, so that herein there needs no other strength but that of the Soul; wherefore those whose spirits are strong by nature or by study, are most susceptible of it: It's true, that the force of the mind depends often from the temperature; whence it is that young people and Women whose spirits by reason of their constitution are less strong, are troubled to resist their Passions.  
Finally, There are some that are virtuous, others vicious, according as they are conformable or contrary to right Reason, and so serve for the matter of Virtues or Vices. In effect, Justice borroweth from this Passion Firmness which is necessary unto it to resist Love, Hatred and such other things as might corrupt it; Temperance could not moderate the motions of the concupiscible Appetite but by its means; and those Virtues which force produceth by resistance, such as are Patience, Constancy and Perseverance, are maintained only by it. On the contrary, when she straggles out of the right way, and abandons the conduct of Reason, there is no Vice which she doth not encourage and assist, because she alone resists those motions which the Conscience inspires always in those who undertake or execute any evil design: But although she may be found in all vicious actions, there are some wherein she appears more, as in Temerity, in Hardheartedness, and in Opiniastrecy, as we shall hereafter make it appear.  
Now all those terms wherewith we use to express Boldness, are also employed for Constancy; For to say a man hath suffered death Constantly, we use to say he hath suffered it with a Courage, with Resolution, with Assurance, without fear, and without apprehension; and this happens from that Constancy is as it were a demi Boldness, at least it is instead of it, when it hath no cause to fight, whether we despise the enemy, or because its forces are not sufficient to assault it. Wherefore the same causes and the same preparatives which serve the one do also serve the other. And certainly, after the Soul hath found its forces to be equal with those of the enemies which assaults her, she assures herself that she shall not be conquered, and consequently she hath no cause to be afraid: In pursuit whereof she takes a Resolution to resist him, and for that cause she raiseth her forces, that she may stiffen and confirm herself in herself, and if it be necessary, she causeth the same motion to be made in the outward organs. As for Courage it's certain that it's in common with Boldness, and with Constancy, for the Reasons alleged in the former Chapter.   

CHAP. III. What the motion of the Spirits and of the Humours is in Constancy.  
SInce the spirits follow the motions of the Soul, 
How the Spirits stiffen themselves.  and that they always move as she moves; if it be true that she stiffens herself in Constancy, they must needs also suffer the same agitation; so that since we have treated of their stiffening in the Discourse of Hope, it seems that we should have nothing more to say here, unless we should repeat those things which we have there already examined. Yet besides that, the nature of this motion is extremely hid, neither is the repetition of these obscure and difficult things useless, and that it would be troublesome to seek far off what ought to be here known; it's fit we should repeat a part of the things which we have said, adding thereunto some new considerations for the better clearing of the Subject.  
We must first therefore remember that the Spirits stiffen themselves not by congealing themselves, as it happens in some diseases, forasmuch as that would render them , and that this Passion hinders them not from being carried to those places where they are necessary, nor restraining and taking themselves up in themselves, for that they cannot restrain themselves but they must retire inwardly, and then it must needs be that contrary to the nature of Constancy the face must look pale and change colour, the blood with which they are mixed being forced to follow them, and as they do, to abandon the exterior parts. They therefore stiffen themselves by the intermission of the Soul, which subjects their parts to a certain order under which it restrains them, without being more free or Vagabonds, as before they were. But to conceive this kind of motion, which is extremely hid, and most difficult to be conceived, we must make use of the same example, which we formerly made use of, and imagine that it herein happens near upon as water which settles and congeals: For those parts which before were fluid, being seized by the cold which is insinuated amongst them, stop and become firm without confounding or mixing themselves together: whilst all the body of the water so settled may be transported from one place to another; and the current of Rivers often draws along with it great pieces which tear down those Bridges and Dams which they meet in their way: But with what rapidity soever they are then carried away, their parts change neither the position nor the order which they keep amongst themselves without penetrating; they amongst one another maintain themselves; and they remain firm without confounding themselves, just as long time as the cold keeps them bound and captivated.  
The Soul doth the same in the Spirits; she sheds and slides herself into all their parts, and being she may place them as she pleaseth, she stops them in what order she will, and lead them as it were by the hand to the place she assigns them; so that how fluid soever they be, the one cannot be mixed with the rest; and what agitation soever they suffer, they remain stable in that rank wherein they are placed.  
Now although this comparison may give us some knowledge of the condition, wherein the spirits are in this Passion; yet it shows us not what is most difficult to be known; for it supposeth, and it's true, that the parts of congealed water are no longer in motion, and we pretend that the spirits have one which entertains this stiffening. We must therefore seek another example which may make this truth appear, and have more relation to the Soul then cold hath, or any other sensible quality.  
Without doubt, 
How the Angels stiffen Bodies.  this is to be found in the firmness which the Angels may give to the Air, and to some other fluid bodies; for besides that they are substances which have a great natural conformity with the Soul; it's certain, that they agitate their Bodies after the same manner as she doth the spirits, and that the stiffness which she imprints on them excludes not motion, as it happens to congealed water.  
Let's then suppose with the consent of the Schools, that a certain space of Air be occupied by an Angel, and that the Wind or some other Body seeks to move or penetrate it; it's a certain thing that the Angel may so stiffen it that he may stop all its endeavours so that he cannot be shaken or penetrated by them.  
To know now how he can impose this firmness, we must believe with the common opinion of Philosophers, that the Angels have a motive virtue by which they move themselves, and may also remove bodies, and transport them from one place to another, as all profane and sacred Histories teach us. In effect it must needs be, that those things which work the one on the other, must have some proportion together, and there must be amongst them some common nature, which must serve for the foundation and principle of their action: Now there is nothing which can be common betwixt spiritual and corporeal substances, but the motive Virtue, and the Motion; and therefore if they work the one on the other, it must be by that means; which being so, the Angel cannot stiffen the Air but by the motion which it imprints in all its parts, since it's that only which gives him power over bodies: And to show that this is true, it is that he is able to be present with all those parts without stiffening them; so that it's necessary that he should raise up his vigour, and agitate them, thereby to imprint on them this quality.  
If any should say, that being thus moved, they must needs either be driven, be drawn, be born, or be turned, because these are the several ways by which one thing may be moved by another; and howsoever it may be done, they must necessarily change place; so that herein not changing it, and remaining still in the same situation, there is no probability to believe that they suffer any motion.  
We must answer, that it's true, that when the Angel imprints any motion in the Bodies, he necessarily makes them change place unless there happen some obstacle which hinders them: Now there is nothing which can hinder them but a contrary motion, because there is nothing common betwixt them but motion, and consequently if there be no contrary motion in the parts of the Air, it's certain that the impression which the Angel will make on them will cause them to change situation: If it happen that after having received it, that they remain in the same condition they were, they must have had a contrary motion which resists this impression, and which being of equal force with it, puts them in aequilibrio, and keeps them as it were suspended without stirring from one side to the other, wherein this firmness consists.  
But what? continuing thus firm and stable, and not changing place, can they be in motion? Certainly, We need not doubt it, since it is by motion that they keep this situation, and that we cannot deny but that the impression of the motion must be received therein, but that it agitates on them, and that she resists not the first motion which they made, like as a great weight which we hold lifted up or high; for although it still remain in the same place, yet would it not forbear to have that motion which its weight gives it, and we should be sensible of the effort it would make, falling and returning to its centre. Finally, as it were nothing probable to say that a thing which were powerfully drawn on both sides by equal forces, should suffer no motion because it would neither move on the one or on the other side; nor that the arm we stiffen should be at rest, because it still remains in the same place: Philosophers and Physicians being all agreed, that these are the most violent motions which bodies can suffer; we must necessarily conclude that those parts of the Air which are stiffened by contrary motions are in motion, although they remain stable and change not their situation.  
Let us now apply this Doctrine to our subject and say, that what the Angel doth in this encounter, the Soul doth it on the spirits; for although she be present to all their parts, yet she renders them not stiff; she must also move them, and before that they also must be moved by a contrary motion; so that being equally driven from one and another, they can neither advance nor go back, but remain immovable betwixt these endeavours and violences. Now this firm motion which they ought to have, may proceed from the Passions which agitate them; Constancy seldom forming herself unless she be preceded by some other Passion, or from the impetuosity they are driven unto in ships; for being very movable, she easily makes them straggle from one the other, as it happens to all fluid Bodies, when they are agitated; and then the Soul giving them a contrary motion proportionable to the first they had, they retain it, and stop them in a certain order which they change not, unless one or the other cease. But although in this condition they appear  because they remain in the same situation, they forbear not to be in motion, as hath been already sufficiently demonstrated.  
This is what the motion of the spirits is in Constancy. 
Why the Spirits stiffen themselves.  Let's now inquire the end and profit which the Soul proposeth itself in this firmness. We must not doubt but she desires them for her defence, and employs them to resist those ills which assault her; but at first it seems as an unprofitable means for that design: For if ills have no motion, as Exile, Infamy, and Slavery, this stifness were against them to no purpose for the reasons before alleged; and if they have any, either they are Passions which are form in the Appetite, whose motions the spirits cannot hinder, or they are Bodies whose violence they cannot stop. In effect, what can this stiffening do against the effort of Grief, against the force of a blow, against the weight of a burden which falls on them? No, being so easily overcome as they are, it seems that the Soul in vain useth them in these encounters, and that in vain she opposeth herself against such powerful things, against which she is not able to resist. We must undoubtedly confess, that she often abuseth herself in the motion which she gives those organs, and that she doth not always get those succours which she ought to expect from them, and that she even sometimes agitates them without any need. For when she resists the Passions, it's certain that neither the stiffening of the Spirits, nor any other moti● on of the Body whatsoever, can be either necessary or useful unto her, since they are actions proper unto her, who never goes out of herself, and so consequently is above all the efforts of the corporal organs: Yet if she than ceaseth not to agitate them, it is from that that the Appetite which stirs up these motions, is a blind power, which cannot judge when she ought to make use of those parts; and they are destined to obey unto it; it rather in this occasion commands them out of custom, than out of design; and they also are so obedient, that we may say that at the least solicitation it makes them that they put themselves in a readiness to assist it, and that even they seem to prevent its orders and commands.  
It is not so when the violence of corporal things is to be resisted; the stifness of the spirits is therein so absolutely necessary, not only because they are bodies which may work powerfully on those things of the same Nature; but also because they are the first which receives the Souls commands, and carrieth them to all the rest of the parts; for being employed in this commission, they must needs take that esmotion which they ought to inspire in the rest of the organs; and as an Ambassador ought to carry with him the sense of him who sent him, and be throughly persuaded of what he is to make others believe; they ought to be agitated with the same motions which the Appetite suffers, and of those which they would imprint on the rest of the parts; so that they stiffen not themselves immediately to resist the forces of the enemy, but that they may stiffen the Muscles and the Nerves against them, and so powerfully resist their violence. And truly we may consider the body as a great Machine wherein are several Springs which move one another: The first go slowly, and seem almost not to move, although it is they which make the great Wheels to turn, and cause those great motions which are observable in them: The Spirits are the same thing; we hardly feel their motion, neither is it they which perform the last actions, yet they lead the dance to all the rest of the organs; and did that Spring but fail, all the Machine would become , neither could the Body act any more.  
But the principal reason for the which, in my opinion they thus move, is, that their stiffening contributes to maintain the Muscles which in this occasion ought to be stiff; for the Soul which knows that all motion is to be made on somewhat which is stable, stiffens as much as it may the parts upon which those which are agitated are supported; so that often she holds back the breath, that that air which is stopped in the Lungs may serve to uphold the instruments of respiration, which thereby the better support the rest, as hath been elsewhere showed. She therefore affords this stiffening of the Spirits to uphold those vessels wherein they are enclosed, and afterwards they support those parts which touch them, and they again the rest, to the very last, which serves for a foundation and basis to the principal motion which is made; for although it seems that such frail and movable things are not very fit for that use, yet as the number of the Wheels and Springs augments the force of the motions; so the number of Butteresses and Upholders renders the resistance the stronger; and sometimes for want of the least, a whole Building falls to the ground. It's true that if all the stifness of the Body were only grounded on the Spirits, it would be very doubtful and suspicious: But as all the rest of the parts also stiffen themselves of themselves, or at least by the intermission of the Soul, if the spirits contribute never so little, it still helps to make the resistance stronger; and this small succour being joined with several others, produceth at last a great effect. Let us hereunto add, that being in this condition, those which carry with them natural heat wherein the force of the parts principally resides, they retain and fix it, if we may so speak, in those places where such actions are to be performed, and not suffering it to retire inwardly, nor dissipating it outwardly, they stop and preserve it in those organs which have need of its service.  
These are the Reasons for which the spirits in Constancy stiffen themselves, 
What change Constancy brings in natural heat.  but the last gives us occasion to examine what change this Passion brings to the natural heat; for if the spirits stop, as we have now said, it seems as if it should be the more quiet and the more moderate; yet this ought not to hinder us from following the general maxims which we established in the Discourse of Boldness, and from saying that when the Soul hath need of its forces, she raiseth them and renders them as vigorous as she can; that there is no occasion in which they can be more necessary unto her, then when she assaults or defends herself. And that heat being the most considerable part, she must augment it, and stir it up in those Passions, which are to serve these designs; and consequently, she must render it greater and stronger in Constancy than it naturally aught to be. This principally appears to be in those which are of a cold and dull complexion, or which are moved by some timorous Passion; for when this comes to animate them, they feel themselves warmed with I know not what kind of extraordinary flame; their pulse and respiration increaseth, their face takes a more lively colour, and all their parts become more agile, and more robustious than they were before. It's true, that heat is not so active nor pungent in this as in Boldness and Anger, having not the liberty to diffuse itself through the organs, being restrained by the spirits, which are stiffened, and because it is not necessary it should be so strong in a Passion which is not undertaking, and which keeps itself only upon the defensive. We may perhaps say, that if the Soul ought to augment its forces proportionable to the need she hath, she ought herein to render the heat stronger than in any other occasion whatsoever, having an enemy in front which appears invincible, which also hath the advantage to be the Assailant under whose efforts she often believes she must succumb. But we may answer, that it's true, that she hath here need of all her forces, that she raiseth them, and employs them for her defence; but it's only those which are fit for that purpose, since she would in vain use others which are destined to assault, being not in a condition to do so, and having neither the Will nor the Courage; now the violence of heat is only proper the more strongly to work and to destroy the power of the enemy, in which consists the end of the Combat and of Boldness; and therefore it's nothing necessary in Constancy, which hath no such great pretensions, and which hath nothing else to do but to keep the Soul stiff, and to render the organs firm against those evils which assault it: It's certain that heat is increased therein, but it is but to a certain degree proportionable to the design, and capable to give the organs that force which is necessary for them to execute it. For it is not here as with those Passions which tend to good, in which heat increaseth without order and without conduct; because it is not therein ordered by the Soul; that is, it is not called thither as a useful thing for her end, and that it is but an effect which happens to the agitation of the spirits. But in this and in all the rest which assault, the Soul herself takes care to produce heat, she proposeth to herself to use it profitably, and she regulates it as she thinks fit. So that we may say that in this occasion she doth like a subtle Artist, who knows how to order his fire for his works; for some he makes it slow and moderate, for others strong and violent, and sometimes he forceth it to the height: the Soul doth the same, she knows to what degree of heat she ought to rise in every of the Passions; in Constancy, she makes it moderate, strong in Boldness, but in Anger she drives it to all extremity.  
This is what we had to say on the motion of the Spirits; for to know how they can preserve their stifness when they are agitated by other Passions, is what we have examined in the Discourse of Hope. As for the motion of the Humours, it necessarily follows that of the Spirits which are ever mixed with them; and it's impossible to fancy that they should stiffen themselves in Constancy, but we must presently judge they also ought to suffer the same agitation.   

CHAP. IU. The causes of the Characters of Constancy.  
WE have said that Constancy and Boldness were Sisters, whose features and lineaments were so like, that a man might often take the one for the other; and indeed they have many Characters which are common to either, as Hope, Confidence, Assurance in dangers, Presumption, Temerity, Desire of glory, and the like; but they also have some which are particular; for Constancy is not as Boldness is, Imperious, neither is she subject to Anger, to Insolency, nor to Cruelty, which the other is often carried away withal: She hath this property also to make men Patiented, Persevering, Opinionated, Insensible, Modest in good Fortune, Severe in Pleasures, Content in Necessity; and these latter we must carefully examine without minding the others, of which we have already discoursed in the former Chapter. And for these it will be sufficient to say, that although they are common to both these Passions, yet they in every one of them have a difference in respect of the end which it proposeth itself; for Constancy hopes as well as Boldness; but this hopes to overcome, and the other to stop only the course of the evil; both have confidence in their forces; but that promiseth its self help to assault it, and this only to defend itself; both of them may be Temerous, but the one hath the Temerity to assault an enemy that is too powerful, and the other only to resist him: Neither of them fears danger; that, because it believes itself stronger than the difficulties which present themselves; And this judgeth herself as strong as they can be. Finally, both of them propose Glory in all their designs; but that aspires to it by fight and taking advantages over the enemy, and this by opposing his endeavours, and not yielding unto him. For it's certain, that who will not suffer himself to be overcome, renders himself equal to him who assaults him, and consequently deserves as much honour as is due unto the other; and even that in some encounters it's more glorious to resist then to assault; either when the enemy is powerful and formidable; for then it's Temerity to assault, and yet to resist his power we had need of a great deal of Courage; or when he is too weak; for that were Cowardice and Injustice to take the advantage which we have over him, and that it's to slight him, not to measure our forces with his. Thus it is that there is more glory to resist Pleasure and Ambition, or with small Troops to oppose himself against a powerful Army, then if we should assault or would force them: It's thus that Lions and Mastiffs often suffer the assaults of little Creatures without being moved, and that magnanimous and generous men scorn the weakness of their enemies, without seeking a victory which would but be shameful unto them.  
To return to our former Discourse: this Passion is no more subject than Boldness to those defects which proceed from weakness and from fear, such as are Superstition, Deceit, Cowardice, etc. 
Constancy is not imperious.  because it is courageous and hath a good opinion of its strength. But she hath this particularly, that she is not imperious as the other is, neither is she carried away with Anger, Fury, or Cruelty; the reason is, that seeing she pretends not to conquer, she seeks not that pre-eminence nor superiority which is necessary for command; but also being she will not be overcome, she will also be independent; and without pretending to command she will neither yield nor obey: whence it is that she renders not men haughty and proud but opiniated and unteachable, as we shall hereafter show. As for Anger, Fury, and Cruelty, being turbulent and impetuous Passions, they are not not compatible with this which is reserved and moderate. It's true, there is a kind of Cruelty which it easily falls into; to wit, Hardheartedness and insensibility of other men's sufferings; but it is not an active Cruelty, as that is which persecutes, which triumphs, and which exacts punishments; it's rather a defect then an excess; and if the Soul suffers not herein, yet she less acts, as we shall shortly make it appear.  
One of the first effects of Constancy is to render Men Patiented. 
She is Patient.  But to understand this, we must know what we understand by the word Patience; for some confound it with Constancy; others reduce it to the suffering of injuries, others extend it to all ills which may be resented. In effect, we say that a man hath patiently suffered an injury, a sickness, or even death itself; that with patience he hath suffered Exile, Slavery, the loss of Goods, and of Friends; but we can never say that he hath patiently suffered Pleasure, Ambition, or good Fortune, although we may say he hath constantly resisted them; thus Constancy ought to be more general than Patience, since she respects good and ill, and that the other concerns only troublesome things; now ills have this property, that besides that they shed abroad in the Concupiscible part of the Soul, Hatred, Averseness and Grief, they also raise up in the Irascible part generous Passions to overcome them to Riot, Boldness and Anger, or the timorous to fly them, as Fear and Despair; those of the Concupiscible part may subsist with Patience, seeing a man may be patiented, although he hate him who hath offended him, have an aversion against him, and be sensible of the wrong which he hath done him; but we can never say that he is so, if he seek to revenge himself, if he appear afraid, and if he abandon himself to Despair: So that to speak properly, a Patiented Man is he that suffers ill without being moved by any of those motions which ill useth to stir up in the Irascible part, so as it happens not out of stupidity; for we never say, that he who hath lost his Understanding, or is senseless, is Patient, although he suffers his ill without any resentment of revenge, without disquiet, and without apprehension; but he must know that he feels it, and that he resists it; And consequently Patience is a kind of Constancy; or to say better, it is but its effect, forasmuch much as this stiffening the Soul hinders the entrance in of the Passions, or dissipates them when they are entered. And their absence which is the effect of this stiffening, is what we call Patience; whence we must conclude, that as it happens from that resistance which the Soul makes against the Passions, it's proper and peculiar to men, because Beasts are not able to resist their Passions, as hath been declared.  
She renders men persevering, 
She is persevering.  Perseverance being a kind of Constancy, by which the Soul stiffens herself against that difficulty which the length of time produceth: For whether it be that the Faculties which she employs are tired, or that the novelty of the objects obligeth her to alter her design, she cannot long remain in the same action without trouble and digust, and then proposing to herself the good which ought to happen unto her, if she do not change she fortifies herself against the difficulty which this length might cause, and stiffening herself in her first design she continues the action to the last. But that we may not confound things, we must remember that we speak not here of Constancy, Patience, nor of Perseverance as they are Habits; we consider them only as the actions of those same Habits, or to say better, as the motions of the Soul which cannot be continued when difficulties are encountered withal, but only by this stiffening which we speak of, which yet lasts not so long as Habits do, as the Schools teach us. Besides we must not believe that Perseverance properly and immediately resists the length of time, because it's an ill which is of the rank of those which we have called , as are Poverty, Exile, Death, and the like, against which the Souls resistance is vain and useless; but it opposeth itself against Frowardness, Fear, Disquiet, and such other Passions as she usually raiseth up; so that it is not to be found in Beasts, who know neither the parts nor differences of time, and which never resist their Passions; yet this may be doubted; for Dogs do a long while entertain the heat they have in hunting; and there are exercises which are taught them, wherein they are so diligent either out of Fear or out of Hope, that it's very probable these two Passions oblige them to stiffen themselves in their first design to shun the ill, or to enjoy the good proposed unto them. But to speak to the purpose, it is but a shadow or phantasm of Perseverance, forasmuch as to persevere truly, we must know the length of the time to be employed in the performance of a thing, be sensible of those Passions which accompany it, and afterwards take a resolution to resist them. Now this cannot be but by great abstractions which Beasts are incapable of, as hath been showed; they may indeed continue a commenced action, and persist a long while in the labour; but it's the other Passions which keep them in breath, and drive them to that end which they aim at, without any necessity of the Souls stiffening itself to continue them in the action, and to resist those difficulties which the length of time might produce.  
To be Opinionate is another kind of Constancy, 
She is Opinionate  by which she remains firm and stable in her resolutions, by unadvisedly opposing another man's reasons, and persuasions: Now a man may several ways unadvisedly oppose himself to ill, either when he knows they are best, and yet he will not follow them; or when he flatters himself in his own opinion, and persuades himself its most reasonable, although it be nothing so; or even when indeed it is the best, and we persist against it unreasonably; for there are occasions, and places, and persons which oblige us to yield, and which ought to make us quit our resentments and pretences. How ever it be, a constant man easily falls into all those kinds of Opinionateness; for that Confidence having stiffened the Soul against those difficulties which assault her, there is no further persuasion which can take place, so that by the same resistance whereby she seeks to stop ill, she opposeth Truth and Reason; so that she doth like a besieged Town, where the gates which are shut to the enemies, hinder all friends and relief from entering in. Moreover this Opinionastrecy commonly comes from Presumption which will not yield nor submit to another man's judgement; and consequently that Constancy which hath a great opinion of its forces, and believes itself invincible, is easily abased by the Confidence it hath in itself, which causing it to despise all advice and help from others, renders it incredulous, indocible and Opinionasted.  
Sometimes she advanceth even to Hardheartedness, and to Insensibility; 
She is insensible of another's ill.  for in the power that she hath to stop all the rest of the Souls motions, she may hinder herself from being sensible of the miseries of another, which is, as hath been said, a kind of cruelty and inhumanity. For Nature which takes care for society, gives us a certain tenderness to resist the ills of those which are afflicted, that we might relieve them: And when a man hath so hardened his heart that he cannot be mollified by the resentments of pity, certainly we may say, that he wants not only the Heart of a Man, but that he is of Marble or of Iron. Beyond all, we must not wonder if Constancy easily falls into this defect, since its principal employment is to resist Grief, which is a good part of Compassion, as in its place we shall declare.  
She is Modest in good Fortune, 
She is modest in prosperity  because with the stifness which she gives herself it's almost impossible for her to suffer herself to be swelled with Pride, or blown away with Vanity; and that Insolency which is commonly bred from one of those two Passions, may render its prosperity odious.  
She is Severe in Pleasures, 
She is severe in Pleasure.  not only because that in stiffening herself she stops those motions which they might raise, and that they serve her as a bank to hinder them from overflowing: but also because she finds herself in their presence seized with a certain frowardness, and with I know not what bitterness of mind, which mixing itself with the joy which they give, weaken her, and take from her those transports, those raptures, and those sweets which are wont to accompany her, rendering her Serious, Reserved and Severe. But how can such sweet and charming things cause peevishness▪ 'Tis without doubt, that she considers them as ills; now the presence of ill is unpleasant, and although it cast not the Soul always into grief, yet it gives her I know not what kind of distaste, which renders her wary and peevish; and truly as liking is the first thing which good inspires, which is not, as we have already declared, a Passion, or at least, which is but a breeding Joy: so before ill produceth hatred and sadness in the Soul, it produceth therein a certain angry sense, which is not a motion of the Appetite, because it remains simply in the Understanding, which observes the disproportion which is betwixt it and the Object; yet forbears not to disquiet it, and to give it this secret peevishness which we speak of, which is neither Hatred nor Grief; at least, if we may so call it, it is but the commencement thereof. Howsoever it be, when the Soul resists Pleasures, they no longer are graceful objects unto her; she looks on them as on poisons to corrupt her, and conceives the same aversion for them which she hath for all such as may destroy her; for which cause we must not think it strange if they render her Severe and peevish, since they are the sense which the presence of ill is always accustomed to imprint.  
But if this be so, 
How Joy is to be found with Grief.  How is Joy to be found in the violence of Grief, of Scorn, and of Infamy, with all those evils which so often exercise Constancy? For if it be true, that evils always bring peevishness with them, those which are the greatest we can suffer, must needs fill the Soul with Grief, nor permit never so little a Joy to have any place in her; and yet it is true, that the most part of Lovers take pleasure in suffering for those they love; that the Ambitious bravely support those traverses which they meet with in the way to Glory; and that Martyrs have always had contentment in their Souls, and vigour in their Looks in the greatest of their torments and sufferings. Yet this difficulty is easily resolved, if we do but remember that there are two Appetites in Man, which at the same time may be moved with two contrary Passions; and that in the Will itself there are, as it were, two parts, which may be agitated with several motions; for these truths being supposed, it's easy to conceive how Grief assaults the Senses, whilst Joy sheds itself abroad in the Mind, and how Sadness disturbs the lower region of the Will, whilst the higher is quiet, as ravished with those pleasures which Love, Ambition, or some other noble Desire proposeth unto it. Yet I will not say that Joy and Grief move to that height in Constancy. No, it is impossible that either of them can be very great by reason of the stiffening of the Soul which hinders their motion; but this signifies that if when strong they are compatible together, they may more easily be so when they are weakened; and consequently Frowardness which commonly accompanies Constancy, and is but the commencement of Sadness, may subsist with that gaiety which is often observed in this Passion; not but that transports and ravishments of Joy may cause soundings and faintings of Grief; neither is there then any Constancy left, and in that very moment the Appetite must release itself to follow the violence of those Passions. It's true that she afterwards stiffens herself, but yet it would be but an interrupted Constancy, and which continues but by several efforts which are sometimes so quick, that the Passions which interrupted them, confounded themselves with this, as we have said it often happens in all the rest of them.  
For the rest, from the insensibility which she hath for the ills of another, 
She is indifferent to all.  and from the severity she takes in the use of goods, an Indifferency springs which she is subject unto; forasmuch as he who is not touched with those ills which he sees others suffer, and resists all the pleasures of life, is certainly free from all those things which may the most powerfully stop the Mind and engage it in the duties of civil society: we are not from him to expect the sweets of friendship, nor those succours which compassion promiseth to those that are miserable; the good and ill of particulars and of the public are indifferent to him, so that rendering himself useless to all the world, he becomes rude, austere and savage.  
These indeed are those vices which have been observed in the Sect of the Stoics, who studied nothing but to exercise Constancy; since all their Philosophy consisted to abstain, and to sustain, which are the two employments this Passion is destinated unto; so that it is no wonder if they fell into those defects which usually follow her when we use her not as we ought. Yet we must observe that the indifferency we speak of respects not those things which Constancy is not tied unto; for if she oppose a difficulty, she hath no indifferency for it. On the contrary, she stiffens herself, opinionates and obstinates herself against it; but beyond that, all is indifferent to her, and she cares neither what may happen nor what concerns the rest.  
And again, 
She is equal and content.  it's for the same reason that she always appear Equal and Content, forasmuch as that indifferency which she hath for all things, she hath no desires nor apprehensions for them, and is exempt from those cares and disquiets which those Passions breed; add hereunto that equally stiffening herself at the encounter of goods and of ills, good and ill fortune find her always in the same plight, and without being carried away by that, or being cast down by this, she always remains in one posture, and ever appears like herself.  
But we have strayed too long to find Reasons, which are easy to be drawn from the principles we have established, and which present themselves unto the Mind as soon as a man would but know them. Let's turn to those Characters which this Passion imprints on the Body.  
We shall not be much troubled in this enquiry, there being but few whereof we have not spoken in the former Discourse, since in the Chapter of Boldness we have examined the causes of an assured Look, of the motion of the Lids and Brows, of silence, of coldness of the face, and of the retention of the breath, as in the Chapter of Hope we have observed, whence was the strength of the Voice and of the Pulse, why the Face changed not its colour, why the Head and Stature were straight; for Constancy hath these effects common with them, and useth the same motives and the same means which they employ to produce them; we shall only remark some little differences, which are to be encountered in them.  
For it's certain, 
What the Looks are in Constancy.  that this Assured Look is here form with a large opening of the Lids, a firm Sight, and with vivacity: But its vivacity is not so great as in Boldness, because that in the design which this hath to assault ill, she drives the Spirits out, and so abundantly fills the Eyes with them, that they become altogether sparkling; instead of which Constancy, which stands upon the defensive, stiffens them only without driving them forth with impetuosity, so that she renders the Eyes quick, because she stops the Spirits which give them force and vigour; but they glister not because they come not thither in any quantity, and that they want that active motion which makes them glister and sparkle. On the other side, this firmness of sight is accompanied with a certain severity which is not to be found in Hope, because the Soul considers here only the Ill, the presence whereof makes her peevish, and that even there she looks on the Good, the expectation whereof sweetens the pain which springs from the difficulties which she encounters.  
When the Brows are lifted up, 
What kind of motion the Brows have.  it's only the better to behold the Enemy, and not to help the rasing up of the Soul, as it happens in Boldness; For which cause they lift not themselves up so much nor so often as in that Passion; because the Soul keeping herself firm and stiff to defend herself, solicits not the organs to make those great and frequent sallies which follow that impetuosity which she suffers herself to be carried away withal in assaulting. So that she lifts up the Brows no more than the necessity of the sight requires, and not to serve the motion wherewith she is agitated: She also represseth them for the same reason as in Boldness. For she thinks herself fortified when she hath provided for the securing of her Eyes, as hath been showed in the former Chapter. But it sometimes happens that in the strongest assaults of Ills, she keeps them unmovable, and that a Constant Man will see the greatest dangers, and suffer most cruel pains without bending his Brow. Now this comes either from his great attention in considering the ill; for it makes him the more to open his eyes, and consequently to lift up his Brows, which then cannot be restrained; or from the confidence he hath of his forces, which defends him from thinking on such small precautions; or from the design he hath by this outward immobility to make it appear that his Courage is not to be shaken. 
What his Silence is.   
Silence is not here fierce and disdainful as it is in Boldness, because fierceness and disdain are effects of Pride, which are seldom to be found in true Constancy; But it's modest and serious, and proceeds merely from the attention the Soul is in for to defend herself, and from the confidence she hath of her own strength; for that makes her forget words, and this defends them, since, as we have already said, they are arms of weakness.  
As for the rest of the Characters which we have now spoken of, such as are the coldness of the Face, the strength of the Voice and Pulse, holding the Breath, having the Head and Stature erect, there is no difference neither in their effect nor in their cause, from those which accompany Hope and Boldness, for which cause we send back the Reader to those places where we have carefully observed them, and where it doth appear, that if they follow those two Passions, it's because they are always upheld by Constancy, and strength of Courage.  
But if she hath such a contexture and conformity with them, 
Why Constancy hath not the rest of the Characters of Hope.  why hath she not also all their other Characters? Certainly it's because besides the stifness which they give the Soul, they inspire also other motions which are not to be found in Constancy; for Hope indeed stiffens itself against difficulties, but at the same time she aspires to the good which she seeks, and still expects some help which may deliver her up the possession, which makes her unquiet and impatient; she sighs and casts up her eyes, which happens not in Constancy, because she hath no other design but to resist iii. The same happens in Boldness, which stiffens itself also to strengthen itself, but besides that darts itself forth, and throws itself on the Enemy. So that all what follows this darting forth belongs not to Constancy, which when she is alone never suffers this agitation; so the thorough Looks, the widening of the Nostrils, the thunder of the Voice, the fierceness of the Countenance, a vehement respiration, the redness and heat of the parts, and the like, which proceed from the raising up of the Soul, and from the violence wherewith it is agitated, are not to be met withal in all in that Constancy which is exempt from those great storms. It's true, that its Pace is like that of Boldness, because that in stiffening herself, she makes the Body weighty and march the more heavily. But she balanceth it not as that doth, forasmuch as she hath not that impetuosity which causeth the shoulders to turn inwardly, in which this balancing of the body chief consists, and this bold Gate. We may say as much of the Post which is Noble without Pride; for the Head is lifted up without any fierceness, the Stature is straight without lifting up the Shoulders, and the motion of all the parts without constraint or violence is equal and modest: Now all this is conformable to that condition which the Soul is in in this Passion, for that in stiffening herself she stiffens the parts also, which consequently become straight, and that this posture is most safe, and least exposed to injuries, seeing she can the better see the enemy, and is every way the readier to resist him. But the fierceness of the Countenance, the lifting up of the Shoulders, which are principal marks of Pride, as shall be shown in its place; they are to be found therein, because the Soul nor aught, nor can extend or lift itself up, nor make any violent motion being stiffened as she is.  
The stifness of the Body and parts is a proper and particular effect of this Passion; 
When com●●● stiffness of the Body.  for if it be in some other of them, we may say that it's by her means, and because that she accompanies them; but she employs it not when she is to resist any thing which is corporeal; otherwise she abuseth herself, and makes a useless endeavour, as hath been said. Now to know wherein this stifness consists, and how it's made, we must observe besides what hath been said hereupon in general, That a thing may be two ways stiff; either because it resists the touch, or that it cannot be staggered; now it may resist the touch by being hard; and it's hard either because it's dry and solid, as a stone; or because it's extended as a Baloon, or because its parts are shut up and gathered together, as those are which are pressed and crowded; neither can it be shaken, either because its weighty, or because it hath a motion contrary to that which would overturn it. Thus a Column stands firm on its own weight, a building supports itself by its props and butteresses, the Members stiffen themselves being equally drawn by the opposing muscles, which being supposed, it's certain that Constancy useth all these means to stiffen the parts, if we except that hardness only which comes from dryness, forasmuch as there needs a long time to produce that quality. Yet must we make some distinction, for that some stiffen themselves in one way, others in another; the Spirits and the Members which move voluntarily become firm by the opposition of their motions, the Muscles by compression, the Body by its weight and props, which we must particularly examine.  
We have shown how the Spirits stiffen themselves, and how they communicate their stifness to the parts; but there is this difference, That the stiffening of the Spirits comes from the contrariety of motions, and that which is communicated is performed by their upholding of them; for being stiffened, it must necessarily be that they support the parts which touch them, especially if they be fluid as the Humours are.  
Those Members which are destined for voluntary motion, as the Head, the Eyes, the Arms, and the Legs render themselves also stiff by the contrariety of motions; for being composed of several Muscles, some of which cause them to move upwards, and others downwards, some to the right hand, some to the left, when they are all agitated at once, they must needs remain firm and stiff and without going either way, and then they must suffer that motion which is called Tonick, which is the most violent of all, and which makes us most weary. For which cause we are more weary standing upright then walking up and down; and it's more troublesome to look long upon a fixed and settled look, or continually to keep one's Arms stiff, then if we used them to different motions, because that all the Muscles agitate therein, without taking any rest; and herein there is but a part engaged, which rests also when the other is in action.  
Every muscle in particular grows stiff when its work operates, but that is because it grows hard; now it hardens by pressing and contracting the parts together; for having no other action but to contract and shut up itself, to bring towards it the members it ought to move, it must needs take up less room, and therefore its parts must be the more straightened, whence this hardness comes. Which although it happens out of necessity, forbears not also to be sought for by the Soul, as a thing which may render the body stronger, and the less exposed to injuries; and it is for the same reason, that the skin of Animals streightens itself, when they will defend themselves, whence it follows that their hair and feathers stand on end, as we have elsewhere declared.  
Besides this stifness, the Muscles and the skin may also acquire another by tention. But because there are two sorts of it, the one which is made by drawing strongly those things which may be extended as a rope or parchment; the other of filling them with some body, as a baloon; it's certain, that Constancy cannot render those parts firm and strong by this, but only by the former. And this happens when the Muscles cause a member to bend very much; for those which are opposed to them, and which do not agitate are constrained to lengthen out and extend themselves; and by this extension they become firm, and so render the skin hard. It's thus, that this Passion sometimes extends the hands, that the inside which they oppose to the danger, may become harder, and consequently more fit to resist ill.  
As for the Body, it grows stiff not only when all its parts are stiffened, but also by the support and weight which it giveth itself. Now it may be upheld by some exterior prop; for the Soul which puts itself on the defensive, seeks both in and out of itself all what can stiffen it. So that when a man is assaulted, he who hath somewhat at his back to stay him up and help to support him against the effort of his enemy, may make the better resistance. The body also upholds itself by the situation and posture which it takes; for by advancing a foot, or widening a little the legs, it makes for itself, as it were, a prop or a butteress to support itself, which hinders it from being overturned on that side it rests on. Add also how it also enlargeth its Basis, and doth that which Art ordains for great pillars, which are better upheld, the larger and greater the pedestal is. Lastly, by making itself weighty, it's less subject to be shaken, because that augmenting its weight, it the better resists the motion of those things which beat against it, and so renders it more firm and more stable in its situation. But how can it make itself heavy? Certainly, it is not that it hath more weight than it had, but it is that it makes it more efficient by the motion which it gives itself; for weighty things have much more strength, and make incomparably a greater impression when they are moved; when the Body therefore stiffens itself, it burdens all the superior parts on the lower, and those pressing the earth, by the motion of the Muscles, which are destined for that purpose, they make an effort which augments the force of the weight which they sustain, and so render the Body more firm, and less easy to be shaken.  
Besides these motions this Passion employs also that of the Hands, to oppose herself against the shock she is threatened withal; for as they are parts destined to the service of the body, she freely exposeth them, and hazards them to save it from danger, and useth them as Barriers to stop the enemy, or as a Buckler to receive the assaults, for which cause she opens them that she may cover and defend a greater space; she extends them to render them stronger and harder, and she advanceth them that she may break and dead the violence of the blows, which she cannot hinder from falling on it.  
This is what we had to say of the Characters of Constancy; for the rest which we have observed in its description, they belong unto her only by reason of those Passions which sometimes mix themselves with her. So Cries, Sighs, Tears, Groans, the weakness of the Body, proceed all from Pain; Indignation, Threaten, Blows follow Boldness or Anger. The sweetness of the Eyes, the gayness of the Countenance arise from the contentment which Love, Desire and Hope propose.    

PART. III.  

CHAP. I. The Characters of Anger.  
ALthough Anger be a flame which Nature kindles in the soul of all Animals, 
The Elegy of Anger.  and that it may be compared to that fire which shines in the Stars, for the preservation of the Universe; It's strange that it's almost never considered but as a frightful Comet, which declares and produceth nothing but fire and sword; and that Humane Reason should be so unjust as always to condemn a Passion which always fights for Reason and for Justice: Yes without doubt, since she is only raised in the Soul to repel injuries, and to chastise those she believes have unjustly offended her, we may boldly say, that she never arms herself but against Violence, and ever sides with Reason and Equity.  
It is not but that men which abuse all the most useful presents of Nature, do often make it serve evil designs; but besides that, to judge according to Reason of the price and value of things, we must not consult concerning the abuses which are found in them, nor the ill use which may be made of them. It's certain, that when she appears most unjust, she hath motives which seem equitable, that she must at least have the appearance of Justice to oblige her to take arms; and that if she be deceived therein, it is not she that is to be accused, but rather Malice and Error, who call her to their relief: As we do not blame Soldiers who are of a Prince's Guard when they follow him in temerous enterprises; and that it's sometimes the duty of a good Subject to obey a Tyrant; neither must we condemn Anger which was submitted to Reason to serve for its guard and defence, when she follows it in its irregularities, and obeys its orders how unjust soever they be. In a word, it is not in corruption we are to seek the purity of Anger; we must go back to its source, and inquire in the first channels wherein it runs, if it hath Virtues and Qualities useful for life, and worthy the praise we have given it.  
If it be then true, that she comes from Nature, and that this Nature is nothing else but the Art of God, and the effusion of his goodness and wisdom in all his works: we must not doubt that she is not sensible of so excellent an origine, and but that the admirable motions of this Passion are raised by the same spirit which animates and rules the Universe; It's what would imprint in all Creatures the image of his power, and render them as near as possible like unto him, which hath signed in all Animals the strokes of his Justice, and hath given them the knowledge of the wrong which may be done them, and the just desire they have of revenging themselves.  
And truly, as if it were the last touch which were to finish their perfection, and his liberality, it seems that there was more care employed to inspire this Passion in them, then for any whatsoever. That there is none which it hath made so common and so natural; and that all the rest are particular to some one, or so imperfect that it's difficult to find them therein. Love and Pleasure indeed, which seem to be the most necessary and the most general, are hardly to be remarked in the most part of Beasts; Boldness is only to be found in those which are strong and courageous; Fear surpriseth only those which are weak; and even there are those which are so fit for certain ages, and for some conditions, that they seldom pass to others: But it is not so with Anger, which makes itself be resented by all in general; the least suffer its esmotions as well as the greatest, and the weak as well as the strong, and there are none which are not provided with arms which may serve for their revenge. Finally, she knows no privileges, and makes no difference amongst men; she agitates Children, as old Men; sick, as she doth the sound; poor, as rich; Kings, as she doth the Subjects; and without confining herself, as the rest do, to some particulars, she animates Families, Nations and whole Kingdoms. But as in the order of Nature, the most necessary things are, the more common they are; we must believe that this Passion should not have been so generally dispersed in all Animals, had it not been most important and most necessary for their preservation; and that it would not have been so sensible, and so imperfect in all those which are most imperfect, were it not most profitable and of greater use than all the rest, which for the most part are unpolished and confused in them.  
And certainly since all have far more ills to fear, than goods to desire, and that ill itself is more powerful to destroy, then good is to preserve; it was from the wisdom of him, who exposed them to so many dangers, to give them stronger Passions to safeguard themselves, then for to seek what was for their use; since it was more advantageous to overcome ill then to fly from it, and that all could not have the Boldness destined to conquer it: It must needs I say be, that to supply this defect he must have inspired another Passion to warm the courage of the weakest, and stir up the forces of the most timorous to engage them to fight those Enemies which flight or patience would have rendered terrible.  
Moreover, since they were all to defend themselves, not only from such as do ill unwittingly, but also from those who do it out of malice: It was fit they should have lights to discern them, and means to destroy not only their power but also their ill designs; for it had not been sufficient to have provided for their security, if after having overcome them they could not have bereft them also of the desire of taking up arms again, and of convincing their unjust untertaking.  
It's therefore Anger which causeth them to get the better of such dangerous enemies, which stop the course of their violence, and making them lose the will of doing hurt, tear up ill by the roots, and shelter themselves from whatsoever they might fear. And indeed Revenge which this Passion employs to that purpose hath no other end but to chastise him that offends, that the punishment he suffers make take from him the desire to continue the injury, and that he who hath received it may not again fall into the like danger. Is there any thing in the world so equitable and so necessary? Is there any thing wherein the providence of Nature is more resplendent? And were it not to be ungrateful towards it to slight so useful a relief, and to condemn so just a defence?  
For we must not believe that none but Beasts may lawfully make use of it, that it is incompatible with Reason, & that its never kindled in man, but that at the same time it extinguisheth that divine light which in all its actions ought to enlighten it. No, no, it is in us, and for the same purpose, and for the same necessity that it is in the rest of Animals; we have the same enemies which they have, we are exposed to the same dangers; and the cares for our own safeguard can be no less innocent than theirs are; whatever we may say, Reason and Anger are not in the number of those Stars which never look on, or meet with one the other without imparting their virtue or brightness, or causing some troubles in the world. On the contrary they fortify one another when they are united, and their conjunction breeds that celestial light in the Soul which raiseth up those languishing virtues, which give heat to those which fight, and inspires them with that divine fury with which they are animated against Vice. Whence can you fancy proceeds that noble Indignation which the Soul conceives for unjust things, but from that Anger which cannot suffer injustice without an alarm? Whence springs that virtuous Frowardness, and that holy Impatience which seizeth upon us at the sight of crimes, but from this Passion which hath no other care but to chastise the Authors of them? And whence can that just Despite come wherewith Virtue is provoked at the encounter of such objects as cross her, but from the same source whence she draws those forces which are necessary for to overcome them? To conclude, the most excellent Virtues would at every moment be lessened, were they not raised up by this Passion: Justice would never proceed to revenge crimes with that zeal wherewith she is so often transported, did she not call it to her assistance. Valour would very rarely produce those great actions which render it formidable, were it not solicited by it. In a word, there is none to whom she is not as a spur to advance them in the way of glory; and he that would bereave civil life of her, would undoubtedly leave in it only Weakness, Languor, and Cowardliness.  
But notwithstanding these great services, we must at last confess, it is the most to be feared of all the Passions, as that which causeth the greatest disorders in the world: By a strange mishap, scarce conceivable, the commerce it hath with Reason, instead to render it more perfect, hath corrupted it; and innocent as she was in Beasts, she is become criminal in men; So that we may say she is in some manner like the vapours of the Earth, which change into thunders and storms when they come near the Sun; and that if she did not rise into the highest Region of the Soul, she could never be able to produce those thunders and tempests, which have caused so many public calamities, and have desolated so many Provinces, and so many Kingdoms.  
For we must not believe that the ill it doth, falls only on some particulars, as that which proceeds from the Anger of Beasts, and from the most part of humane Passions; besides that it renders Cities and whole Nations furious, it never strikes one person only, but the blow threatens and offends all civil Society: For which cause the Laws which often tolerate the ill use of the rest of the Passions, have never suffered that of Anger, how just soever it were; they ever reserved the revenging of injuries; and whosoever hath usurped that power, commits a crime justly to be resented, and hath most commonly added to the infamy of the punishment, the shame of the outrage. In effect, they could not have left to particulars a power which only belongs to the public, and put the arms of Justice into the hands of a furious person, without abandoning the life and fortune of all men to insolency and cruelty, and without breaking those sacred bonds which unite them together in the forms of Communities and Republics.  
But what severity soever hath been practised, what restraint soever they have bridled this wild and untameable Passion withal, they could never hinder it from bringing disorder and confusion where ever it came. It hath made the wisest lose their Judgement and their Reason, brought confusion amongst the best friends, filled the most illustrious families with blood and slaughter; and we may say that the earth reaks every where still with the broils it hath raised in the greatest Cities, and in the fairest Provinces. Those things which were ever had in veneration amongst men, are violated by this insolent Passion, which tramples under foot all the respects which Nature inspires with our lives; and its impiety raiseth itself even against Heaven, and against the Divinity itself. In fine, if we should speak all the ill it causeth, perhaps we should learn all the ill which is done upon earth. But the better to show the disorders it causeth, we need but represent a man who hath suffered himself to be carried away with these excesses, and consider the strange change which it makes in his Mind and in his Countenance.  
Anger is none of those Passions which sweetly insinuates itself into the soul, 
Description of a man in Anger.  which flatters it at first, and by weak beginnings takes from it the suspicion of its violence; it enters with impetuosity and with open arms; or to speak better, it enters it not; it falls like thunder which strikes unawares, and there is no distinction of time between its fall and the burn it causeth; for as soon as a man is possessed with it he perceives himself inflamed with despite and disdain. Vengeance like a torrent of fire disperseth itself in all its thoughts; Fury prevails over his Reason and his Judgement, and like a devouring flame it runs and crackles in his Veins, it sparkles in his Eyes, thunders in his words; they are nothing but complaints, reproaches, and injuries; nothing but threaten, and imprecations, and blasphemies. The more sweetness and weakness he naturally hath, the more sharp and impetuous his Passion is, the more stormy and insolent. Neither respects nor considerations can restrain him; he acknowledgeth neither Masters, nor Friends, nor Parents; Silence provokes him, Excuses commit an outrage, and often innocency itself is no less insufferable than injuries.  
As if he minded nothing but to torment himself, he is not able to hear any reason which might calm the disturbance he is in, but he is very ingenious to find out all those which may increase it: He fancies the offence greater than indeed it is; he remarks the least circumstances that may aggravate it; and if it happens that words and effects offend him not in the tone of the voice, or in the motions of the Eyes, he finds great causes of wrath and revenge. Neither doth he stop there, he calls to mind all the former good offices he hath done his Enemy, and the ill usage he hath received from him; even those actions which were before indifferent to him, do then seem injurious; the smallest of his faults appear sensible affronts and bitter injuries: And being astonished that he foresaw not his ill designs, he accuseth himself of impudence and of stupidity, and adds to his first fury the indignation and despite which he conceived against himself: Whereupon after having made his resentment sparkle by the extravagancy of his discourse, and by all those exclamations which grief and rage drive forth, he all at once falls into a profound silence, and walking with large paces, with a wild and frightful mind, by the frequent shake of the Head, and by the grinding of the Teeth, and by his furious Looks he declares that he revolves in his mind the designs of some great and terrible revenge. In effect, there is no ill which a man could make his enemy suffer, which presents not itself to his desires; infamy, punishments, tortures, are the sweetest chastisements he prepares for him; the sword and poison are the meanest instruments which he means to employ; he thinks which blows may be the rudest to be inflicted, what places are most sensible, what death might be most cruel. And to glut his rage, he proposeth to himself nothing less than to strangle him himself, to tear in pieces, and to feed on his very Heart and Bowels. After a thousand such like designs which most commonly destroy one the other, he would that some disorder might happen in Nature for his destruction, that the earth would open and swallow him up, that the plague might stifle him, that he might be thunderstruck. Finally, he makes vows for his ill fortune that they may supply his own impotency, and solicits the wrath of Heaven and Hell to perfect the punishment which he hath commenced. But should all this happen, yet would not he be satisfied unless all men did believe that it was he who was the cause of all these mschiefs, that he drew them on his Adversary, and that even he also suffers them far rather for his particular satisfaction, then for the chastisement of his crime.  
Whilst he feeds his Passion with these cruel thoughts, we hear long and scalding sighs which at every moment are fetched from the bottom of his Soul; confused and interrupted words, which from time to time escape his fury; and the noise he makes by beating all what he meets with under hand or feet. At last breaking out of his silence, he detestsses, he threatens, he blasphemes and discovers all what he hath on his heart, and betraying his secret, he renders the revenge which he meditated often useless, sometimes pernicious.  
These are near upon the motions he hath in the absence of his enemy, but this is nothing in respect of those which he suffers in his presence. At first it seems as if he endeavoured to shun his encounter, as if he were unwilling to see him, and in a proud and disdainful way turning his back towards him, he grumbles, he murmurs, and forms betwixt the teeth words of indignation and of disdain. But he remains not long in that condition; the flame growing more violent when it's shut up; his wrath is provoked by this restraint, and changing itself altogether into fury, it transports him out of himself, and renders him like a wild and furious beast; he cries out, he runs, he strikes, and without fear or knowledge of the danger he casts himself through fire and sword, he drives his friend into them, and cares not to lose what is most dear unto him, so as he may lose him who hath offended him. Like one in despair, he throws himself into a precipice that he may draw him therein along with him; he seeks shipwreck so as he might perish with him; he calls him to fight, wherein the chance of Arms is doubtful; and commonly the ardour he hath to revenge himself, bereaves him of his revenge; all his skill and address is then useless, most of his blows are vain, he hath no ward against those which are given him; he blindly exposeth himself to danger, and like those ruins which break themselves on what they fall, he often locks himself in the arms of him whom he casts down.  
If it happen that he hath the advantage, and that he thinks he hath satisfied his Passion, he adds insolency to cruelty; he outrageth his enemy conquered as he is, he laugheth at his misfortune, and feeding his eyes on the slaughter which he hath made, he feels a certain malignant joy break forth in his heart, which afterward disperseth itself over his face, and which he makes appear in all his actions. But if he believes that he is not revenged, he despairs, he rageth, he accuseth insensible things, his Friends, God, and himself; he breaks his sword for not having given the desired blow, he is angry with those who would have appeased him, he strikes the ground, he rails against Heaven, he beats his own face, and tears his hair; at last when he cannot hurt the person, he assaults the reputation; his enemy hath no defects which he publisheth not, he bringeth the vices of his Ancestors out of their graves, and if truth cannot furnish him with reproaches and injuries, he borrows them from lies and calumnies. In a word, to describe all the actions of a man in his wrath, we must fancy, all what temerity, cruelty and fury can effect.  
Not that all those who are touched with this Passion, suffer themselves to be carried away to this excess: There are dumb and disdainful Angers, there are those which are quite vapored away in words; there are some that are weak and timorous, others that are noble and generous; and without doubt those are not so extravagant as that which we now described: Yet there is none which raiseth not a great disturbance in the mind, which drives not out of it sweetness and humanity, and which bereaves not a man of the best part of himself. But we shall elsewhere speak of all these kinds of Anger; let's now see the effects which the violence of this Passion commonly produceth on the Body.  
It's most certain, that there is none which so strangely altars the Face as this doth: There is no man whom Anger will not render unknown both to his and to himself; his Eyes are red and inflamed, their motion is piercing and rapid; sometimes they look through, sometimes they fix, and seem as if they would go out of their places; we may observe a sparkling dryness in them, a wild and savage disquiet. The Eyebrow is sometimes cast down and sometimes lifted up, and after they restrain themselves. The Forehead is wrinkled and gathered betwixt the Eyes, the Hair stands on end, the Nostrils open and widen themselves; the Lips thinken and lowr themselves, they tremble, they press themselves, and sometimes they form a cruel and disdainful smile. He grinds his Teeth, he foams, he blows, his mouth grows dry, his breath stinking, his voice more vehement and sharp than it was at first, at last becomes terrible, and rattling. It often stops all at once, and when it chanceth to form any words, the Tongue falters, his words interfere, and his discourse is entangled: If he holds his tongue, it's an enraged silence, which at every moment is interrupted with sighs, with groans, and the frightful outcries which he makes; his Face grows pale, inflames and swells; the veins of his Forehead, of his Temples and Neck are swelled and extended; his Pulse beats quick & vehement; his Breast which is redned is lifted up with great throbs, and he breathes with a violent and precipitate respiration. But who can describe the shake of the Head, the clap of his Hands, the throwing about of his Arms, the trampling of his Feet, all his brisk and bold motions; In fine, that continual agitation, which accompanies Anger. It's sufficient to say that his Countenance, his Mind, his Gesture, is an assembling together of all what is most deformed in most cruel Sicknesses, and of what is most horrible in the wildest of Beasts. Let's now seek the cause of all these effects in the Nature of this Passion.   

CHAP. III. Of the Nature of Anger.  
ALthough Philosophy hath more spoken of Anger then of any of the Passions, 
The difficulty to define Anger.  either because it's more easily known, or because its moderation is more important to a civil life then the rest; yet neither hath it succeeded in the definition thereof, better than of those which we have examined. For besides that it observes not the motion proper for it, which is a part of its essence: it is in doubt what gender to give it, what object raiseth it, and the true motive which it hath. Some indeed say it's an effect of vengeance; others that it is not an Appetite, but a rising up of the Soul; some will have it the slighting of that object which moves it; others add thereto injury; othersome there are who deny that vengeance is the true and proper motion of this Passion, seeing as they suppose, it pretends always to revenge itself, and that Hatred hath often the same design without being advised by this.  
In a word, of all the definitions which have been given it, there is not one which expresseth all the Nature of Anger, which leaves not other difficulties which are hard to be resolved by those principles which we commonly suppose in this business; and truly that of Alexander which seems to be the most exact, hath its defects as well as the rest: For in saying that it's a desire of vengeance, caused by the grief we have of seeing one's self unjustly slighted; besides that Beasts are not touched with scorn, who nevertheless are susceptible of this Passion; there are a thousand encounters wherein we may be provoked to Anger, without having cause to believe we have been slighted; as when we are angry with ourselves, or against insensible things. If instead of this slighting you put Injury, the same difficulty remains entire; since it's very probable that Beasts know not injustice, nor consequently Injury; and that there are many things which make us angry at which we cannot justly be offended. Add also, that a man may have the grief to see himself offended, and the desire of being revenged without being angry; for the motion of Grief, and that of Desire, which belongs to the Concupiscible Appetite, seem not as if they should enter into the essence of this Passion; besides they should tell us what Vengeance is, and why we desire it; for if to revenge one's self be nothing but to retort the ill on him who afflicted it, causing him to suffer the same pains: There is no likelihood that a man should be angry with himself or insensible things, seeing no man would be revenged on himself, and that it is impossible and useless against those things that are without sense.  
To say likewise that it's a rising in the Soul, whereby she overcomes those difficulties which traverse her designs; This definition would be too general, seeing it befits also Boldness, and that therein the Soul may raise itself without being moved by Anger; for I mind not those who say that this rising up is not an Appetite; since it's a received maxim, That all motion of the Appetitive part is called the Appetite.  
To conclude, the worst of all those, is that which raiseth it to an ebullition or fixing the blood about the heart; for it it not therein that the essence of Anger consists; that is only its effect; it being certain that all Passions are impermanent actions, which are form in the Soul before she agitates the Body, and principally the humours which are no parts of it.  
These are the difficulties which are entertained in common opinion; the method which we hold, and the principles which we have established, render not the thing the more easy. For after having showed that the Soul which will not fly before the enemy, hath but two courses to take, to wit, Resistance and Assault, which are Constancy and Boldness; it seems as if we had exhausted all the springs whence Anger might proceed, as if we were obliged to confound it with one or other of these two Passions. Indeed it raiseth itself up against ill, it assaults it, it would overcome it, even as Boldness; so that they seem both to have but the same object, the same motive, and the same motion, and therefore to be but one Passion, since these three things which make the difference of all the esmotions of the Soul, render them equal, and every way alike.  
Yet since it's undoubted that they are different, and that by experience we know there are ills which move Boldness and not Anger; that this is more impetuous and turbulent than the other, and that there are many persons which are choleric, as Children, Women, and those that are sick, which we cannot call Bold; there must necessarily be some circumstances, and some conditions in their causes which must make the difference; let's first therefore examine the matter and the object of this Passion, and consider whether it be truly the same which raiseth Boldness.  
In the former Discourse we have shown, 
What ill is Angers object.  That the word Ill did not only signify the effect which properly is ill, but also the cause which produceth it. And this distinction is so necessary for the knowledge of the Passions, that there are some which have no other object but the ill itself, as Grief; others which consider only the cause, as Anger, Hope, and Despair. Lastly, others which confound them together, as Boldness, Hatred, Aversion, and Fear.  
Now Anger assaults nothing but the cause only of ill; for a man cannot be angry with an injury which he may have received, but with him who did it: Quite contrary, Boldness looks on the danger without often considering whence it happens.  
But as there are causes which produce ill without knowledge, as others which effect it without design, if we considerately examine those which Anger assaults, we shall always find them agitating with design; for we are not provoked to anger against a stone which hurts us, but against him who threw it. And what ill soever we suffer, it will never raise this Passion, if we do not imagine that there is some cause which had an intention to make us suffer it.  
Yet because he who chastiseth with a purpose to do ill, doth not always provoke Anger, there must be one kind of ill proper to move this Passion, which being properly moved, may cause the Soul to rise against that which is the cause thereof.  
Others as we have already said, will have it be Scorn; there being nothing more powerful to provoke Anger, nor any ill which a man more impatiently suffers; yet since Children and Beasts are not sensible of it, who nevertheless are often touched with this Passion; and that we every day see very many who patiently suffer Scorn, who are all in a fury if you do but take from them what they believe is their due. Finally, we are angry with ourselves, with chance, with insensible things, by which we can no ways be despised; so that we must confess there must be some other ill which moves Anger.  
Others will have it to be an Injury; men indeed are never so angry as against those by whom they think they have been unjustly offended. And when we think the offence hath been done without design, or believe that we have deserved it, we no longer seek to revenge it. On the other side, it seems as if Beasts cannot know injuries, since they know not unjust things: and so we must say that they are not susceptible of Anger, could injuries only provoke it.  
But if we consider that Children who have not the use of Reason, and whose knowledge is not much different from that of Beasts, forbear not to know when they are unjustly offended; that a Lion is not angry with a stone or a thorn which hurts it; that there are Beasts fierce enough which in play suffer ill without seeking revenge, and are seldom angry with Children: It's very probable that there is some kind of justice amongst them, that they know there are ills which they ought not suffer, and that they know who offends them out of design; not that they have the knowledge of things so clear and so distinct as men may have; but the same instinct which guides them to their end without their pretending to arrive thereunto, affords them also the knowledge of the wrong which is done them, without discerning it. It's true, there is a great difference in this knowledge, and it's more or less perfect according as Creatures have more or less perfection. A Bee casts out its sting against a stone as well as against an Animal; but a Dog, unless he be furious will never assault any but him who purposely hath hurt him: Beasts are therefore capable of knowing injuries, and therefore we may say, that there is no other ill but that which ought to move Anger.  
Now there may be as many kinds of injuries as there are things which may unjustly offend; 
Scorn is a great injury.  but amongst us there is none which so commonly and generally doth it as Despite. And Nature hath given so great an Aversion to the Mind of man against it, it endures no ill whatsoever more impatiently than that, nor is it more easily or more violently born away by any to revenge; And this in my opinion, happens from that that Scorn is nothing else but the opinion which we have that a thing merits not consideration, having no considerable quality, and that we judge it can do neither good nor hurt; for we ought to honour excellent things, love those which are profitable, and fear those which are hurtful: so that those are to be despised which deserve not honour, and are capable of neither love nor fear: But besides, that man is naturally a lover of himself, that desire of vengeance is born with him, and out of that consideration he believes himself amiable, and that if he be offended he can be hurtful: he hath a secret sense of the dignity of his being, and thinks that he commits an injustice who renders him not the honour which is due unto him. That to despise him is in a manner to contest the advantages which Nature hath given him. Finally, as there is no good which is more his own then that, there is also nothing which can transport him more than for any to seek take it away.  
If this original excellency is accompanied with those which birth, study, or fortune may advance, such as are the natural and acquired qualities of the Mind, the strength and beauty of the Body, Honours, Riches, and Friends; it's then that the sense of Scorn is more common, and most insufferable, because that those who think to excel in any thing, believe also that there is honour due unto them, and that in several occasions many are wanting to give it them. Whence it happens that Great, Rich and Young men, those who have many Friends, Honour, or Beauty, are easily moved to wrath; yet I also know that such as are deprived of these excellent qualities, as are Poor, Old, and Sick persons, in a word, all those who have any defect are Choleric, believing at every moment that they are despised by reason of their imperfections; and although they think not that they ought to be esteemed for them, yet they do believe it's to commit an injustice, whether it be because their defects seem to deserve compassion rather than scorn, or whether every one thinks they have sufficient store of other good qualities to counterbalance those wants. 
Whence the greatness of an injury.   
Now although the kind and the nature of the injury ought to render it more or less sensible, yet neither is it that which measures its greatness: it's the opinion alone of him that suffers it; for how great soever the offence may be, it would never kindle Anger unless we acknowledge and resent it. And often an indifferent thing will grow to a gross injury, if we but imagine it to be so. Now there are two causes which may form this opinion; Truth, and Error; this comes from the precipitation and weakness of the Mind, which commonly follows the temperature and custom; wherefore Children, Women and sick people are easily moved; whereas a judicious and magnanimous man seldom grows angry. As for the Truth, it proceeds from the just value we have of the offence, examining the greatness of the ill, the persons, the places, the times, and the causes; for if the ill be great indeed, if he who receives it is a person of quality, and he that offends is his inferior, or is obliged unto him in any kind of duty, if it were in public, if for a slight cause, or that malice was the only motive, we cannot doubt but the resentment must be the greater. In a word, the further he that offends errs from justice, and from his duty, so much greater effectually the injury is, and the esmotion which it raiseth up in the Mind, must also be the more violent.  
He therefore who doth an injury is the object of Anger, 
Why it riseth up against the cause of ill.  and the only enemy against whom it employs all its efforts. Let's now inquire the reason why the Soul riseth up against him, and the design she hath when she assaults him.  
All the world is agreed, That it is to revenge herself; for there is no body agitated by this Passion who respires not vengeance, who speaks not of it, and with pleasure executes it not, unless he be diverted.  
In effect, To revenge one's self on any man, is to make him suffer a punishment proportionable to the ill he hath done; so God revengeth himself on the wicked by punishing them; the Laws revenge crimes by those chastisements which they ordain; and Men revenge particular injuries, by the ill which they inflict on those which have offended them: Anger therefore hath no other design, but that it intends only to seek satisfaction for the offence received, to chastise him who hath committed it, and to cause him to suffer an equal or pronortionable punishment to the ill which he hath done.  
But what profit or benefit can accrue unto it by this chastisement? For the injury is done, is received, is resented; and were there any remedy to be applied, it were to be employed for the taking away or sweetening of the ill, and not against the cause which can nothing ease it, and can no ways undo what it hath done.  
Were it true that this Passion had no other object but Scorn, we might say that revenge were a necessary means to take away the stain and the shame, because that doing ill to him who despiseth us, we should make him know that we were nothing despicable, since scorn is nothing but the opinion which we have that a thing can do neither good nor hurt. But besides that Scorn is not the universal object of Anger, the revenge it seeks hath a more general end than that; for we are not content to do ill to him who scorns us, to make him lose that conceit, since there are other means to persuade him to it, without losing the desire of our revenge; but necessarily Revenge must be a punishment wherewith this Passion seeks to chastise those who offend it.  
Now all pains and all chastisements are the remedies which Justice employs against Malice; but throughly to examine them, 
What the motive and the end of chastisements is.  they are only preservative remedies. For although we say that the ill committed may be repaired by chastisement, that the equality of Justice demands punishments for those who have offended, as well as rewards for those which have done well. And finally, That it's just that he who hath lift up himself above that degree wherein the Law hath placed him, should be cast down by it, and suffer pains for the pleasure he took in doing it. Yet the question remains still unresolved, What the punishment doth against that fault which is committed, since it takes not away the ill which is done, nor the blemish or deformity it may have left in the Soul, since even those sufferings have not that power.  
And truly all the difficulty is, concerning those punishments that God inflicts in the life to come; for as for those which the natural and civil Law have prescribed, we may say with the greatest men of Antiquity that they respect the future only, having no other end then to make him better who did the ill, or to restrain others in their duty by the example, or to provide for the safety of him who may be offended. But all these motives have no place in those chastisements which the wicked suffer after death, since they will then be no longer in a capacity to correct them, and that they last to eternity, wherein the example will be useless, and where those whom they would offend need no longer have any thing to fear.  
What design therefore hath Divine Justice proposed itself in those long and severe punishments? For we must have a a care that we fall not into the error of those who say, God hath no other design in punishing, but to punish; it were to offend his Wisdom and his Justice, to make them act without being guided by that sovereign Equity, which renders to every man according to his deserts. It's true, that those he punishes, deserve to be punished; but why do they deserve it? because they have offended him. And why doth the offence deserve punishment, since we cannot hinder the ill from having been done, and that the pain hath no proportion with the offence, nor with the satisfaction which God may require; there being no likelihood that the ill which he inflicts on them can or aught to satisfy?  
I know that in the design I have to endeavour to resolve such great difficulties by my particular sentiments; some will say it's a great temerity to seek to fathom the profundity of the Counsels and Judgements of God; that they are mysteries which are rather to be adored with humility, then examined with presumption; and that those who dare inquire after reasons for their chastisements, are in danger of such punishments as that Equitable Judge prepares for them. Moreover, if we are obliged to speak of it, we must follow the already received Maxims, and go by the ordinary road, without taking byways, which in all such cases are always dangerous. But I shall oppose this advice only with the respect and submission wherewith I undertake to speak of things which are towards men ineffable and incomprehensible: The necessity which this subject imposeth on me to seek all the motives of punishments, that so I might find that which Anger proposeth to its self in Revenge, and the liberty which every man takes to speak what he thinks on questions which admit of no certain decision: Whereupon I suppose I may with security propose my opinion hereupon, since others do not satisfy the difficulties which are to be found therein; and that even according to mine advice they do not sufficiently make known that sovereign Equity which God observes in his judgements.  
We may therefore say, That when God hath ordained Punishments, he considered the future no more than the civil Laws do, and had no other design but to keep men in their duty by the severity of punishments, and to hinder them by the terror of sufferings from offending him, and rendering themselves unworthy of his grace. But because this forewarning were useless, unless he executed what he hath ordained, he at last makes the guilty suffer the punishment wherewith he before had justly threatened them; not that he would thereby repair the ill committed, or satisfy the offence done him, but because he is faithful and true; so that threatening and establishment of the Law is a work of his Justice, which ought to hinder ill; but the execution is an effect of his faithfulness, which ought to maintain his Justice. For which cause when the holy Scripture, wherein we ought to learn the manner how we are to speak of divine things, says that God is just, it commonly adds that he is true and faithful; all its pages are full of the fidelity of his Laws and of his Judgements; and when it represents the history of things which happen after they were foretold, it precisely observes that they happened that the prophecy might be fulfilled; As if the event were only to render God in his word true and faithful, and to show that his Justice and his Goodness cause him to make Laws and Decrees; but that after they are made, it's his fidelity which obligeth him to put them in execution.  
And truly did Justice exact punishment, and that it were necessary to repair an offence by its chastisement, we could never be pardoned without offending Justice; and he who would remit the pain due to crimes, would remain responsible to the Justice which of right belongs unto it. And consequently Clemency, Mercy, and Lenity how excellent soever those Virtues are, would be useless, and contrary to reason. To avoid these inconveniencies, we must conclude, that it is not the Justice but the Fidelity of the Law which exacts punishments, and so neither is pardon contrary to Justice; and if there be aught else which it seems to clash withal, it's the Fidelity of the Law which the Legislator in particulars may dispense withal, since the Law is a floating general thing, which is not determined to any in particular. In effect, the Prince hath power to diminish or change chastisements; he sometimes suffers an innocent to suffer punishment for the guilty, and believes he hath satisfied the Law, when the punishment it ordained hath been executed on him, who imputed on himself the crime of the guilty.  
Finally, this reason to me seems the more receivable, because it easily resolves that great difficulty which Theology hath always held of the eternity of pain; for to say that pain ought to be infinite, because it respects an infinite object, this and all other reasons which are commonly given, do not fully satisfy the Mind, and still leave some doubt why Divine Justice should exact an eternal punishment for a crime committed in a moment; what necessity is there the chastisement should be infinite, because the object is infinite; and what satisfaction can God have of an offence which most commonly hurts only him who committed it?  
But if it be true, that God ordains punishments but for preservative remedies, it must necessarily follow, that having imposed eternal pains to hinder men from offending him, he must inflict such as he hath ordained, when they become guilty, or else he could not be faithful, and his forewarning would be useless. Now it was fit to impose these pains; for unless men had been threatened with an eternal punishment, there had been no way to keep them in order; and for what time soever God had limited their pains, the hope of being afterwards released would have encouraged them to ill; and with the little sense they had of another life, they would have hazarded millions of years for some moments of this, as they might have but contented their evil inclinations. It's certainly evident that a less severity could not have been; since with all the terror which it gives, yet doth it not perform so full an effect as might have been hoped, and that no body can with reason complain of it, since those who do well are not subject to it, and the guilty voluntarily submit themselves thereunto.  
When we have said all, we must say of Punishment what is faid of Reward, since there is a proportion betwixt them; now it's certain that the Reward which we expect from heaven, is only grounded on the fidelity of the Promises of God, and not on his absolute Justice, which was no ways obliged to give us glory, which is a good which furpasseth all natural capacity, which hath no proportion with created things, and whereto we can pretend nothing, but altogether from the pure grace of the Divine goodness, which of ourselves we can by no means deserve.  
But I shall yet go further, to consider man in his natural condition; he cannot of right demand so much as any temporal reward unless it be by virtue of the promises made unto him by divine and humane Laws; for besides that virtue is satisfied in herself, and that the pleasure which accompanies good actions, is the last perfection, and if we may so speak, the only recompense they can aspire unto; God is not obliged to give man more than to the rest of the Creatures, but only what is necessary for the accomplishment and preservation of his being; neither do men owe themselves to one another, but as they are obliged to render themselves out of the rigour of Justice; now Rewards before they were promised, are not of that order; they may pass in the rank of Graces. For to render what is due is no recompense; it's a payment, and reward is somewhat more than payment: So when we pay a Servant for the service he hath done we reward him not; to reward him, you must give him more than your obligation bore, neither could your gift have been exacted for him by the rigour of Justice, unless by virtue of the promises which were made unto him: For which cause some have had reason to say, that Honour was not the reward of virtue, because it's a right due to its excellency. It's true, that this duty hath its bounds and measures, beyond which it may pass for a reward, as titles and badges of Honour are which Laws and Princes bestow on those who perform fair actions, forasmuch as they go beyond the obligation they have to honour Virtue, and that they bestow them not as things due out of necessity, but only by virtue of their promises, whereby they oblige themselves to recompense such as performed such like actions: those also who perform them, render themselves worthy of the effect of those promises, and that is what we call to deserve a reward.  
Yet this imports not that promises which Princes and Laws make upon these occasions, are not inspired by Justice: it's the same as concerning those pains wherewith they threaten those who perform evil actions; for as there are preservative remedies to hinder Vice, those are as nourishment to entertain Virtue; and it's as just to encourage and provoke men to do well out of hope of reward, as to intimidate and withdraw them from ill by threatening of punishment; As also the exacting of punishments is not the work of pure Justice, but of the fidelity of the Law; after the same manner, the reward a man receives is not an effect of Justice, but of the faithfulness of the promiser; for that besides that a virtuous action is out of duty and obligation, it can pretend to a reward only but as from an expectative grace; the Justice of the Law having considered the future only, and being not destined for things done, unless for example sake, and to render the promises true and faithful.  
But it's to carry the matter we treat too high; Let's satisfy ourselves in saying, that what concerns punishments ordained by natural and civil Laws, the greatest men of antiquity have been of my opinion, and have believed as we do, that they are only preservative remedies destined to make those better who have erred, to serve for an example to other men, and to provide for the security of those who have been offended.  
If this be so, 
Why Anger will charise him who hath done the injury.  Anger which employs Revenge as a chastisement must have some of these motives. Now its design is not to correct the defects of others, nor to give examples, because Beasts which are subject to this Passion can have no such thought. Neither aims it at the severity of him who hath been offended; as all the rest of the Passions, she respects her own particular preservation only, and being unable to hinder the offence from having been done, it will at least hinder its continuance. In a word, it endeavours to take away the power of doing ill from him who hath done the injury, that he may do it no more.  
And indeed, since Anger is a kind of Boldness, and that Boldness assaults ill to take away its power, Anger which assaults the cause of the ill must needs endeavour to take from him the power of doing ill; and because that in those causes which act with design, the Will is the best part of this power; it's certain, that taking the Will from them, the power is also taken away, or at least it's rendered useless.  
Now there is nothing which can better take away the will of doing ill but by making him suffer ill who hath already done it, forasmuch as the remembrance of the pain he suffers must needs hinder him from falling another time into the like danger.  
So that the Soul hath no other end when she will revenge herself in Anger, but to hinder him who hath done the injury, from continuing to do him the like: we find it certain by experience that whatsoever stops the course or the continuation of the offence, appeaseth the Anger. So we are satisfied when he who hath done us an injury, hath been hurt, when he reputes, when he flies, when he makes it appear that he offended us not out of design. Forsmuch as we believe that the pain of his wounds will make him afraid to fall into the like fault; that his repentance hath changed his design of ill doing; that flying he hath lost the power of it; and that having offended us unawares he did it unvoluntarily.  
On the other side, he who is angry will himself execute his revenge, or if any do it for him, he will have it known that it was he that procured it, as if that knowledge served to hinder the other from continuing any more to offend him; instead that he who simply hates, cares not for that, and so his enemy suffers ill, he cares not whence he believes it comes. In fine, it's for this cause that those calamities and great miseries, extremety of sickness and death itself, which happens to those who have injured us, take away from us that desire of revenge, although they take not away the hatred and the aversion which we have against them; forasmuch as in the condition in which they are they have not as it seems the power to offend us, and that Anger pretends not to do ill simply to incommodate him who suffers it, but to guard itself from that violence which a man may afterwards receive.  
This is the general end which Nature proposeth to this Passion in respect of vengeance, which it inspires in all creatures, and which consequently in its source and original is an effect of this primary Justice, which moves every thing to its own preservation. The policy and opinion of men hath added thereunto other particulars as Correction and Example, the reparation of Honour offended, and the preservation of that excellency and superiority wherewith they flatter themselves.  
For although man considered in himself, may as well as the rest of Creatures revenge himself of those injuries which he hath received: Yet having been destined for a civil life and society, having reserved to itself the right of revenge, as a matter belonging to the public, he cannot lawfully exercise it without the help of Laws, unless the danger be very urgent, that he wants time to expect or seek their assistance; when therefore they revenge the injuries of particulars, it's first to provide for their security, because it's the natural end of the Passion, and then to correct those who have offended, and by their examples to keep others in their duties; they accommodate themselves even to the opinions of men who think their honour receives some diminution when they suffer an injury without resenting it, and that Vengeance alone can repair it; wherefore the Laws labour to give them this satisfaction, when they take upon them to revenge them; for although this opinion is a vicious foundation, and proceeds from that pride which is born with us; yet nevertheless having passed into a custom, and being in some manner upheld by Nature, the Law which accommodates itself to out weakness tolerates it, and will not take away from those who have been offended, the consolation they have to believe that their honour hath had reparation by revenge.  
In effect, Man who is naturally proud, and placeth one part of his glory neither to yield nor submit himself, cannot suffer an injury without resenting it, but he must at the same time confess his impotency and his submission; for if he get no satisfaction, it's out of weakness; if he will not seek it, it's out of respect: both ways he yields that pre-eminence which he pretends to with so much Passion: But when he revengeth himself, he makes it appear that he is not less powerful, nor less considerable than he who hath offended him, and thereby he thinks to change the opinion which might have been conceived in prejudice of his excellency. It's therefore self-love which casts him in this error, and bereaves him of knowing himself destined for a civil life, wherein he may not exercise his revenge, but by the authority of the Laws, which after having made use of punishments for the public good, doth also leave this belief in those who have been offended, that by that means they have preserved their rights and advantages. However it be, this satisfaction is a particular end belonging to human revenge, since Beasts cannot pretend unto it, nor are they capable to seek reparation for an honour which they can neither acquire nor preserve.  
Beyond this, we can say no more on this subject, 
In all Anger there is a desire of vengeance.  but only to clear the difficulty which we proposed at the beginning of this Discourse; to wit, when a man grows angry with himself, with his fortune, or with insensible things, since it's unlikely a man should seek to revenge himself on himself, and that Fortune is an imaginary thing, which is no more capable of suffering grief then all the rest of insensible things; certainly we need not doubt but in all these encounters there is a desire of vengeance, but it's a blind and mad Appetite which the precipitation and impetuosity of Anger stirs up in the Soul; for this Passion raiseth itself so quick that it often prevents all the lights of Reason, and then we need not wonder if it know not those things which move it, and if it often vary its designs. We may indeed call it a kind of Drunkenness, which makes trees appear like men, which represents all things double, and which fancies to itself Chimeras to combat them withal; for he who is angry at his chance, doth he not fashion out a phantasm for an enemy? doth he not divide himself when angry with himself, and is not his sight troubled when he knows neither Parents nor Friends, & takes insensible things as if they were capable of sense? These are therefore the effects of an offended Fancy, like those which dreams or melancholy raise, and which make us believe that it's in these encounters that Anger is the commencement of folly, as says one of the most ancient of all the Latin Poets.  
Let's therefore conclude, 
Wherein Anger is different from Boldness.  That an offence received is the ground of this Passion, that who hath committed it is the enemy it assaults, and that it riseth up against it to procure its revenge. But for all this we have not yet found the principal difference which ought to be in this definition, and which distinguisheth it from all the rest; for the Soul may rise up against him who hath offended her, assault and combat him to revenge herself, without being moved by Anger; doth not this happen every day in War, wherein we assault our enemies, or we revenge the injuries we have received without accusing this Passion of bearing part? Wisdom itself, Magnanimity and Justice do they not often seek revenge of wrongs done them, without being suspected of having followed the counsels or motions of Anger. Certainly we must confess this is that rock whereon we may be afraid to lose ourselves; for after all this long discourse we seem constrained to say, that Anger and Boldness are but one and the same Passion, seeing they have ill for their object, they both assault it, and both would take away its power of doing ill. And although we may say that the Object of Boldness is more universal than that of Anger, since this assaults only the cause of ill, and the other assaults it what ill soever it be; that their End admits of the same difference, Anger having no other design but to take away the power of ill doing from that cause which hath already done it; and Boldness endeavouring to take it away without considering whether it be done or no; yet all this would only serve to conclude, that Anger is a species and a difference only of Boldness: And without doubt if we respect the end and the object only of these two Passions, we must be forced to fall into this error; so that there remains the motion only, whereby the diversity which is betwixt them is observable.  
But what? 
What the motion of the Soul is in Anger.  Both of them rise up against ill, and it signifies nothing to say that this rising up of Anger is more impetuous than that of Boldness; for besides that it often happens that this is moved with as much or more violence, and more readily than the other, less and more cannot cause an essential difference in the Passions. Must it not then be Grief which ever accompanies Anger, which causeth some diversity in these motions? for it's she alone we can fancy is able to contribute any thing thereunto. And indeed this conjecture would be very likely, did not Grief very often join with Boldness, without moving Wrath; we may indeed resent the ill, and repel it without being moved by this Passion; and we see daily in single combats that the grief for the wounds we have received, or the displeasure we might have to see one's enemy have the advantage, accompanies often Boldness without any esmotion of Anger: We cannot say a Judge is moved with it when he compassionates him who hath suffered an injury, and will revenge him according to Law; and that a Father may not chastise his Children who have offended him without being sensible of the motions of this Passions. Finally, is it to be believed that a man always makes himself angry with sickness, with a Beast that bites him, or a Serpent that stings him, when he drives them away, or assaults them? and yet in all these encounters Grief and Boldness are both met.  
Yet must we not upon these considerations renounce our proposed conjecture; 
Anger is a mixture of Grief and Boldness.  for since Grief is so strictly conjoined with Anger, that it can never be separated, and that it is but by chance it mixeth with Boldness; It's to be believed, that it unites itself with this after another manner than it doth with the other, and that this diversity causeth an essential difference in their motions. And certainly the Passions may mix together two ways; the one is by confounding their motions, so that the Soul at the same time suffers two Passions as Hope and Boldness, Boldness and Anger; the other is by making the motion of the one succeed the other, so that two Passions remain not together, but so swiftly follow one another that they seem to be but one, as Love and Desire, Joy and Hope.  
Grief therefore may join with Boldness both these ways; and without doubt, in the examples proposed they do but follow one the other at several reprisals without uniting their motions. But when they confound themselves together they cause this Passion of Anger, which is nothing but the union and the confusion of the former; for which cause Anger is never without them, because they are the essential parts whereof it is composed. To confirm this truth, we need only consider, that the same offence raiseth up in Anger a far more sharp and fretful grief then in Boldness; for there is no other reason of this diversity but that Grief and Boldness have contrary motions; and that the Soul being at the same time agitated by both, cannot but suffer a great violence, and that the displeasure she conceives for the injury received must needs be augmented by the pain she is sensible of in the combat of these two Passions. Nature in effect which loves order and equality in all, fly's as much as it may this contrariety of motions, and if she find herself engaged in it she suffers it with pain and disquiet; and if it be lawful to say so, she groans under so heavy a burden which she cannot long support without being overwhelmed, which is the reason why Anger is not long lasting, and that it presently changeth into other Passions, as into Hatred, Sadness, and into Despair.  
But when Grief joins wsth Boldness so that their motions are not confounded, and that they do but follow and succeed one another, the Soul is not constrained, and tortured, and suffers not that turbulent and painful agitation wherewith she is necessarily moved in the encounter of two opposite motions. For which cause Grief is not so pungent, nor doth it admit of that increase which the pain and trouble of the Soul in Anger suffers.  
It's true, that in this occasion these two Passions follow one another so close that they may easily be confounded, and so form Anger, as in fight it often happens, and after the same manner as Grief therein becomes more pungent; Boldness also becomes more impetuous by reason of the endeavour the Soul makes in the constraint which those two contrary motions cause in it, as we shall say hereafter.  
What may be objected against this doctrine, may be, 
Whether any Anger may be found without any cause of offence  that to form Anger there must be a cause which offends with intention; and that it may happen that Grief and Boldness might confound themselves, were it not for that cause, and therefore altogether without their moving of Anger. But we may boldly answer, that it's impossible it should so happen, and that if Grief and Boldness unite, when no cause hath caused an injury, still the Soul fancies one, as when a man is angry with himself, with fortune, and with insensible things; because the Soul which is instructed by nature, in all what is necessary for the production of the Passions, knows what motion is proper for every one of them, what object ought to move them, and what end she ought to propose herself in them; and not one of these things presents itself so soon to our knowledge, but it presently adds two others, so that in the same manner as when she resents an injury, she at the same time forms the design of revenging herself, and afterwards agitates herself by that motion which is proper for Anger; so when she finds herself agitated with this motion, the cause which ought to move this Passion not occurring therein, knowing it is that she is accustomed to make use of in Anger, she forms to herself the cause and object of Anger, and so perfects that Passion which this motion had only commenced: And this is the more easy to be believed, for that the motion of the spirits which makes no part of the Passion as that of the Appetite doth, causeth the same effect. For if it happen that the spirits are agitated with a motion proper to a Passion, the Soul which sees what passeth in her organs, and knows after what manner she is accustomed to stir them up, presently fancies that object which ought to excite this motion; and at last agitates itself conformably to that motive which this object inspires it withal, and so that esmotion which it meets within the spirits. It's thus that Music produceth Passion; it's thus that Love out of inclination is form, as we have showed in the Treatise we have made thereof. It's then true that Anger is nothing else but Grief and Boldness united and confounded together, and that the turbulent and unequal agitation which the Soul is constrained to suffer in the encounter, and in the shock of these two opposite Passions, makes that difference of motion which is proper unto it, and which distinguisheth it from all the rest. In effect, we cannot conceive that the Appetite in Grief retires itself, and that at the same time Boldness raiseth it up, but we must fancy we see a Sea agitated with contrary winds and waves, for the same combat which is made amongst the waves, the same boilings which it raiseth up, the same efforts with which it beats upon the shore. Finally, the same trouble and confusion which this great Main suffers during the tempest, are in the Soul when she is stirred up by these two violent Passions.  
So that it is not without reason that we say the Sea grows angry, and that Anger is a tempest, since there is the same agitation in either of them, and that both of them spring from the contrariety of motions which shake these two great depths.  
But we may say That if Anger be a mixture of Grief and of Boldness, it cannot be in the rank of simple Passions, as we have hitherto conceived, and as at the beginning of this work we ourselves resolved. Certainly, there needs no contest hereupon, and it were to fight against the truth to defend the common opinion; for if there is a Passion which is mixed and composed, it's chief this, where Grief and Boldness, Desire and Hope are all met together. That if we proposed it as a simple Passion, besides that we did not then deduce those reasons which ought to oblige us to shun the errors of the School, we may freely confess that upon the way we often discovered those things which at first we never thought to have met withal, and that considering more nearly the nature of this Passion, Reason and Truth have made it appear unto us to be altogether composed, that is to say, of Grief and Boldness, as of its essential parts, and of Desire and Hope as of inseparable accidents or necessary conditions which accompany it. For it's certain, that he that is angry aught to desire and hope for revenge. Yet the Mind may separate these two Passions from Anger without destroying its Nature, forasmuch as without considering them it may conceive the Soul may be touched with Grief for the injury received, and that she assaults the cause which caused it, wherein all the Essence of Anger consists.  
So that now we may define it to be A turbulent Agitation which Grief and Boldness move in the Appetite, 
Definition of Anger.  whereby the Soul retires in herself, to estrange herself from the injury received, and at the same time raiseth herself up against the cause which caused it to be done, for to revenge herself of it. Whence we may judge, that as this Passion is mixed, its causes and effects are also of the same nature; for it hath indeed two objects, to wit the Injury and him who did it: It hath two ends, the one to estrange itself from ill, and the other to revenge itself. Lastly, it's composed of two motions, which being united cause this turbulent agitation, wherein we have said the principal difference of this Passion consists.  
Yet we are to observe, that as commonly Boldness vapours more in Anger then in Grief, and yet that there are some Angers in which Grief appears stronger than Boldness; It's certain, that in these encounters the motions of these two Passions are proportionably stronger or weaker, and that it often happens that its rising up is greater than its contraction; and that sometimes also its contraction is more than its lifting up; but if they are equal, Boldness always appears more than Grief, because in that the Soul produceth and casts itself forth, and in Grief she hides and inwardly retires herself, as we shall make it more particularly appear in the Chapter, wherein we shall examine the nature of that Passion.  
We must conclude this long Discourse with a resolution of an important difficulty which may here be made: 
Who those are which are inclided to Anger.  For perhaps some will say, that if Boldness makes a part of Anger, it will follow that those who are naturally bold, will also be most inclined to this Passion. On the contrary, those who are timorous, should never be sensible of it. Although experience teacheth us, that those who are truly Bold, are seldom provoked to Anger, and that Children, Women and sick persons which are weak and timorous, are easily moved thereunto. But this objection is easily answered, if we remember that Boldness alone never produceth this Passion, but that Grief must also meet with it, that these mix and confound themselves together. In a word, that a man must be sensible of injuries, and have a quick and agile Boldness to be susceptible of Anger. Now those who have an heroic Boldness, are not sensible of injuries unless they are very cousiderable, because they despise most of those things which assault them, and that that Melancholy which is in their temperature retains the fury of their spirits, giving them time to examine the offences, and to consider whether they deserve to be chastised. On the contrary, those who are weak of body or of mind, and who have a very agile heat, as Children and Women, and those who have any remarkable defect, finding themselves more exposed to injuries, are easily born away with a desire of vengeance, because their weakness makes them apprehend every thing, and the subtle heat which they have is so quickly inflamed, that they have not time enough to consider whether they are truly injured, and whether they ought to revenge themselves, or whether indeed they have the power; and that is the reason why the Choleric are the most angry of all, because they have an ardent and active heat, which renders all their actions precipitate, and bereaves them of time and means to judge rightly of things; For it's certain that there is no quality so much an enemy to Reason as Heat, and a violent agitation; all the functions of Sense, and principally those of Judgement, being not to be performed but when the Soul enjoys a great Tranquillity, as Aristotle says. Whence it also happens that Nature hath placed the brain so far from the principle of heat, that its quiet might not be disturbed by the neighbourhood of that active and turbulent quality, as we shall more amply hereafter declare.   

CHAP. III. Of the Motion of the Spirits and of the Humours in Anger.  
AS Rivers which run into the Sea are sensible of those storms wherewith it is agitated; 
The spirits in Anger have contrary motions.  those spirits which like Rivers take their source from the Soul, and discharge themselves there also, must needs suffer part of that great tempest which Anger raiseth therein: And they must be shaken with the same violence and agitation which she resents in herself. If it be therefore true, that she is then moved with two contrary motions, and that at the same time when Grief makes her retire, Boldness raiseth her up and drives her forth; it's necessary that the spirits to whom she communicates all her commotions must be agitated after the same manner; and that as she doth, they must restrain and retreat themselves at the same instant, when she raiseth and darts herself forth against ill.  
And certainly did not Reason force the mind to confess this Truth, the effects which Anger produces would sufficiently prove it. For besides that a man often grows pale when he is carried away with this Passion, that his voice is vehement and sharp, and that commonly we see in his Face sadness mix and confound itself with fury, which can proceed from nothing but this contrariety of motions; it's impossible to doubt it, if we consider the different pulse which is proper for Anger, and the consistence which the Heart and the Lungs have when it's kindled in those parts; for it hath this in particular, That it makes the pulse higher, and more elevated, then large and extended; And that it retires the Heart and Lungs in themselves, although it then swells them and raiseth them up; now this can be but from these two opposite motions we have spoken of, as we shall more fully declare when we inquire into the causes of those effects.  
But although this be most certain, yet we must confess that it's harder to conceive how such bodies as the spirits are, can at the same time suffer motions which seem incompatible; for although there are many examples in Nature which make it appear that a body may be moved in such a manner; that Fish which swims against the course of the water, are insensibly carried away with the force of the stream; that a man may walk in a ship contrary to the course he shapes, and that the heavens themselves, are, as they say, carried towards the West by the Primum mobile, whilst by their natural inclination they tend towards the East. Yet this clears not the difficulty, but leaves still a great difference betwixt these motions, and those wherewith the spirits are agitated in this Passion; for that there is but one motion in the former proper to the body moved; the other is as a stranger, and as the School says, happens by accident; but here these two motions which the spirits suffer are proper unto them, it's the same mover which produceth them, it's the same subject which receives them; and it seems a contradiction, that at the same time a thing should advance itself and go backwards, that it should tend to two opposite places. In a word, that it should be and not be, in the place where it is.  
We must therefore faith, that there are two ways whereby the spirits may receive these contrary motions; 
How the spirits suffer contrary motions.  The first supposing them to have divers parts, some of which are agitated after one manner, and others after another; just as it happens in the straits, where contrary Currents and Seas meet; for as there are some waves which enter into one another, some which justle and cause the beat they give one another to boil exceedingly; the same thing certainly is here done, where one part of the Spirits which follows the motion of Grief, and another which is carried away with that of Boldness, and which meeting on the way causeth this turbulent and unequal agitation which is observable in this Passion; the same way is like that which is performed in Boldness, wherein the spirits stiffen themselves in themselves, and yet forbear not to dart themselves forth. For seeing the parts of a body may amongst themselves suffer a motion which may be different from that wherewith the whole body is agitated, as it happens to the Arm, when at the same time we stiffen and stretch it forth. So it may also be that the spirits may retire in themselves, and at the same time be violently driven into the exterior parts. And truly as Grief makes its impression before Boldness, because we must resent an injury before we will our revenge; it's certain, that at that instant the spirits restrain themselves; so that Boldness coming after, and not driving Grief away, it must raise the Spirits restrained as they are, and without making them lose the disposition it finds them in, drive them to those places where they are necessary.  
Now although in little Angers it may happen that the Spirits will be moved only after the latter manner, yet commonly they are by both sorts at once, and it must necessarily be. The better to conceive this great storm which they raise in the veins, we must fancy to ourselves that they do not only restrain themselves, as we have said; but that there are some which run and fly to the heart, and others which issue out and impetuously cast themselves forth, and that in this encounter which is thereby made, they embroil and confound themselves, they justle and raise themselves up, and so they make a current full of boilings and of foam; it's true, that according as Grief or Boldness predominates in this Passion, the ebbing and flowing of the spirits is stronger or weaker; for when Grief is greater, which is properly what we say is to be vexed, there are more spirits which retire to the heart then there are which are darted forth. On the contrary, when Boldness is greater, as when Anger is violent, and turns even into Fury, there are more spirits which dart themselves forth then retire; and than although the shock which they give themselves cannot be so great, and seems to be unable to cause this agitation, which is when they are of equal force; yet this hinders not that trouble and tempest to be therein form with the same violence which the excess of this Passion requires; forasmuch as if the shock is not then performed by the encounter of these opposite motions; yet it's made by the frequent arrival of the spirits, which like impetuous floods precipitate themselves on one another, and making haste to follow the first, finding them in their way dash against them, and drive them as if they indeed opposed their course.  
For it's the property of Boldness and Anger to move the Soul and the Spirits by sallies and by swinges; 
The Spirits move themselves by sallies.  forasmuch as the danger they are threatened withal continually solicits them to make new endeavours to surmount them, which commonly happens not to those Passions which tend to good, where the Soul having nothing to fear abandons herself to every object which pleaseth, and as if she would cast herself whole, and all at once before it; she drives the Spirits thereunto like a flood, without minding to recreate them, whence afterwards follow Languors, Swoonings and other accidents which we have treated of in our Discourse of Joy.  
But although these sallies are common to Boldness and Anger; it's certain, that they are more frequent and more readily doubled in this then in the other; because Grief which always accompanies it, provokes, and at every moment urgeth the Soul; and that weakness often meets with it, which renders it the more diligent and careful; instead that in Boldness, seeing only the ill comes without resenting it, and confiding in her own strength, she believes that this crowding of them together is no ways necessary.  
Let's therefore conclude, that Grief restrains the Spirits, and makes them retreat to the Heart; that Boldness stiffens and drives them forth, that the force of the Soul cause them to make these sallies, which at every moment precipitates them one on another, and that from the combat of so many different motions this turbulent ebullition and agitation proceeds wherewith the Spirits are agitated in this Passion.  
To seek now what the end of all these motions is, and what the Souls motives is when she excites them, were a useless thing, at least in respect of the stiffening and darting forth of the Spirits, which have been curiously examined in the precedent Chapters: And as for those which Grief causeth, we shall then propose them, when we treat of that Passion; for as concerning the shock, the ebullition, and the trouble which here happens, they are effects which are done out of necessity, without the Souls intention of producing them, being altogether useless for her design.  
Yet not to leave the Reader in doubt concerning those two kinds of motions which in Grief we assigned the spirits, it shall suffice to say by way of advance, that the soul is not at that time content to cause the Spirits to retire to the heart, but that she also causeth them to shut themselves up in themselves, and in the design which she hath to estrange herself from the ill which urgeth her, she conceives slight is not able to save her from the danger, unless she shut herself up in herself, if she stop not the Enemy's passage, and if as much as she possibly can she hid not herself from him.  
After this it will be nothing difficult to declare how Hope and Desire which are always with Anger, may find in the esmotion she causeth that which is proper for them, and causeth their subsistence; for since the spirits dart themselves forth in desire, and stiffen themselves in hope; Boldness which causeth both of these motions, must needs favour the birth and preservation of these two Passions; even so it is with Hate and Aversion, which commonly accompany Anger, forasmuch as their agitation being conformable to that Grief raiseth up as in its place we shall make known, it's nothing strange that they are found with it, that they dwell together and maintain one the other.  
What is most difficult herein, 
How the motion of the spirits in Anger can suffer that of Joy.  is, to explicate how all these motions may accommodate themselves with that of Joy; for it's certain, that in the height of danger, the hope of revenge alone satisfies the Mind, and even we have an extreme pleasure to imagine we are revenged, and that Vengeance executed is sweeter than honey, as the Poet says. Now if Joy dilates and sweetly disperseth the Spirits, how is it possible it can subsist with Anger, which restrains and drives them forth with impetuosity? We may hereupon say, that Joy may form itself in the superior part of the Soul, whilst Anger agitater the inferior, and that when the Spirits which serve these two Powers are moved with contrary motions without incompatibility, because it's performed in several places. But if Joy descends into the inferior part, we must necessarily believe that in the same instant she drives away Anger, that the storm which this raised dissipates itself at the arrival of a Passion which always brings with it a calm and serenity. In effect, when a man flatters himself with the pleasure which he shall reap in his revenge, he resents not the same agitation and those transports which possessed him before, his looks are more sweet, his countenance is calm, and all his actions are more modest. I confess that this may be very suddenly changed, but yet it's still true that at that instant he resents it not, and that Pleasure and Anger are two Passions which may succeed one another, but yet are incompatible as well by reason of the contrary motions which they produce, as of the opposite motives which they have. This clearly appears when we have effectually revenged ourselves, for then Anger quite ceaseth, and the Joy of the Victory we have obtained remains alone, and those Passions which usually follow it, as Vanity, Insolency, etc. 
What kind of heat produceth Anger.   
We should now speak of that Heat which accompanies these motions, and the ardour which this Passion kindles in all the parts. But this hath been amply done in the discourse of Boldness, wherein we did show that the Soul and the Heart have power to augment the natural heat when it's necessary, and that she hath no occasion wherein its assistance is more useful then in those Passions which are to assault ill. For as this quality is the most agile of all, and most fit to destroy what is hurtful, it's also the most powerful instrument which the Soul hath to employ in its combats, wherein the first design she hath is to bereave the enemy of his power of doing ill. For which reason in these encounters she raiseth it up, she augments it, and entertains it in the Heart, which is its natural source, and from thence by a particular privilege which these two Passions have, she sends it to those organs which she intends to employ. If in effect there are others in which she is dispersed to the outward parts, it is not that it is sent thither because it is useless; it's because it follows those Spirits which are sent thither; but herein both of them are led by the Soul, being necessary for the design which she proposeth herself; the Spirits to convey strength to the parts, and heat to destroy the ill which presents itself.  
Now ill is more urgent in Anger then in Boldness, for those Reasons which we have deduced, we need not doubt but the heat renders itself therein also more violent, as well out of the greatness of the endeavour it makes to produce it, as for that of the agitation of the spirits, and the rising up of those pungent humours which it incites. In effect it is certain that it separates Choler, and all what is most malignant in the veins, and that it useth them as offensive arms, the more easily to destroy the enemy. Whence it happens that the bitings of all kind of creatures are in some sort venomous when they are angry, and the more irritated they are, the more dangerous, and hard to be cured; which ought to make us judge that their teeth are then infected with some malignant humour which Nature brings into those parts, after having separated it from the rest, to render it the more mischevous and fit to effect what she intends: It's also true, that the separation of the humours renders them more active, giving them liberty, and restoring them that strength which mixture had weakened. But that we may the better clear the Truth of so new a proposition, we must examine whether the Soul hath the power thus to separate the humours; and if after having separated them she can remix them again, and reinstate them as they were before.  
As for the first, a man must be very ignorant of what is done in Nature, and of what is performed in ourselves, to doubt of so certain and so evident a thing. The choice which the Soul makes of what is fit for every part, so many kinds of humours as she at every moment drives out of the most healthful bodies, so many evacuations as she causeth in sickness, make it sufficiently appear that she hath the power to separate what is profitable from what is not so, and that if she have a design to employ venom or choler to execute her revenge, she may draw them from the mass and places where they are, and afterwards send them to those places where she intends to use them.  
The other point is more difficult to be resolved; 
Whether Nature can reunite the Humours which she hath separated.  for it seems that the order which Nature observes is to drive out what it hath separated, and never to remingle ill humours with good, when she hath once divided them from one another; so that if in Anger she separate venom and choler to employ them against ill, she must drive them out without remixing them any more with the rest. And yet we cannot doubt but that when Anger is over, the Humours retake their former places, and but that the Body returns to his pristine constitution. We must therefore say that there are useful and useless Humour, that both of them may be within and without the Veins, and that that order which Nature observes is different according as she is free or constrained. When she acts freely, after having separated the Humours, and driven them out of the veins, she recalls them thither no more, and how good soever they be, she must needs drive them out of the Body: So the Serosity which is in the Bladder, Choler which is in the bag of the Gall, Blood itself being out of its vessels, never returns into that Mass from whence they were drawn, but she quite expels them; but whilst these Humours remain in the veins, she may separate them from the rest, and after remingle them together, as she commonly doth in Passions, in Favours, and in those Crisis' which are imperfect; for when Choler is driven by Anger into the surface of the Body, after the storm is over, it resumes the place again which it had in the mass of the blood, and remixeth itself with it as it was before. It's true that this is not done in a moment, and that time is requisite to resettle it; for which reason a man that is let blood, at his going out of the violence of this Passion, his blood commonly appears altogether changed, and a diversity of colours appears, which would make a man believe it were corrupted, were one not assured that after the return of a calm no such thing is to be seen, and that it proceeded only from this disunion of the Humours, which uniting themselves again return to the blood its former colour.  
This reunion is also to be found in Favours which are commonly caused by the separation which is made in the veins of those ill Humours which are there gathered together; for although it be Nature which separates them that she may drive them out, it often happens that they are so malignant that she dares not undertake it, and leaving them thus in their vessels, she endeavours to repair the error which she had committed by raising up heat to overcome them, remixing them with the rest to temper and sweeten them; and lastly labouring for their decoction, the first effect whereof is to reassemble divided things; but if we observe what is done in these crisis●s, we need no longer doubt of this Truth; for it sometimes happens that Nature being disposed to terminate a sickness by sweat, after even having already begun, she all at once stops and retains that humour which was ready to issue out. Now it's impossible it should be left in the veins, but it must embroil itself with the rest of the blood, since she often retains it the better to concoct it; that she reassumes her design of driving it out many days after, and that there is no likelihood that in so long a time so fluid and penetrating a Humour should preserve itself in its paucity, without mixing itself with the rest. To conclude, if the spirits issue out of their vessels, to insinuate themselves not only in the parts but in the Humours themselves which are corrupted, and that after having performed their function they retire to their principles, and reunite themselves with those spirits which they had left, as we have showed in our Discourse of Digestion, why should not those parts of the blood which go not out of the veins do the same thing? For when we say Choler riseth in Anger, we mean nothing else but the most subtle and the hottest part of the blood, and not that Choler which is an excrement and without the veins; it being true that the Soul never causeth this to remount when she acts freely, and follows her ordinary course, if it happen that she is pressed and constrained by the violence of a Passion, or of some disease, it's true then there are no Humours how malignant soever they be, and in what place soever they may be, but she can raise them up, and force them to re-enter the veins, and the most considerable parts. It's thus that vehement Anger is sometimes followed with the Jaundice, with an Apoplexy, with Convulsion fits, trembling of the Nerves, and other such like Diseases, which are caused by that violent transport of Humours we have spoken of.  
It's thus that in malignant Fevers we see so many sad and unlooked for accidents happen, which astonish the Physician, and overthrow the Patient: But this Discourse concerns Physic; let us pursue our design, and seek the causes of those Characters which are proper to this Passion.   

CHAP. IU. The Causes of the Characters of Anger.  
ALthough Anger be composed of Grief and Boldness, and for the same cause its probable it should have no other Characters, but those which those two Passions separately produce; yet as in all other things mixture affords new virtues, or so confounds those which are principal, that it makes them appear altogether different from what they were; it also happens that Anger besides those Characters which are common to her with Boldness and Grief, it hath others particulars added unto it, which are not at all to be found in the other, if at least they encounter it is with very great difference.  
Indeed if we do but consider these which it forms in the Soul, it hath even as Boldness, Hope, Confidence and Freeness; it hath just as Grief, Peevishness, Impatience and Heaviness: But Pride, Fury and Despair are far different herein from those which accompany those two Passions; for if Boldness is proud, it hath strength to maintain its Pride, if it be carried away with Fury, it's after great strive, and it never happens at its beginning: If finally Grief easily fall into Despair, it's a timorous, base, heedless despair; but Anger hath a Boldness which is commonly vain, and without any ground, a precipitate fury kindled at the instant of its birth; and when it is in despair of revenge, it's a temerous, violent and enraged Despair; Besides which, it in particular makes great threaten, speaks much, discovers its secrets; it's credulous, impudent and opinionate; it's base, cruel, and insolent: But this diversity appears also in the corporal Characters, as we shall make it known after we have examined the causes of these.  
Let's therefore begin with Hope, 
Why Hope devanceeth Anger  which ever gives a beginning to Anger; for it's certain that this Passion is never kindled in the heart, what injury soever a man hath received, or what desire soever to retort it, but first he hopes to have his revenge: So that we are seldom angry with those that are extremely above us; Demons or dead bodies although they may offend us, will never provoke us; and it hath seldom been seen that a man of a low condition hath been carried away with wrath against his King or against his Lord, forasmuch as such persons are so high that they seem to be out of reach, and that it is, as it were, impossible to do them any harm, and that so having no hope of being revenged, they find it's to no end to be angry with them.  
But since this Hope cannot be founded but on those forces which we believe we have, 
How weak persons hope to be revenged.  and that Natures which are most weak, such as are Women, and Children, and sick persons, are extremely susceptible of Anger; how is it possible they should hope to be revenged, having not the power, and carrying always about them a secret sense of their own weakness, as hereafter we shall make it appear?  
Certainly it's easy to judge by those vain endeavours which they make in these encounters, that it's from the error of their thoughts, and that the Soul suffers itself often to be deceived in the Judgement she makes of her forces. Now this error commonly proceeds from the motion of heat which awakens and augments itself in this Passion; for as we have said in the Discourse of Boldness, this quality taking part with the corporal forces, being seated in the Heart, and being, if we may so speak, nearest the Irascible Appetite, it cannot be irritated nor increased without the Souls being abused with a vain opinion which it persuades that she is strong enough to undertake great matters.  
It's as with a Prince who hearkens only to generous counsels, to whom his power and greatness are only represented, and who sees no man that provokes him not to take up arms. For how weak soever he is, incessantly finding himself solicited by those violent Ministers, having his ears always filled with their flatteries, he at last suffers himself to be persuaded, and without considering his impotency engageth himself in temerous undertake; the Soul often doth the like in the weakest bodies, when natural heat kindles itself it the Heart, seeing nothing about it, if we may so speak, but this floating and unquiet quality, being every moment provoked by its ardour and by its vivacity, and suffering itself to be surprised by the ostentation she makes of her power and virtue, she at last imagines her forces are greater than indeed they are, and without remembering her weakness she resolves to combat the ill, and flatters herself with the hope of obtaining the Victory.  
But it may be enquired, what it is which then thus irritates and augments this heat, 
What it is that irritates heat in weak persons.  forasmuch as if it be the Soul, as we have said, which employs it to destroy the ill, she must needs hope to overcome it, before she will offer to make use of it, since the design always goes before those means which are proper to execute it, and that in effect the Passions are immanent actions, which form themselves in the Soul before the Body resents them; for there is no question but Hope accompanies strong and robustious constitutions; where it is not necessary that heat should be irritated to raise up this Passion, it's enough for them that they know their forces, and are assured of them; but here where weakness is whereof the Soul hath the knowledge, and which consequently ought to make her mistrust herself, there must needs be something to animate her courage. In a word, it's necessary Heat should be augmented before Hope can be therein form: And yet we see nothing which can raise it, since we suppose that there is nothing in the Soul but Grief which proceeds from the injury received, and that this Passion far from increasing heat, is that which diminisheth and at last extinguisheth it.  
To resolve this difficulty, we must discover a secret which hath not hitherto been discovered in the Passions, 
That there are Passions in the lowermost part of the Soul.  and say, that in all Animals there are two Appetites, the one which is sensitive, and the other which is natural; that both pursue what is profitable, and fly what is ill; And that both of them again raise themselves up against what is contrary unto them to overcome it.  
For it's certain that in sickness Nature irritates herself against ill, and stirs up her forces to drive it away, and that this motion is answerable to Anger and to Boldness, which form themselves in the sensitive Soul.  
So that all motion of the Appetite making a Passion, this natural Appetite which hath its particular motions, must also have its particular Passions. It's true, they are not so perfect, nor in so great a number as the others, being led by a knowledge less exact, and which discerns not the objects so well as the imagination, for which cause there are few, unless it be Pleasure, Grief, Boldness and Fear, which are observed to be in this lower part of the Soul; they are likewise so imperfect that we may see they are but gross unfinished images, or the roughcasts of the rest; for the pain which Nature suffers, and I know not what kind of peevishness which follows the indispositions of the Body, are to speak truly, but feeble beginnings of true Grief; like as those secret glimmerings, and those pleasant resentments which accompany natural actions, are but the shadows of Joy and of Pleasure; And although Nature provokes and insensibly raiseth herself up against ill, and that we also often see that she is astonished and loseth Courage in the conflict, they are motions which indeed have relation to the Boldness and fear of this sensitive part, but are very far from their perfection, as it is very easy to judge.  
All what can be said hereupon is, that these motions deserve not the name of Passions, being not conducted by any knowledge which is absolutely necessary to form the Passions; but besides that there is a hidden knowledge in all the things of Nature, it's most certain that it's more distinct and more apparent in some then in others; and that this natural Appetite is more enlightened in Animals then in Plants; for besides this obscure and secret knowledge, which it hath for vegetative actions; it's also conducted by the vital faculty which acts with so much light and discerning, that divers did believe it was the springe of the sensitive Soul; Now although Philosophy hath restrained the name of Passions to such motions as are made by the direction of sense, yet we may perceive that its a far fetched circumstance which comes not near the essence of the thing, and that the motion of the Soul forbears not to be a true motion, although it follows not the orders of the sensitive Soul, so that if it hath not all the conditions of Passion exactly so taken, yet at least it hath, if we may so speak, the body and substance thereof: In a word, it's so like it that as the name of Passions hath been given to the esmotions of the Will by reason of the resemblance which they nave with those of the sensitive Appetite, for want of terms more fit, we may call the motions of the natural Appetite Passions, although they are not so perfect, and that even perhaps they are of another order, and of another gender.  
However it be these two Appetites which may sometimes, move separately, as we may experiment it in ourselves, when Nature combats sickness, and we are nothing sensible of any of the sensitive Passions, they commonly relieve one the other, and communicate their motions when they are powerfully agitated; whence it happens that violent Passions cause such great disorders in the body, that the peevishness and secrer contentment which we have now spoken of ends at last in sadness or in real joys; and that Grief cannot be very strong in the sensitive part, but that it must be sensible to the natural Faculties, and particularly to the vital.  
Now Nature hath this property, when the ill is come to her knowledge, to raise up herself against it, and endeavour to overcome it, stirring up the natural heat, and with the spirits conveying it into those parts where she thinks it is. Thus inflammations happen to wounds; thus pain increaseth when the impostumes ripen, and that a Favour breeds in a corrupt body; for all these accidents are effects of this Heat which Nature stirs up, and renders stronger to combat the ills she resents.  
This being true, we need not doubt that when weak and timorous persons suffer a very sensible injury, the grief it causeth in the sensitive Appetite can never descend to the natural Appetite: And then this power following its inclination must needs rise up against the ill, and according to its custom stir up natural heat to overcome it; for its undoubtedly from thence the redness proceeds which appears in the countenance upon the arrival of a great grief, and which commonly accompanies those first tears which grief makes us shed, as in its place shall be more fitly expressed.  
If it be therefore true, that Heat awakens and augments itself in Grief, she may form Hope for the Reasons already related; so that we can no ways doubt but that Anger is ever devanced by this Passion, even in the weakest and most timorous Natures.  
Yet we must here remember what we said before; That that disposition which was necessary to produce this effect, is, that we are very sensible of injuries, and that heat is very agile, as without doubt it is in the Temperature of Women and Children who are composed of an agile and subtle humidity, wherein heat and the spirits are easily agitated without encountering any obstacle; Because that in that weakness wherein the Soul perceives herself, she hath no time to consider it, so that she must needs be surprised, and as it were drawn away by the precipitate motion of heat; She would otherwise never engage herself in fight, nor ever believe she could overcome her Enemy.  
Thence it is that Natures in whom Melancholy and Phlegm are thick and gross, are hardly made angry what ill soever you do them, because the Spirits move themselves with pain under the weight of such heavy Humours, and that the Soul hath time enough to consider its weakness before they can make their way or free themselves: So that what endeavour soever the Natural Appetite can make afterwards, it is not capable to make her change the resolution which she had taken to suffer the ill, and without being touched with the least hope of being able to surmount it, resolving herself to Patience, or abandoning herself to Grief, and to those Passions which follow it. But it's to stop too long on those Subjects which must be handled again in other places.  
Let us only clear two Doubts which may arise from the precedent proposition; for if we often grow angry without Hope of ever getting satisfaction for the injury received; And if even then when we are agitated with this Passion, we grow furious when we despair of our revenge, it must necessarily follow That Hope ought not always to go before or accompany Anger, as we have said.  
To answer to the first of these Reasons, 
Every man that is angry hopes to revenge himself.  we must remember that in the order of Nature, Vengeance is a chastisement whereby we would take away from him who hath done us an injury the means to continue it. Now as no body makes himself angry, but he believes he hath that power; so neither is there any man but hopes to be revenged. And truly, all those actions which proceed from this Passion, how slight soever they be, are punishments by which we pretend to chastise him who hath offended us, since there is not any but affords him Grief or Fear; for a bold and brasen-faced mind, an action full of disdain, and despite, and injurious words are able to displease persons even that are of the highest condition, and threats are for no other purpose but to fright those against whom we make them.  
Now if Grief and Fear are ills, and consequently punishments with which the Soul intends to chastise him who hath committed an injury, that he may do so no more, believing that they are able to change his mind; and that it's sufficient to witness our Courage and resentment, to make him even lose the desire of continuing his ill design, and that he may imagine that their little essays are but the beginnings of a greater vengeance: It's thus that the wild Beasts commonly bound their anger with a slight snap, or a weak blow, and that they often content themselves by affronting those who pursue them, looking through them, showing their teeth only, and putting themselves in posture of assaulting them: And although the weakness the Soul is in checks her often from undertaking more, she had rather act thus weakly then to take flight, which would be far more disadvantageous; and by these motions which seem bold and generous, she would hid her impotency and her defects, as in other occasions she useth to do. How ever it be, she never makes herself angry but she hopes to be revenged, and to make him who hath offended her suffer some kind of ill. But it follows not that she ought always to hope for full satisfaction of the injury which she thinks she hath received, because it commonly depends on the opinion of men, and not in the intention of Nature; in effect, the means and the degrees of revenge are commonly different according to the humour and the condition of the persons, and according to the customs of the Country. A Prince or a Gentleman revengeth himself after another manner than doth a Clown; a cruel and bloody minded Man is not so easily satisfied as another; and there are places where we believe without a single Duel no satisfaction can be had for an offence; and others where poison and assassination are commonly employed. Now as it often happens that a man hath not the power to use those means nor to pursue his vengeance to that height; it's most certain that than we despair to revenge it after that manner, but not absolutely to be unrevenged for the reasons aforesaid; and it's therefore true, that the hope of revenge always precedes Anger.  
As for Despair, 
What kind of Despair it is happens in Anger.  which sometimes happens and renders it more violent, neither is that an absolute loss of hope, nor doth conclude against the Doctrine already proposed. For we shall show in the Discourse destined for that Passion, what the word Despair signifies in our Language as well as in the Greek and Latin; two Passions altogether different; to wit, the common despair wherein we lose all hope, and wherein the Soul gives back and loseth courage, perceiving that she cannot obtain that good which she expected; and that despair, or desperateness which is particular to Anger and Boldness, which instead of mollifying or abating the courage, stiffens it against all difficulties with a greater impetuosity and transport than it had before. For it's certain, that in this the Soul which finds obstacles which she never foresaw, loseth the hope of effecting what she proposed; but at the same time she conceives another, and forms new designs which engage her in those transports and fougadoes, which are commonly called actions of despair, as shall more fully appear when we throughly discourse on that subject.  
Let's now take a view of the other Characters of this Passion, and without stopping at Confidence and at Presumption, which have been examined in the Discourse of Boldness, and depend on the same causes which produce Hope, let's inquire the nature and source of Fury, which so often mixeth itself with Anger; for although they are often confounded together and that we commonly give the latter the name of Fury; yet they are two very different things, since there are Angers which are nothing furious, and that Fury is to be found in other Passions and in other actions wherein there is no suspicion of Anger.  
There are indeed divers sorts of Fury, 
What fury is.  some have been called Divine, others Brutal, and others have been placed in the rank of Diseases. But all have this in common, that they put the Soul out of its natural place, and transport it as it were out of itself; some making it perform actions beyond the ordinary strength of men, and which for the same cause seem to have something that's divine; the other causing him to lose his Reason, and embasing him to the nature of the wildest beasts. It's not a place here to examine by retail all these differences; it shall be sufficient to say, that this violent transport wherein the essence of this Fury in general consists, may proceed either from the Soul which raiseth up and animates herself, or from that heat which pricks her up, and irritates her; the fury of Love, and the Poetic Fury, are amongst those which are divine, those which commonly acknowledge no other cause but the Soul alone, which of herself raiseth herself up, and makes those miraculous sallies which are as Enthusiasms and divine inspirations; for having the power to move herself, she in those encounters darts herself forth with so much ardour that she carries herself away; and as he which runs with too much impetuosity cannot stop himself, and often goes further than he willingly would, she abandons herself to the lose which she giveth herself, and so passeth beyond her ordinary limits: But it's not so in Martial and Bacchic Furies, nor in those others which follow Anger or corporal sicknesses. For it is not the Soul which gins this motion, wherewith she is in these encounters carried away; it's the heat which the Wine, Boldness, or the distemper of the body imprints in the spirits, which being agitated by this turbulent quality, at every moment strikes against the seat of the Animal Faculties, which drives them forth, and casts them into these extraordinary motions. This therefore is the general reason whereby Anger passeth into Fury; for a man need not doubt but that this Passion kindles a great fire in the bowels, but that it violently agitates in the spirits, and that the quiet which those noble operations of the Soul require, must needs be trouled by that tempest which she raiseth in their principal organs; so that the Faculties which conduct the Animal, act no longer conformably to the Laws of Nature or of Reason, and having no longer a bridle to restrain them, are hurried away with the rapidity of the spirits and the Passion which drives them, and so perform all their actions with disorder and temerity. But what contributes much to this precipitation, it is Grief which is the first cause of Anger, and weakness which commonly accompanies it; for both of them are naturally impatient and constrained, and eagerly solicit the Soul to provide for her security; that by reason that the ill is present; this because it wants forces to resist it, and that there is no time to be lost in so dangerous and urgent an occasion; and from thence it comes, that Anger is most impetuous in the weakest Natures; and that Fury kindles not itself so suddenly in all the rest of the Passions as in this, for that they are commonly exempt from Grief and weakness, and that consequently there can be no cause for the Soul to hasten its endeavours for her defence; its true, that although robust Natures are not so soon transported as the rest, as well for the reasons already alleged, as for that they are of a stronger and more solid complexion, wherein heat is not so easily catching: yet when once Fury hath seized on them, besides that it is more vehement and more dangerous, it's also of a longer continuance, because the heat is stronger, and is longer preserved in gross and massive subjects, then in such as are subtle and movable, such as are women and Children, and all those who are of such like a temperature.  
Pride is so proper to Anger that there is no Passion it more often accompanies, 
Anger is proud.  nor with which it's so familiar; and certainly it's a strange thing, that as soon as it's conceived in the weakest and vilest Mind that may be, it takes away from it the knowledge of its baseness and impotency, making it lose all the respect it ought to others, and persuading it neither to yield nor submit to whatsoever it be. We need not go far for an example, since at every moment we may see that from its counsels Servants dare confront their Masters, Children their Parents, Subjects their Lords, and what is most frightful, such vile creatures as men are, spare not the most holy things, but often wrack it on God himself; and although this discord appear not so great in persons of a high condition, when they grow angry with their inferiors, yet they cannot forbear being guilty of a very and unjust and odious Pride, when they will hear neither Reason nor defences, when silence or excuses provoke them the more, and when a discovered innocency is to them but as a new injury; for all this proceeds from the haughty and proud Nature of this Passion which will always be in the right, and have reason on its side, which will never yield to any body, and will never acknowledge him for innocent, from whom it believes it hath received an offence, without ever accusing itself of impudence or injustice.  
But whence may this Pride come, which is often so ill grounded, and is commonly upheld neither by strength nor reason? Certainly, we must not seek the source elsewhere then in the motion of heat, which troubles the judgement, and drives the Soul out of her ordinary limits, as is before said. For Pride being nothing but a swelling, and as it were an immoderate extension of the Soul, whereby she raiseth herself up more than she ought to do, and in pursuit esteems herself grearer than indeed she is, it is impossible that heat should be provoked without giving her a very great confidence, without transporting her out of herself, and consequently without causing this excessive elevation wherein Pride Consists.  
Moreover, the secret sense which every man hath of the excellency of his being, which awakens him by the despite he believes he suffers by having been offended, for to repair this wrong which he thinks he hath received by being despised, he would lift himself up above him who abased him, and filling himself with a great opinion of himself, finds himself thus puffed up with Arrogance and Vanity.  
Anger abounds in Words and in Threats, 
Anger is talkative and railing.  because the Fancy which is heated by the ardour she kindles in the spirits, and which is full of such thoughts as Pride and Vengeance inspire, is forced to cast them out on the Tongue, and in its words; and truly we may say, that it is in some manner like liquor which the heat of the fire causeth to rise up in great boilings; for the fuller the vessel is of it, the more easily it riseth above the brims, and so the more, and the more abundantly they issue out and shed themselves. It's true, that Grief which is always to be found with this Passion, very much helps this effect by that precipitation, and by that impatience which it gives the Soul; for which cause Boldness alone loves not to talk so much as Anger, and we may see the same person who boldly without speaking one word will go to fight, who having been offended cannot forbear to cry out and threaten, because Grief at that time mixeth itself with Boldness, which is as a spur unto it which stimulates it, and affords it a useless Fury: But if Weakness joins also with them, Anger becomes so highly brawling, and riseth to such an excess of words and threats, that we may say that it's at that time a torrent, which its impossible to stop, as is to be observed in that of Women, of Children, and the like. Now this happens from that the Soul which knows its defect, hath a design to hid it by such actions as seem courageous, and whereby she thinks she ought to fright her enemy; or from that Grief and weakness which are as we have said, naturally unquiet and urgent, not giving her time to tempt more powerful means to revenge herself, cause her to have recourse to these first arms of Nature, and cause her to dissipate her courage in these vain assaults. And without doubt, he that will but consider that Beasts which are courageous, and Men who are bold and generous, use not to brawl or to talk much when they have been offended by any man, and that they seek their revenge, may well judge that cry out, reasons and threaten are the natural defences of provoked weakness, and that those who employ them, mistrust their own forces, and resemble those thunders, which only make a noise and are heard a long time after their lightnings vanish; for when a Bolt falls, the fire, the noise and the blow are resented at once; and such is that Anger which is kindled in great Courages and in strong and robustious Constitutions, as hath been said in the Discourse of Boldness.  
From the same source whence the abundance of words comes, 
Anger is indiscreet.  this indiscreet Frankness proceeds, which renders it so facile to discover its most secret thoughts; for there is no Passion which is so ill a Guardian of a secret as Anger; and although Love and Joy also are alike unfaithful as that is, yet they commit not the same violence on the Heart; they rather open it then cast it forth, and if they shed it abroad, it's rather because they fill it, then that they empty it; but Anger suffers nothing there which she drives not out with force; it exhausts it, by breaking it, and as a fire kindled in a Mine, it tears up and discovers all what is hid therein. In effect, it's impossible to conceive the impetuosity with which heat and the spirits issue out of the heart, and the violence with which the Soul throws herself forth for her revenge: but we must also fancy we see an effusion and scattering abroad of all her thoughts, and of all her designs; and chief of those which have conformity or alliance with Anger, as conspiracies made with or against an Enemy, those secret good offices which have been done, and the like; which to satisfy its revenge, this Passion discovers. For when a man in anger reveals a conspiracy, in which his enemy was one of the complices, it's to bring him in danger; when he publisheth an enterprise which he had form against him, it's a threat; and when he reproacheth him, it's to convince him of wrong, and render him odious: They also are commonly the weakest which fall in this default, whether it be because they speak more, and that it's hard but that in many words much folly must needs be, or whether they would hid their weakness by the liberty they take to speak all they know, and all what they have a mind to do.  
Yet there are some Angers which are Dumb, 
Some Angers are dumb.  and yet forbear not to be violent, although they make no noise; often even those which are loudest, stop on the sudden, and fall into a silence wherein Fury appears as high as in threaten. Now this silence happens either from the confidence we have in our own strength, which seeks a more noble and a more solid revenge then that of words, as we have said in the Discourse of Boldness, or from the despite we have of seeing ourselves offended by persons from whom we expected not we could have received an injury, or from the scorn wherewith we pretend to chastise their insolency; or from that strong intention which the Soul gives herself to find out means of revenge to discover the motive of the wrong done her, or for such other like designs which Passion casts into the thoughts.  
It's impatient and constrained, 
Anger is impatient  not only by reason of the Grief it resents, and of the desire it hath of Revenge, which are two Passions naturally very unquiet, but also because of the heat and of the agitation which it causeth in the spirits; for it's impossble that these organs which serve the motions of the Soul and of the Body, should suffer this great ebullition without powerfully agitating both of them, and in pursuit without causing trouble or precipitation in the thoughts, struggling in the discourse or in the looks, and a continual change of posture and place which is observed in anger.  
All Passions are credulous in those things which favour their design, 
Anger is opinionated.  and opinionated in those which resist them, because it's easy to drive the Soul whether she would go, and dfficult to make her take a new course: But as there is none so impetuous nor so rapid as Anger, there is none also in which persuasions are more easily received to hasten its course, or wherein such as would oppose it are more strongly reputed. Indeed we can propose nothing to a man agitated with this Passion which may render the injury which he hath received greater or more sensible, which may advance or increase his revenge, and which flatters his design and proceed, but he greedily receives it, and affords it a ready approbation. On the contrary, he stiffens himself against all those reasons which endeavour to sweeten his resentment and his fury; and although he acknowledge the truth and justice of them, yet he is obstinate to combat them, and believes that his opinionacy is able to justify his Anger.  
Yet he that would near-hand but consider all their actions, will perceive that Pride bears a great part in them, and that besides this general cause which we have now observed, this also particularly contributes thereunto: For Pride loves to be flattered, will always be in the right, and never yields to whomsoever it be. So that we need not wonder if Anger which is naturally proud, easily hearkens to those who approve and favour its designs, if it repulse those who condemn it, and if it continue sledfast in its resolutions, when even it acknowledgeth them unjust.  
Cowardliness, 
Anger is cowardly, insolent and cruel.  Insolency and Cruelty seldom abandon this Passion, whether it be that the impetuosity and blindness it is in cause it always to pass beyond those bounds which Nature and Reason have assigned unto Revenge: Or because that Pride causeth it to abuse those advantages which it hath over an enemy: Or lastly, for that weakness which often accompanies it, gives it such counsel, and persuades it that to secure itself against all those accidents which it may fear, it's obliged to use the height of the victory, and to carry it to extreme violence, as hath been said in the Discourse of Boldness. For which cause Women and those who are naturally weak and timorous, are more insolent cruel in their Anger then others are; and when those who have offended them fall under their power, they suffer all the indignities, all the outrage, and all the excess which rage and cruelty can inflict.  
Indignation, Disdain and Despite are not properly effects of this Passion, they are rather kinds and differences of it; for they are light Angers which seem to keep themselves almost quite shut up in the Soul, and which never fall into those extravagancies and violences which are observable in the others. All three have this in common, That Grief is always mixed with them, and that they stir up the Soul against those things which give them any displeasure. But there is this difference, that Disdain is never without Scorn, although we have a despite and an indignation against such things as we esteem. On the other side, Indignation never is but in Men, although the other two are also to be found in Beasts. To conclude, it's certain that there are persons whom we despise without having any disdain or indignation against them.  
And certainly the word Indignation means, 
What indignation is.  that to raise this motion in the Soul, something must happen to a man which he deserves not, and which he is unworthy of; now as we may grieve for the good or ill which so happens, the difficulty will be to know whether either of them be capable to raise it, or whether it be good only, as Aristotle believes; For his thought is that the Grief we have to see him who deserves it not to suffer ill, causeth compassion; and that which we have to see those prosper which are unworthy of it, causeth ndignation. But this seems not to agree with that signification which all Languages give that word, nor even with the Nature of the thing: Forasmuch as the Soul may two ways grieve for the ill it sees those suffer who deserve it not, to wit by compassionating only their sufferings, without employing its forces to combat the ill; or else by raising and lifting itself up against it to repel it. Now it's certain that Compassion is altogether without this commotion, taking care only to fly the ill and being quite plunged in Grief and Fear, as we shall show in its place; And therefore if the Soul makes any effort when she is angry with the ill which happens to any man undeservedly, since this motion can neither be compassion nor pity, it must needs be a kind of indignation. Indeed the common manner of speaking teacheth us that there are persons who cannot see their enemies without indignation. That their words are full of indignation and threaten; that God chastiseth the wicked in the Anger of his Indignation, and even that we are sometimes in indignation against ourselves. Other Languages also use the word in the same sense, for the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of the Grecians which Aristotle hath placed for this, hath a larger signification than he hath given it, and may be as well applied to the indignation which we conceive seeing a man too ill used, as for that we may have for him who is used but too well. In effect himself confesseth that this Passion is attributed to God, who yet ought not to be in indignation for the prosperity of the wicked, because it's he who dispenseth it to them, but justly because they abuse it and use it unworthily by their crimes and by their ingratitude. And truly we must not stick at all at what this incomparable Author hath said of the Passions in his Rhetoric, in which he hath treated of them but superficially and in most common notions. For its certain, that had he throughly examined them, he would have made two sorts of Indignation, the one which the good of another begets in us, and that which happens from the ill which we suffer or see others suffer; and that the true and only motive which provokes them is Indignity; for without that there can be no Indignation; it's Despite, it's Envy, or the like. So when we are angry at the good which happens to a man, if we do not consider him as unworthy of it, it's Envy; and although the ill must be always unjust which moves us to Anger, if we do not particularly look on it as an indignity, it may well beget Despite, or such a kind of an Anger, but never Indignation: for which cause the motion which the Soul suffers in this encounter, runs not into those violences and excesses which true Anger is carried away withal; because the real ill which causeth Grief consists not in this Indignity, but in the Injustice which out of that consideration being a stranger unto it augments it. So that if the Injury for example-sake is not great, what indignity soever you may conceive, it obligeth not the Soul to make any great endeavours, forasmuch as it is but as a colour which she gives herself to the body and substance of the ill, which in some manner renders it more sensible, though not the greater. And it's also for this reason that Beasts are not susceptible of it, being unable to make such reflections as are necessary to know whether one is not worthy of a thing; Besides men are in indignation to see good or ill happen to those who deserve it not, because it is a thing which seems unjust, and that naturally we have an aversion against what is opposite to Reason and Justice; but how ever we interess ourselves so much for them, we often abandon them in the Judgement which we make of the merit of persons, whom we often esteem worthy or unworthy of things according as Pride, Love, or Hatred counsel it.  
For which reason Ambitious persons and Lovers are extremely subject to this Passion, for as much as Vanity easily persuades those that all other men are unworthy of those Honours which they aspire unto; and that Love gives a high esteem to those of the person beloved, and a great opinion of their service, for in that, though at every moment they find cause of offence, or are not sufficiently esteemed, or else from that they are not well used, or that others are better used, who as they think deserve it not so well: On the contrary, those who are of a servile mind, or base spirit, and are not capable of any noble desire, they do almost never resent the motions of Indignation. 
What Disdain is.   
Disdain is also a kind of Anger, seeing that to provoke it there must be something which displeaseth, and must cause the Soul to rise up against it. But what renders it different from the rest is, that Scorn which ever accompanies it; for we never disdain any man but we scorn him, although we scorn many things which we do not disdain. So that we may say Disdain is a scornful Anger; and thence it is that it never is violent or impetuous, because those things which we scorn deserve not that we should trouble ourselves for them: Not that what we disdain is always scornful, or else the Soul would never care to rise up against it, since Scorn is nothing but the opinion which we have that a thing is unworthy of our esteem and of our care, not judging it capable to do good or hurt, as is before said. And therefore it must needs be, that what we ought to disdain may do some ill, but that its power is not so great, or at least that we feign we fear it not: For it often happens in these Passions, that the Soul which knows its weakness endeavours to hid it by actions, which seem outrageous, as hath been said.  
As for Despite, 
What Despite is  it hath nothing particular which distinguisheth it from Anger, as the former have; for it's but a weak Anger, and as it were a slight throw which the Soul to oppose ill gives itself, whether it be because it's of small concernment, or because she dares not or will not strongly assault it: For weakness commonly restrains it and hinders it from driving the Passion whether it ought to go; And Reason which is not Mistress of the first motions of the Appetite suffers Despite well enough as the beginnings of Anger, but permits it not to go any further; for which cause timorous persons, and those who are moderate despise those things which in others would kindle Anger itself.  
The Characters which Anger imprints on the body, 
The corporal Characters of Anger.  mark out also the same mixture of those two Passions of which we have shown they were composed: For we cannot doubt but a sad and crabbed mind which it sheds over the face, sighs and cries which at every moment it casts forth, and those tears which it so often vents, proceed from Grief; and that the ardour which appears in the Eyes, in the voice, and in all its motions, proceeds from Boldness; it's true, that this commonly produceth those which are most sensible and more in number then the other, because it causeth the Soul to issue out, and to discover itself; instead whereof Grief making her retire within herself, causeth also the greater parts of its effects to remain hid, and not to appear as the others do. And certainly, in that number of corporal Characters which are observed in Anger, there are but three or four which depend on Grief, all the rest coming from Boldness and from Fury.  
But from what source soever they deduce their origine, we must not forget that some are made by the order and command of the Soul, and that the rest happen out of a mere necessity, she having no design nor intention to produce them, as is the paleness and redness of the Face, the wrinkles of the Forehead, the swelling of the parts, stammering, etc. For they serve for no other purpose in the design of Anger, and they are only form in pursuit of the motion of the spirits, and of the rest of the parts.  
Now as there being many of both of these which have been examined in the foregoing Discourses, which we intent not to touch any more; It shall suffice to let the Reader know that in the Chapter of Boldness he may find the causes of that through-look, the motion of the Lids, Brows and Forehead, the widening of the Nostrils, the standing of the Hair, and that paleness which sometimes happens in the beginning of Anger; That in the Chapter of Love, he may see whence sighs spring, and why the ruddiness which that Passion raiseth gins at the Eyes; He shall in that of Constancy know whence the firmness of the parts proceeds. As for Tears, and other effects of Grief, we shall speak of them in the Discourse which we have destined for that Passion.  
Besides the Through-look there are two others which are familiar to Anger, to wit, a Fierce Look, and a Furious Look. Both of which have that in common, that they are made with force and vivacity. But the Fierce one hath somewhat that is sad and severe, which is not always to be encountered in the Furious, adding also that it is not so ardent and wandering as is this.  
To render the Look Fierce, 
Whence the fierce look comes.  the Brows must lower, and gather themselves together, the Eye must be quick and piercing, and the Sight firm and assured; Such is that of Lions, of Leopards, and of Mastiffs, for they naturally have their Eyebrows cast down and restrained, which makes as it were a great cloud in the Forehead, and their Eyes have a certain ardour which seem to breath forth blood and slaughter. And certainly there needs no less than these three conditions to compose such a kind of Look: forasmuch as an Impudent man may well have firmness and vivacity in his looks; but because he archeth up his Brows, and that rude and severe air which proceeds from the contraction of the Brows and Forehead is wanting to him, he therefore cannot have a fierce look. On the other side, Frowardness and a strong attention of mind may cause this severity to appear in the Face; but because they take away vivacity from the Eyes, they never render the Look fierce. That piercing splendour indeed which appears in the Eyes, and chief in those which are blue, which the Latins call Caesios', inspires somewhat of cruel and frightful in the look, for which cause Tacitus calls the Germane eyes Truces; and we are taught that Panthers and Leopards, have I know not what kind of fierceness in theirs, which the Lions have not; by reason that they have that colour, and that the Eyes of these are altogether red, which colour is more obscure and less splendent.  
However it be, Anger casts down and bonds the Brows to fortify itself against the Grief it resents, and against the Enemy which assaults it, as hath been said elsewhere. It's Look is quick and assured, by reason of that splendour and strength which it casts into the eyes by the quantity of spirits which it sends thither. For we cannot doubt but that the firmness of the sight must be an effect of the strength of the parts, and that the spirits must make the greatest part of their strength, since they become languishing when they receive them no more. To know wherein this firmness of sight consists, we must consider what hath been said concerning it in the Chapter of Boldness.  
Although the Furious Look is often taken for the fierce, 
What a furious Look is.  yet is it not the same; for there is a great difference betwixt the ordinary looks of a Lion, and those which he hath when he is provoked: Betwixt the look of a man who is yet Master of his Anger, and that he hath when madded and enraged; that is fierce, but this is furious, and witnesseth an extreme transport, and a very straggling away of the Soul; it's made also with red and sparkling eyes, which shout forth and seem to go out of the Head, and which rolling from the one side to the other cause a wild and wandering sight; and as in the other the brows are bend downwards, in this they are commonly lifted up, and drawing their lids after them they make the opening of the eyes to be wider and rounder, and so discover almost all the white of the eye. Now all these Characters are so proper to Fury, that even Physicians make use of them to know when the sick person will fall into such a fit, and that it's impossible to consider the state wherein the soul than is without perceiving that necessarily she must produce an effect.  
For as the blood boils in the vessels, 
Red Eyes.  and impetuously casts itself on all the exterior parts, all the veins of the Eyes are filled therewith, and consequently become thicker and redder, for which cause Aristotle says, that those who naturally have theirs so, are subject to that kind of furious Anger whereof we speak, and that this relates to the proper character of this Passion; but you must observe that this redness ought principally to be understood of the Eye, and not of the Lids, & that the veins which are dispersed in the blue of the Eye are those which are swelled, and which cause that redness, which also is a sign of raving in sickness, when it proceeds not from any particular vice of those organs.  
The Eyes are sparkling, 
Sparkling Eyes.  not only by reason of that splendour which the spirits bring with them, but also by reason of the approach of those vapours which the Humours casts on those organs, which extending the Membrane which environs them, render it more united, more polished, and more fit to reverberate the light which they receive. Add also that the continual motion wherewith they are agitated makes them sparkle and glister the more: to which we may also add, that their Dryness renders their brightness more quick and piercing; it being certain that humidity dims the light, and that the refraction it makes there weakens the rays, instead that on dry and polished bodies it's reflected and reverberated all whole and pure; for which cause in Love and in Joy, how sparkling soever the eyes be, by reason of their humidity, yet they have not so strong and so penetrating a splendour as these have.  
But whence doth this dryness proceed? Is it not from the vehemency of the heat which consumes all the humour which runs over the Eyes, or rather sharp and drying vapours which rise from that choleric humour which is agitated? for wherever they arrive, they render the skin dry and parched, as is observable in burning Favours and in choleric constitutions.  
Besides this, 
Fiery Eyes.  the splendour we have spoken of, mixing itself with that colour which the blood brought to those parts, produceth an inflamed redness, which renders the Eyes fiery, even like unto coals of fire.  
They cast themselves forth, 
The Eyes advance outwards  whether because they receive a great quantity of spirits, of vapour, and of blood, they swell, and so are constrained to occupy the greater room; or because the spirits which issue out with impetuosity, drive those parts out of their natural situation; or finally, because the Soul which is carried out of herself draws them along with her, and causeth them to make a sally like her own.  
Wandering Eyes, 
The Eyes are wandering.  which continually move their sight here and there, without fixing on any object, make a part of this furious look, and it's principally what renders them frightful and formidable, for which cause those who have treated of the Nature of Beasts, say, that the Panther which after this manner always rowls its Eyes, hath a more terrible and frightful look then any other, and that there is no Beast how fierce or bold soever it be, which it doth not fright and terrify therewithal. However when the sight becomes thus wandering in sickness, it's a certain sign that the party is falling into fury. Yet we must observe, that fear also produceth the same effect, and often renders the looks wild and inconstant; but besides that the air of the Face which accompanies those Passions, may alone observe a great difference betwixt those looks, it's most certain that they are effectually different from one the other, neither are they made in the same manner. For fear causeth us to cast our eyes on this and on that side; but how light or quick soever the motion it affords them is, it for a while stops them on those objects which present themselves, and it appears clearly, that it seeks them to consider them, and to see whether it be from them the ill must happen which she fears. But fury without design carries the sight here and there, and without heeding what it encounters, casts the eyes on things without seeing them, and all its looks are lost looks, and truly wandering. Now these motions partly come from heat, which is a moving quality, and when it's provoked it puts all in disorder, partly from that agitation which the spirits suffer, which easily communicates itself to the Eyes, being as they are moving, partly from the Souls transport which abandons the conduct of those organs, and suffers them to move at the pleasure of the tempest which she raised. 
The Brows are not knit.   
And according to my opinion it's also the reason why the Brows are not shrunk up, as in the fierce look; for since their contraction is an effect of that care which the Soul takes to fortify herself, which she always also preserves so long as she is herself, when she is once carried away with fury, and that she is as it were out of herself, she than loseth the remembrance of her preservation, and hath no other motions but those which the blindness and madness of the Passion gives: For which cause when she darts & impetuously casts herself out of her natural situation, she draws with her the most movable parts, and so causeth the Brows and Lids to lift themselves up, in pursuit whereof the openings of the eyes must not only be greater, but they must also-become rounder, because the Lid cannot open much but its angles must be widened, which must also be drawn the nearer to one another to facilitate this extension which is made in the circumference. Now besides that this causeth a round figure, a greater part of the white of the Eye must also appear, which renders the look more strange and dreadful.  
Tears which are sometimes shed in Anger may come from the Grief which we suffer by reason of an injury; 
Whence Tears in Anger.  yet commonly they have no other source but the despite we have for not being revenged; for which cause Women and Children are more subject to weep in the strength of this Passion than Men; because they then acknowledge their weakness, and are forced to suffer the wrong which was done them without seeking satisfaction. To know now how these tears are form, and what the motive of the Soul is, when upon these occasions she sheds them, its what in its place must be examined, and to which we have destined a particular Discourse, which shall follow that of Grief. But we have sufficiently spoken of the Charact●●● which Anger imprints on the Eyes; 〈◊〉 now consider those which she forms on the other parts of the Face.  
The Lips grow thick by reason their substance is soft and spongy, 
The Lips grows thick.  which easily imbibes the blood which runs thither. And being filled therewith they overturn themselves, their bounds being free, and being not restrained by the neighbouring parts.  
But whence comes their trembling, 
The Lips tremble.  and principally that of the lower Lip? Is it not that the spirits crackle in those parts, and cause that part which is extremely movable to tremble? or that the Choler which is moved, pricks the stomach, which hath a great sympathy with the nether Lip; whence it is that in sickness the trembling of that part is a sign of vomiting. 
The Lips press one another.   
Sometimes they join and press one the other, to retain breath, and thereby to render the motion the more strong; or to fortify those parts which grow hard and stiff by the contraction of the Muscles, as hath been said in the Chapter of Boldness.  
They also sometimes retire themselves, 
The Lips retire themselves.  and discover the teeth, which most part of Beasts usually do when they are angry, because those are their natural Arms, which they discover to fright those who would offend them, or to be the readier to make use of them. This is also observed in some persons, when they fall into a rage, and fasten on the flesh of any one, whether it be that the Soul makes this endeavour, thinking to fortify herself, as she doth by knitting the Brows, or whether in effect she would with her teeth tear in pieces, and if she could even devour her enemy. For there are men who grind their teeth, who in their anger by't what they meet withal, and who would eat the heart and bowels of those who have done them an injury.  
The Voice is sharp and vehement because Anger being composed of Grief and Boldness, 
What the Voice is in Anger.  this with impetuosity driving the air which is in the Lungs, and Grief restraining the Muscles, and straightening the passages, so that the voice must needs become shrill, passing through so straight a channel, and being driven out with vehemency, must needs also be strong. But there are two Propositions, which Aristotle hath made in his Physionomy, which may make us doubt whether this voice be that which principally belongs to Anger. The first is that which is gross at first, and at last grows sharp, is the sign of a choleric person, and this relates to Oxen, and to the likeness of their voice. Indeed when these Beasts bellow, their voice at last grows sharp, and hath somewhat in it which is sad and languishing, and even in men, affliction and grief in complaints form the same air, and the same languor. Now if this be so, the voice of Anger is not as we said strong and vehement.  
The second is, That those who have a sharp and vehement Voice are choleric, and that this relates to Goats; But besides that these creatures have not that kind of Voice, they were never observed to be inclined to that Passion: we must therefore say, that there is an error in those two propositions by the fault of the Translators: for in the first, the word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, signifies not Anger, as they have translated it, but sad languishing, cast down for matter of courage, and in that sense it's true, that the Voice which is gross at first and sharp at last, is a sign of sadness, as we shall show in the Chapter of Grief. In the last there is also the same fault in the word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, which signifies not Anger, but rather Lasciviousness, which is indeed a quality proper to Goats. Add also that the word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, signifies not simply a strong and vehement Voice, but a forced and constrained Voice, such as is the bleating of Goats, as shall be said in its place.  
The Voice becomes hoarse by the inequality of its organs; 
The Voice is hoarse.  for heat melting the humours and making them run on those parts, it renders them moist and unequal, and the voice which it utters is rude, and sounds not; and because that vehemency is joined with this sharpness thence it is it becomes terrible and frightful.  
Lastly, 
The Voice stops all at once.  Sometimes it stops all at once in despite of ones teeth, whether it be that the violence wherewith it drives the breath, quickly clears the Lungs and deprives the Heart of its refresh; and that in this necessity the Soul making haste to cause a new attraction of the air, the Voice is constrained to stop to give it passage. Or whether the Nerves which help to form it, suffer a kind of convulsion being pricked by those Humours which heat agitates, as it happens to children which cry, whose voice and respiration leaps, and so cut and suddenly stop themselves.  
The Tongue falters, 
The Tongue falters.  either by reason of the quantity of blood which thickens it, or renders it heavy, or by reason of dryness which hinders its motion; or by reason of the Souls transport which sends the Spirits elsewhere, and hinders them from having recourse to those parts.  
The Words interfare by the haste and impetuosity which the Soul causeth, 
The Words imerfare  which precipitates the words and thoughts one upon another.  
The Discourse is entangled from the disorder of reason, 
The Discourse is entangled  and from the several designs it weaves and confounds together.  
The Breathing is vehement, 
Respiration is vehement.  and proceeds from the impetuous respiration which the heat of the Heart and the endeavour of the Soul causeth: For the principal end of Respiration is to refresh the Heart and the Spirits; wherefore when they are heated, it is at the same time augmented. But because also this action is partly voluntary since it will advance or retard even as the Soul desires it should, thence it is that the endeavour she makes in all her actions, appears in this, rendering it violent and precipitate.  
The same heat renders the Mouth dry, 
The Mouth is dry.  and gives it an ardent Thirst which is not so easily satisfied as that which happens in Fear; as shall be said elsewhere.  
Those malignant humours which are moved and heated cause a Sticking Breath.  
Laughter is often an effect of Indignation or of Scorn, 
Laughter in Anger.  which are mixed with Anger, as we said it happened to Boldness; but commonly it comes from the malignant pleasure we have in Revenge; yet the Temperature contributes much to this effect: For Septentrional people have almost the same air in fight, and we may see them assault their Enemies with a certain insolent Fierceness, and with I know not what kind of scoffing Laughter; instead whereof the Southern people carry on their Countenance a fierce Frowardness, and a sharp and cruel Sadness; the reasons whereof shall in its place be discovered.  
The Redness which this Passion commonly raiseth up in the Face is not altogether like that which Joy, 
The Face becomes red.  Shame and some other Passions shed abroad in it; it is far more clear and less vermilion than in this, for that it proceeds from a choleric blood, whose colour is more pale, by reason the tincture of the Gall which weakens the splendour and Vermilion of the Blood, and causeth this inflamed Redness which is visible in the Face and Breast of those who are angry. It also sometimes happens that it becomes obscure and blackish, and this chief is when Anger is turned into Fury; for the agitation is then so great that the thickest blood is cast on the outward parts which affords it its natural colour, and paints them of that black and livid colour which is to be observed on the Cheeks and on the Lips, because they are the most sanguine parts of the Face. As for that paleness which sometimes happens at the beginning of this Passion, we have spoken of it in the Chapter of Boldness.  
We must not stay long on the most part of the rest of the Characters which this Passion imprints on the body; the reasons are easily found by those principles which we have established. For we cannot remember the impetuosity and the boilings wherewith the blood and spirits are agited, but we must presently judge, that that is the cause which makes the Veins and Arteries swelled and extended, and that all the rest of the parts are full and puffed up, and whosoever shall represent to himself the impatience and the transport wherein the Soul is, will nothing wonder at these motions which in this Passion the Body suffers.  
The Head is lifted up, and the Stature grows erect, for as much as the Soul raiseth up herself to assault the Enemy. And although he be absent she forbears not to put herself into this posture, as if she were ready to throw herself on him, for that the violence of those Passions which trouble her represent him to her thought as if he were truly present, and as if he ought in effect to feel the blows she intends to inflict.  
The frequent flinging out of the Arms, 
The motion of the parts in Anger.  a light and quick pace, a continual change of posture and place, are effects which note the endeavours and sallies of the Soul, the precipitation and impatience she hath to revenge herself.  
But whence comes it that we set up our Hands by our sides, when with anger and threaten we quarrel with any man? it is without doubt to confirm the parts that the Muscles of respiration which they uphold may the more powerfully operate, and by that means the voice may have the more force and be the longer lasting. For which cause we are never content to place our hands thus on our sides, but that we also advance the Arms and the Elbows, whereby enlarging and extending the Shoulders we render them for the same purpose more stiff.  
As for those blows wherewith a man in Anger beats the ground, and all what comes under his hands or under his feet, it's very likely that they are such means as the soul useth to give a repulse to those difficulties which traverse her designs; and that the trouble and blindness she is in causing her to take all things for true obstacles which stop her, she strikes against, she drives, and she beats them, as it were to break them and to put them by, or else they are the effects of a precipitated Vengeance which Anger doth discharge on the first Objects it meets, having not either the patience or the power to make them be rescued by its real Enemy. It's thus that Dogs by't the stones which are thrown at them; it is thus we break the Sword which wounded us; in a word, it is thus we revenge ourselves on ourselves, and above all, its what concerns those from whom we have received an injury.  
But what reason can we give for all those shake of the Head which are remarkable in this Passion? 
Whence the shake of the Head.  What can oblige the Soul to move it one while to the right, and then to the left, sometimes up and sometimes down, and sometimes on one side only? And to what end doth she cause these so extravagant motions, and so different the one from another? For to conclude that they are signs and natural effects which Anger produceth in all men of what Nation or of what constitution soever they are; So that if Nature doth nothing in vain, she must herein have her causes and reasons as well as in her greatest and most considerable actions. It is true, in my judgement, they are very hard to be known, and it is with them as with most part of things which hid themselves so much the more unto the Mind, the more they discover themselves unto the Senses, and which are as difficult to be comprehended as they are easily remarkable. And certainly as all natural things are made for some end, or out of necessity; we cannot say but that the alteration of the Body, or the agitation of the Humours must cause these motions by a necessary consequence, as it happens in the redness of the Face, in the wrinkles of the Forehead, in the splendour of the Eyes, and the like, which are form by necessity, without being destined for any use; and if we would place them in the rank of actions which are performed for some end: it is nothing easy to observe what motive the Soul therein proposeth itself, no, what service she pretends to draw from thence.  
To give further light to these obscurities, you must first know whether these motions are not in other Passions, and afterwards seek those motives for the which they were therein form; and lastly to see whether they may be applied to Anger.  
It is certain that we use to shake the Head and to give it readily two or three turns about, when any thing displeaseth, 
Why we toss the Head.  as especially when we refuse or disapprove of any thing, when we are sensible of an ungrateful smell, or when we taste aught that is disgustful. For which cause the vulgar commonly call Wine when it is not good, Wine with two ears, because it makes those two parts move when we turn the Head from one side to the other, and that by that motion we would signify that we found it to be naught. But what relation can this action have with these sentiments? Is it not that the Soul would turn away the face where the organs of the senses are, from those objects which are displeasing to it, as she useth to fix them on those which please; Or that she seeks by that endeavour to estrange from her what is troublesome? At least it is thus, that when any thing incommodates those parts we shake them about to drive them away; for although this in these encounters we speak of be useless unto it, yet are they nothing extraordinary, since she often deceives herself in the same manner upon other occasions, wherein she abuseth those means which Nature hath prescribed her to attain her ends, employing them in others where they are of no use, as hath been showed, speaking of that water which Desire causeth in the Mouth, and of the motion of the Brows at the sight of distasteful things. Or we may rather say, that this shaking of the Head is a mark the Soul would make of the impression which some kind of objects make on her, and that it is an outward image of that action which she performs in herself: For it is her custom that when she would have that appear outwardly which is done within, she causeth those motions of the organs which have some relation and resemblance with her own, as we may judge by the laughter of the looks, and by all those other effects whereof we have spoken in this Work.  
And certainly, since that at the encounter of pleasant things she makes particular signs which make known the sense she hath of them, she must needs also have some for those which are displeasing. So that if she sweetly casts down the Head when good presents itself unto her (as it happens when we meet a friend, when we approve a good action, or when we consent to the will or advice of another) to signify by this casting down that she submits herself to the good which by reason of its excellency, and because it always communicates itself with some empire, can never be but with some submission and allowance; it must needs be I say by the reason of contraries, that when she perceives any ill, she who hath a natural aversion from it, which in its presence always disquiets its self, and with which she can never have any society or communication, must also make some outward motion which represents her impatience, and the endeavour she makes to estrange herself from it. Now he that shall consider the shaking of the Head which we speak of, will easily confess that there is none which can better express her averseness, her disquiet, and the care she takes not to unite herself with it; for aversion causeth the turn away of the Head; impatience makes the change of posture, and those contrary and redoubled motions make it appear that she will not unite with it, since union in natural things, is always made by a simple and uniform motion, if there be no obstacle which hinders it.  
Besides this it will be nothing difficult to declare why Anger produceth the same effect, since it hath the same object which the rest of the Passions have, and that it cannot consider its enemy but as a vexatious ill, for the which it hath an aversion, and whereunto it will ever witness the hatred it bears, and the impatience it hath to revenge itself. In effect, this shaking of the Head, is a kind of threat whereby we intent to fright people, and which is not made use of in fight, or when we come to blows; threaten being then useless, as hath been said.  
As for the other motion of the Head upwards, 
Why we lift up the Head.  it is but little observable in this Passion, unless when it would witness the scorn which it conceives of advice given it, or of the designs and threaten of the enemy. In effect, it is a Character fit for Scorn, for him to whom we propose a thing which he slights, usually to lift up his Nose, to witness thereby that he rejects and repels it as unworthy of his esteem and care.  
Finally, 
Why we turn the Head.  Anger often causeth a man to turn and lift his Head on one side, chief when he cannot or will not be revenged: For when we receive an injury from a powerful person, and have not the power to demand satisfaction we cause our resentment to appear by that action, which is familiar to children that have a courage, after they have been ill used, as also those who form a design to revenge themselves when their enemy is absent or far off; Because those are not then in a capacity to execute their revenge by reason of their weakness, nor these by reason of the absence, or far distance of him who hath offended them. On the other side, when for some certain consideration a man will not revenge himself although he may, as when we esteem the injury not very considerable, or that those who have done it deserves a more severe chastisement, we content ourselves with this motion of the Head to cause some fear in them. And certainly it is in the rank of those actions which serve for threaten, whereby the Soul intends a displeasure or an apprehension in those who have offended her, making them believe that those slight punishments are but the beginnings of a greater vengeance, as hath been said: However it be she intends thereby to make known that the injury toucheth her; and that she means to retort it; but that she retains this Passion, and gives it not the liberty to go further; for it turns the head to witness aversion; it lifts it up to signify its endeavour, and presently brings it into its first posture to show that it hath no more to do, and that its enough for it to have witnessed its courage and resentment.  
Some perhaps may say, That we often perform the same action, when we find a thing to be excellent, as when we would declare that a thing is well done, that a man hath some eminent virtue, that Wine is extremely good.  
To which we must answer, That there is a great deal of difference betwixt these two; For besides that in this we never turn the Head, it is not thrown, but as we have said it is rather drawn and raised up, neither falls it again so soon as in Anger; because its admiration which causeth this motion, which raising up the Soul and keeping it in suspense to consider the wonder she encounters, disposeth of the organs conformable to the condition she is then in: Whereunto must also be added, that the subject of admiration which here occupies the Mind is but mean; for when it's very great, it not only causeth a man to lift up the Head on one side; but he lifts it up altogether, he opens also his Eyes and his Mouth, raiseth and extends his Arms and all his parts take such an extatick figure which usually accompanies those great transports and raptures of the Soul, as shall be said elsewhere. But let us conclude this enquiry which to many may seem of no use, or too much scruple; and let us see whether Anger may be lulled asleep, and whether it affords any release to the Mind, whilst the Body is at rest.  
We cannot doubt but that if Sleep can hardly insinuate itself in those Passions which are least violent, it is as it were impossible that it should ever surprise this which is altogether in excess and vehemency; The calm it is accompanied withal, cannot agree with the tempest it raiseth; and whether it be form by the intermission of the Soul which knits and stops the spirits, or by means of those sweet vapours which digestion sends up, which like pleasant clouds tempers the heat of the Brain, and shuts the passage of the senses; we ought not to expect that any of these causes should produce it here wherein there are none but sharp and burning vapours, which heated Choler causeth to rise up in the Brain; and wherein the Soul is so powerfully agitated, that far from being able to stop the Spirits, she cannot retain even herself. Yet this aught to be understood of the time when this Passion is in its rage, and in its greatest ardour; for when it is a little appeased it suffers sleep to benumb the senses, to repair those losses which its watch and labour hath caused.  
But what rest soever it affords, it forbears not to preserve in the Soul and in the Humours the remains of that storm which Anger had raised in them. For it is commonly disturbed with a thousand kind of Dreams which sometimes represent fires and burn, sometimes threaten, and Combats, and Victories; now the cause of all these Dreams comes either from the imagination, which being still full of those species which Passion had there left, and feeling also, if we may so speak, the shake which the desire of Vengeance had given it, it insensibly suffers itself to be carried away, and so continues its first designs, which it always causeth happily to succeed, being no longer conducted by the Senses, nor by Reason, nor taking any other counsel but such as self-love and Pride which Anger brings along with it, affords it. For it is from thence these advantages come which a man who sleeps upon his wrath, believes he receives in all his Dreams; it seems to him that he is always the stronger, of the better address; he never sees his Enemy but he represents him unto himself either weak or submitting, and he in them undertakes no combat but he comes off with the Victory and in Triumph.  
But it may also happen, that the Soul may be altogether in a calm, and that no remains of the trouble which the Passion had before brought, may stay behind; and yet all these illusions will not forbear to happen, and then it is no longer a continuation of its first designs, but a new motion which the Spirits and the Humours raise in the fancy; for whether their agitation subsists after that of the Soul, the impression of the motion, preserving itself longer in these bodies then in the Appetite, whether by reason Choler being separated from the mass of blood, cannot so soon resume its just place; both are able to form all these violent Dreams which we have spoken of: The difficulty is to know how this may be done, since these things touch not the senses, which are benumbed; nor consequently the imagination, which works only on those images which it hath thence received. And were they even at liberty, there is no likelihood that they should know what passeth thus in the secret of the Veins; What then is it which can raise in the Soul all these Chimeras and Phantasms, which have so much relation with that Motion which the spirits than suffer, and so much resemblance with that humour which is in disorder?  
We must certainly confess, that besides this exterior knowledge which the Senses afford her, she hath another which is interior and secret, which Nature hath inspired, by means whereof she sees and knows all what is done in her organs, and that with that light she who is present with all the parts, easily observes what is done in them, and afterwards communicates it to the imagination, which is as it were the centre of all her knowledge. But forasmuch as this is obscure and confused, she instructs not this Faculty clearly, and affords it only a general view of those objects which concern her; it's for the same reason also that she forms no perfect images which respect things as they are, but which only have some relation and agreement together. So when choler is moved, although the Soul distinctly knows not the nature nor the species, yet she knows it to be a humour which is hot and ardent, and upon the report which she hath made thereof to the imagination, this fancies to itself sparkling colours, flames and burn, which have a conformity with that general notion which she had received of them. And because that she also knows that this Humour serves Anger and Boldness to destroy the Enemy which they assault, seeing herself in such a condition as in these Passions she useth to be in, she presently thereupon proposeth such objects and designs, and so forms Enemies, Assaults, and Combats. We may say as much of the agitation which remains in the Spirits after the esmotion of the Soul is at an end. For observing it during sleep, she who knows that it's the motion which in Anger she makes use of, reingageth herself afresh in this Passion, and sleeping reassum the desires and designs of reven●● which waking she had already given over. She doth the like also proportionably, when the other humours are irregular; when the spirits find themselves agitated with the motion of some other Passion; in a word, it is thus, that she forms all Dreams which come from the good or ill disposition of the body, as we have showed in the Treatise of Love out of Inclination.  
There remains two effects only to be examined, concerning which we must consult Physic; for it is from her we must learn What Pulse there is in Anger, and in what disposition the Heart and the Lungs are when it is kindled in those parts.  
As for the first, All Physicians are agreed, That the Pulse herein is great, high, quick, frequent, and vehement, and that the violence of the heat, and force of the vital Faculty, are the principal causes of all these differences.  
But although all this be true, yet we may say that this kind of Pulse is not proper and particular to Anger, since it is also to be found in Boldness, as we declared treating of that Passion; and that certainly there must be somewhat which hitherto hath not been observed, which distinguisheth it from this, there being no probability that these two Passions should diversely agitate the Soul and the Spirits, without causing also in the Heart and in the Arteries different motions: It is therefore certain, that in both of them the pulse is great and high; but in Boldness it is full and extented, and we may feel the Artery under our fingers which swells every way; instead that in Anger it puts all her endeavour forwards, and without enlarging itself it darts itself outwardly, making the pulse thereby high, which seems rather straight then large. And certainly as the Spirits follow the design of the Soul which throws herself out of herself to assault the Enemy, their sally must needs be made as hers is, from the centre to the circumference, and that if the Arteries are to be restrained as it is necessary, and as we shall hereafter demonstrate, it ought to be by the sides, that the Spirits may be left at liberty to dart themselves forth; but there is no question to be made of this effect nor of its cause, if we remember that Grief and Boldness are here mingled together, and that at the same time both of them agitate the Heart and the Arteries with a motion proper to them; for if Grief ought to restrain it, that Boldness at the same time might open it, they must be straightened in some of the parts, and enlarged in others, in pursuit whereof, the Pulse appears high without being extended, as hath been said; yet we must observe that it is principally so in the motions of Anger, or that when it is in the ardour of Vengeance, or that it turns into Fury, this contraction is no more felt but it is found to be altogether large and full, as it is in Boldness; or whether the sense of Grief be stifled, or its effect suspended by the violence of other Passions; or whether the Soul which is then as it were out of herself, minds no longer her preservation, and without having a care of sheltering herself, she blindly exposeth herself to danger, and abandons herself to all the rage which possesseth her.  
The Respiration in this is just as it is in Boldness; for although it proceeds from the same causes the Pulse doth, that it is of the same use, and that its motions have the same relation: yet hath it not all the differences, or at least it hath not made them known, because we are not sensible by the touch of the Body of the Lungs where it is form, as we are sensible of that of the Arteries, and that there is not such a tie betwixt that and the rest of the exterior organs which renders it sensible, as there is betwixt the Heart and these kind of Veins; for which cause there is neither hardness nor softness in the Respiration, as is in the pulse, nor can we observe any thing which comes near this kind of beating, which we said was proper to Anger; although the Lungs suffer the same changes, and be in the same condition as the Heat than is; for Hypocrates assures us, that in this Passion both the one and the other retire and restrain themselves in themselves, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, although heat at the same time swells them and lifts them up. Now although we cannot doubt but these contrary motions come from the mixture of these two Passions whereof we have spoken; yet it is not easy to observe how they may be compatible together, nor what parts are destined for their reception, it being not probable that the same should be agitated by both together. For we cannot herein say of the Heart and Lungs, what we have said of the Arteries, their natural constitution and the action which they are obliged to perform, suffers them not to be restrained, as they are to be lift up: It must necessarily be that they must extend when they open themselves.  
But if they extend themselves so, how can they restrain themselves? Certainly, we must say that their flesh and substance gathers comprench and restrains itself, and that their cavities enlarge themselves, instead that in Joy all the parts release and soften themselves, having not that need to fortify themselves as here they have; in effect, the pulse which appears harder in Anger then in Boldness, is a certain sign that the substance of the Arteries restrains and hardens itself; and we cannot doubt but that the hardness of these parts comes from the contraction of the Soul, since it is for that only reason that the pulse becomes hard in Fear.  
All the difficulty remaining is, To know why the Arteries which borrow the virtue of moving themselves from the Heart, have not a motion like his, and that they straighten their cavity on the sides, although that enlargeth his own on all sides.  
To resolve this difficulty, we must observe that the beating of the Arteries is not the same which is in the Heart, since those open and lift themselves up, whilst this fall and shuts itself. So that they must needs be too different motions, and consequently proceed from two different virtues. And if this be true, there is no necessity that they should resemble in all things, and the Heart in any sense may enlarge itself without any necessity for the Arteries to do the same; now as the Heart hath its Ventricles placed on the right and left which necessarily ought to open themselves to receive blood and air which enters therein, it's impossible the Soul should cause it to make a motion conformable to the Passions wherewith it is agitated, as is made in the Arteries where this impediment is not, and where she hath all the liberty to satisfy Grief by restraining them, and Boldness by raising them up, as hath been said. As for the Lungs, there is a particular reason for which they cannot restrain themselves as the others do; for they have not the power to move themselves, and of themselves they lift themselves not up to give place to the air which enters. It is the muscles of respiration, which extending themselves widen the capacity of the Breast, and constrain the Lungs to open, to hinder a vacuum; for which cause waving the motive Faculty, they have not those kinds of motion, which depend therefrom.  
But it is to pry too far into the secrets of Physic, and the further clearing hereof would be useless to those who know it, and those who are ignorant of it would never be sufficiently informed. Let us only say, That although Anger causeth often very great disorders in the Soul and in the Body, 
Anger is profitable to health.  yet it is not always an enemy to Reason, nor to Health. It is absolutely necessary for weak and idle minds, and for cold and gross constitutions; and even in all others it may be compared to winds, which how impetuous soever they are drive away vapours and mists, clearing the air, and rendering it the more pure and wholesome. In effect, if we seek to hinder its course, or that we would restrain it, without suffering it so much as to exhale itself by words, it preserves itself a long time in the Soul, and at last altars the humours, whence often happen great and pernicious sicknesses. For as the inferior part is deaf to the counsels of Reason, and that she proposeth to herself revenge as the end she tends unto, she will cause her motion to cease until she is at least in some manner revenged. So that the Will may then hinder those actions over which it hath a power, such as are words, blows, and the like; but for those which are not under its direction, as are the motions of the Heart, and the agitation of the Humours, they must necessarily be continued, they must even by this restraint be rendered the more violent, and they must last the longer time, since we delay our revenge, which is the end which ought to terminate them.    
FINIS.