The Effigies of Love.  
T. Cross Sculp.    

THE EFFIGIES OF LOVE: BEING A Translation from the Latin of Mr. Robert Waring of Christ-Church in Oxford, Master of Arts, and Proctor of that University.  
To which is prefixed A Tombstone-Encomium, By the same Author, Sacred to the memory of the Prince of Poets, BEN. JOHNSON; Also made English by the same hand.  
The Pox, the Plague, and every small Disease,  
May come as oft as ill Fate please;  
But Death and Love are never found  
To give a second Wound.  
We're by those Serpent's bit, but we're devoured by these.  Mr. Cowley in his Mistress, pag. ult. 
London: Printed in the year 1680.   

TO The Fair and Excellent LADY Madam Sarah Cock.  
Honoured Madam,  
TO make an Apology for Dedications, in an Age wherein it were almost ridiculous to appear without them, were a folly like his that should excuse himself for not being singular; besides that he must needs be a person of a very desperate desert and fortune too, who can neither find nor make a friend that will accept or patronise his labours; and it must needs be scandalous for the child, whose both parents and friends are ashamed to own it. But that I should single out You, most Excellent Madam, from the rest of your fair Sex, to shelter me from the dreadful effects of merciless Critics, need be the wonder of none but Yourself, whose Modesty hath restrained You from too near a familiarity with your own deserts, and made You happily ignorant of Your own virtues and power; the knowledge of which ought not to be trusted with any goodness less than Your own. But tyranny, and insolence, and triumphing over the infelicities and miseries of those men whom themselves have made so, is such a piece of Barbarity, as will find entertainment among none but the basest and the worst of men: which is all the security I have that I may once see a period of those sufferings I have so long patiently, and scarce patiently endured, since the remedy is in the power of her whose very outward appearance carries with it a certain indication of generosity and goodness. I was long silent, and with much reluctancy at last broke it: but if grief, though silent, have a voice; if anguish without a tongue be vocal; if sorrow be loud to Elah, or the groans of an expiring Lover can be accented; if a mighty amazement and consternation of a mind but reasonably solicitous for its own happiness, have any Emphasis; my present sufferings can neither want arguments nor orators: and whilst I plead my own Cause, and that with You, I shall much sooner be at a loss where to begin, than what to say.  
Dearest Madam, this little Book will inform You what You can do, and I have suffered: my torments (the Characters of Your powerful Beauty) are here exactly delineated, that You may read and pity me, now almost become Loves emphatical Martyr. It will seem a wonder scarce capable of his belief, should I tell the Reader, The described Passions in this Book, come short of what I have, and the Torments of what I endure for You. In some places You will see Yourself deservedly seated on a Throne, which can dart astonishing influences and a dreadful pleasure, distributing desirable afflictions, and pleasing deaths, which the most greedy of life would desire, and joyfully embrace: In other places You may visit Your easie-gotten Conquests, and see the unhappy Trophies of Your Beauty. Others You have slightly touched, and but with a few Darts, Me You have transfixed with a thousand: their wounds do not need, mine are scarce capable of cure; and their greatest Emphasis is their not being mortal. Yet We valiant Lovers like these pleasing Cruelties, love the hand that strikes us, play with the flames that scorch us, and enjoy them the blessed Authors of our deaths.  
But lest, whilst I talk of Sufferings, my trespassing too long upon Your patience, may justify Your inflicting them, and so turn them into Punishments; and lest the Prologue drown the Play, and forestall the patience of the hearers, which would be more advantageously reserved for the ensuing Acts; I retire, only begging leave to advertise You, that whereas some Expressions in this Book are harsh and uncouth, that may not be charged upon the Translator, who hath in favour of Your fair Sex trespassed more than once upon the Author, and fears he shall stand in need of the learned Reader's pardon for making so many, as he begs Yours for not making more alterations.  
Dearest Madam, read this little Book, and see the reflex image both of Yourself and Me: there You will find what You already are, and what all other Ladies from Your example fain would be; who only blame You for setting Your Example so high, that it deceives their sight, baffles their hopes, and discourages their endeavours of imitation. In mercy to the gazing world, bridle this Luxury of Virtue, this Prodigality of Goodness: 'tis thrifty counsel, and conduces to Your happiness and Ours too: it gives us hopes, that though we can't attain Your course, we seeing our Guide, may go part of that Religious way: for though by a higher pitch of Virtue (if that supposition be no Crime) You might be transcribed into something above humanity; yet wrapped in Clouds, we had lost our knowledge, You our love; and You leaving us in danger of seduction into Idolatry, lest you should be without fault, are become guilty of ours.  
But methinks I begin to forget my Crime, which I promised to amend▪ which cannot be better done, than by not anticipating Your reading of this Book, which when read, will supersede the trouble of subscription. Whatsoever is there of Love or Adoration, I shall do You that Justice and myself the Honour of acknowledgement and payment: which tribute I humbly beg You will not refuse from,  
Dearest Madam, Your entirely devoted and most obedient Servant, Rob. Nightingale.   

TO THE READER.  
READER,  
I Here present thee with a Translation of the deservedly admired Effigies Amoris; but with such Variations from the Latin, as will make me obnoxious to thy Censure. To give you the particular reasons, were a direct thwarting of my interest, and undoing all I have already done in prosecution of my end: yet I dare tell you my reasons are such as will either secure me from, or enable me willingly to bear the worst that Zoilus can do; I shall be as capable of his Envy, as he will be deserving of my Scorn, and needful of my Pity: but because it is so easy to pretend any reasons when a man is beforehand resolved not to discover them, I think fit to acquaint you, that there are in the Latin so many harsh and jarring expressions, so derogatory to the honour and the dominion that the fair Sex (for whose sake I avow the undertaking of this Translation) have by their victorious Beauty acquired in the world, that I thought myself obliged (having listed myself under Cupid's Banner) to espouse their Cause, and thereby become at once an Orator for them and Virtue.  
Mr. Waring the ingenious Author of this Book, might be allowed some Exotic transports, and aught to be pardoned the roving Excursions of a boundless fancy and unlimited invention: he was full, and those expressions must be looked upon as the frothy overflowings of a luxuriant brain: though after all, if taken entirely, he is certainly one of the most ingenious Authors that ever this fruitful age hath produced; whose excellent Character (set down by Mr. Griffith, (the Publisher of the last Edition) will easily excuse me from speaking farther of a person whom I no otherwise knew but by Fame; and this little, but best Monument of himself: which renders my attempt of translation as bold and as dangerous as Horace pronounced his Endeavours to be, who durst emulate Pindar. But Love commanded, and I had nothing else to do but to obey: I told him I was not eloquent; he replied that he could make me so: he commanded me to speak, and taught me how; and whilst he unsealed my lips, influenced my tongue. Cupid is the Muses and the Worlds Hannibal, whose prosperous adventures serve to teach us, that to him, and us under his Conduct, nothing is inaccessible, nothing is invincible: and let him that laughs at me and my undertaking, beware lest by the influence I have upon my Master, he be not in a condition of shaking hands, and prove as emphatical a fool as he thinks I am.  
Thus, Reader, I have acquainted you with some of my reasons, and told you likewise that I have more in my Budget, which being purposely kept there for secresie's sake, you are by the laws of Modesty forbidden to make any farther enquiry after them.  
The Epitaph upon Ben. Johnson I was unwilling to leave out, though I am sensible it hath lost much by the translation. It was in the Latin (as I have made it in the English) rather a Monumental inscription than a Poem. So that in this Verbum verbo curabam reddere fidus Interpres.  
Accept, courteous Reader, or at least pardon these my first adventures: I have chosen a Subject generous and bold, which may provoke some one better qualified for it than myself, to add those Ornaments which I were not able to give.   

TO The ever Honoured And most Accomplished Gentleman, Sir john Birkenhead Kt. Doctor of Laws, Master of Faculties, And one of the Honourable House of Commons.  
Illustrious Sir,  
IT is my hopes that you will not disdain these first fruits of our Gratitude, though gathered out of your own Nursery, in regard we never offer to the Deities themselves other than their own proper Incense. That these few Remains of so dear an acquaintance survived their Author, is that which all learned men owe to your care; and therefore that they should return dedicated to your Name, was not only mine, but the desire of the Learned▪ whose farther design it was, that I should make known by the testimony of this Treatise, as well their public as my private Gratitude. Who could not think it enough to enjoy a Jewel so precious in itself, unless (as it happens to the Pearls and Diamonds of great Princes) it had received something of higher value, more august than innate worth, from the Cabinet of the late Possessor: For to them that should inquire Cujum Opus, it would not be enough for the Printer to answer, Not Aegon's certainly, unless he added, But Waring's; or to you that farther demanded, Whence came this Work? nothing else could satisfy their Importunity but this reply, That it was produced, most excellent Sir, out of your Library. And while the Publisher prepares another Edition, the former Copies being either lost or sold, it is your Command, that the true and genuine Author of this third Edition should be known to the world in the front of this third Impression; not wanting surreptitious Feathers to imp the wings of thy Fame, who canst deservedly boast those Offsprings of thy own Quill; which should the world enjoy all together, would soon eclipse whatever the Modern Wits have brought forth: from whence I am not able to determine whether or no something greater than the Iliads might arise. To you in the mean time all the Learned on this side Tagus and Ganges bow their heads, as being the only person famous for the high applauses for Wit and Judgement both conjoined; so far in you is the subtlety of Wit from injuring the sharpness of Judgement. But I fear lest while I am paying Truth her due, I should offend your modesty, which is not the meanest of your great Virtues: I will therefore correct myself in time, wishing only this, that we may at length obtain what all desire, an Edition of your Lucubrations, that so you may do justice to your Fame, and the vast expectation that the world has conceived of you. In the mean while I beg you to accept this Testimony of a grateful mind, till I am able to make a better acknowledgement, which for gratitude's sake, I desire may be dedicated to yourself,  
To you, my best Patron, Your most devoted Servant, Will. Griffith.   

THE PROEM OF WILLIAM GRIFFITH TO THE READER.  
TAke, Reader, to thyself, what thou hast so long desired, the new Edition of this polite little Work; little indeed, if thou regardest the bulk, and not the merit of the Piece, to prevent the tedious labour of transcribing so frequently requested Copies. This was the Printers care, to whom I was willing to condescend, that if I could any way be aiding, this third Edition should come forth more copious and more corrected. To which end, if any thing were done to the purpose by me, it is all to be ascribed to that worthy and excellent person, through whose favour the Learned World enjoys the lovely birth of so divine a Wit; I mean, that noble Gentleman Sir John Birkenhead, who was not satisfied to inter and preserve the Ashes of the Author, who was his intimate Acquaintance, unless be might also preserve his Memory; which he did, by exposing to the world these draughts and descriptions of Love deposited in his custody. They have breathed forth Nard wherever they came, with the fragrant Odours of Amomum. The name of the Author was absent from the Title in the first Edition: For than it crept forth, such was the sat of those times, as the work of a person who had been always faithful to his Prince, and therefore thought it necessary to conceal his name, which was all he could do. For it became not such an Ingenuity to be concealed, which like Royal Furniture carries its peculiar marks wherever it is found.  
Nor is that small Addition to be despised, I mean, the Tombstone-Encomium upon the Prince of our English Poets, BEN. JOHNSON, by which he has rendered his Memory, with his own, immortal; which the Author finding most miserably mangled in a Book called Johnsonus Viribius, was forced almost to make new again, that he might restore it to its first splendour, to himself a Peonian Apollo, renewing, like the Pelican, that life which he had given to his Offspring once born, and twice restored to life; born from the hand and invention of the Author, risen once from the Errors of the Press, and a third time exposed to Eternity by the favour of the forementioned Knight. The Author was deservedly numbered among the chiefest Wits of his time, as Cartwright, Gregory, Diggs, Masterson, and the rest: Who while they lived, Oh Heavens how great they were! of all whom for all, the noble Birkenhead only survives. These were the Tutelar Numen of Oxford, every one an Ingenuity descended from Heaven; which while she kept within her walls, Oxford stood, yielding neither to the policy nor force of her Enemies. In vain the Enemy laboured to entice these Heroes to his Party: Whom nevertheless while a greater force, piety and fidelity to their Prince, carried several ways, whereby their Pens were not able to assist the Royal Arms, reduced to Extremity, at length the hostile fury prevailed, while they were otherwise employed; as the Temple of Diana burnt at Ephesus, while she was busy at the birth of Alexander. The Enemy therefore having obtained his wishes, proudly using his Victories, as it were triumphing over Victory herself, carried away as many of these Genius's as he could meet with; believing he could no otherwise restrain and curb those divine Souls, than with Cords and Chains. As the Tyrians tied the same golden Chain to the Ogmean Hercules, lest he should desert them, which the Gauls tied to the tongue of the same Deity, to attract and allure others. In the midst of these Cruelties, the most of those Heroes breathed forth their blessed Souls, yet not yielding to fate, in regard that every one of them has drawn Eternal Lines in their several Writings, as amongst the rest, ROBERT WARING has depainted The Effigies of Love to all Eternity.   

ERRATA.  
IN the Epistle Dedicatory, p. 6. l. 19 read they instead of that. In the title of the Epistle to Sir John Birkenhead, r. Master of Requests. p. 2. l. 4. deal as well. p. 3. l. 13 r. looks, instead of countenance. p. 5. l. 8. read that instead of a. p. 27. l. 22. read, yet this is to. p. 77. l. 18. read Vices instead of Virtues. p. 95. l. 11. r. approaches.  
These, and if there be any other Errata, occasioned through the Translators absence, the candid Reader is desired to excuse and amend them.   

TO The PRINCE of POETS, BEN. JOHNSON, A TOMBSTONE-ENCOMIUM.  
Greatest of Poets,  
Whether suffering Death or Ecstasy,  
Thou liest a venerable, more than mortal Pile.  
Thus, after the received honour of sacred Fury,  
When th' aged Prophetess  
Had wasted the now-exhausted Inspiration,  
And the divine Soul no more to return  
Had taken its last flight,  
Thus lay the Sibyl's Carcase,  
Even yet to be consulted by her trembling Adorers.  
To none the Godlike Soul so largely indulged itself,  
To none more unwilling it bid farewel,  
Transmitting equal Flames  
While an Exile, and while an Inhabitant.  
And now the Evening of thy years growing on,  
It did not leave thy breast,  
As it were the Horizon of Poetry,  
Without its gloomy redness.  
'Tis the fate of some Poets to betray, not know their Parts;  
A great Mystery to others, a greater to themselves;  
Like some Prophetic wild Beasts,  
They boast an included Numen, which they know not;  
Wise by unintelligible instinct;  
In whom, while boldness creates wit, 'tis profitable to be ignorant.  
To thee it first happened to enjoy thy own Fury,  
And govern thy celestial gifts,  
While with an equal strife, thy judgement & thy inspiration went together,  
Twice divinely possessed.  
Thou hast added Muses to other Muses, Arts and Sciences,  
A Poet, full of thy self:  
Who separating Fury from Rage,  
Hast taught that the Aonian Springs may be soberly quaffed.  
Who hast chastised the lawless extravagance of Rapture,  
By thrifty counsel.  
That Britain might at length possess,  
The World admire  
An Ingenuity that needs no pardon;  
And find nothing to be farther added to thy Writings,  
But Fame.  
That the Prologues therefore,  
Like the Porticoes of great men, should advance the Titles  
Of the Master,  
The Author himself is celebrated as the perpetual Argument.  
This is not to be called Arrogance, but Judgement,  
Or Prophesy.  
For it is the property of Virtue and a Poet,  
To please himself.  
Therefore not to increase our Envy, but thy Praise,  
The Fates commanded thee to appear Great,  
Who alone hast showed thyself to Us an entire Poet.  
While others only crop the Lawrel-boughs,  
Thou claimest the whole Grove.  
Nor dost thou flatteringly praise, nor enviously bite;  
Abominating both,  
Either to mix Honey with thy Sacrifice, or Vinegar  
With thy Physic.  
Nor hast thou burst thy Oaten-pipe with too much breath,  
Nor effeminated thy Trumpet with too little.  
Observing the Laws on both parts, as being thy self the Law,  
Thou hast obtained an Empire by the devotion of Obedience.  
Servant of Things, but not of Times.  
Thus being the Darling of all the Muses,  
Thou sett'st them all at a perpetual strife.  
Let it be Homer's Glory  
To have Cities at variance for him, for thee  
The Muse's dispute.  
Who whether in thy Tragic Buskins, among the Poets,  
Thundering Jupiter,  
Or whether thy round feet fill the Comic Sock;  
Whether thou dost dictate Epigrams  
That may be acted,  
Or Wit which the hands can show.  
Thou leav'st those footsteps Posterity must adore,  
And seem'st to Us to pitch the Theatre.  
Thy Scenes exhibit not Spectacles of Sand;  
Thy Scenes produced not Poems, but Poesy itself,  
And gave both Minds and Laws to the People,  
By which they might condemn thee, if thou couldst have erred.  
Thus thou afford both sights and eyes to the Beholders;  
And mak'st those Scenes which choose rather to be read  
Than be beheld,  
Scorning to owe thy wit to the Actor.  
Others not beholding to Apollo, but to Mercury,  
Whose Inspirations proceed from Wine and Love,  
Who obtrude Vices upon the Stage, whom Diseases  
Make Poets,  
Whose Muses more fit to ride after the old custom in Carts,  
Never bring forth, but suffer abortion  
Of a few dying Verses,  
Which the very Press itself stifles.  
Authors exposed to darkness by a new fraud of Lucina,  
While their Poems, like Diurnals,  
Serve only for their Year and Country.  
Thus the Modern Wit of Plautus  
No longer lived than Plautus lived;  
And the Domestic jests of Aristophanes found  
No applause but upon his own Theatre.  
Thou in the mean while  
Breathest the Genius of Ages yet to come,  
The World's and thy Theatre is the same;  
While in one word, thou pourest forth a lasting  
Poem,  
A Verse immense, and increasing with the Reader.  
We congratulate thy happy Delays:  
But why call we that Delay,  
Which was made only for  
Our sakes?  
That aught to be eternally written, which  
Would be so read.  
Thou alone art able  
To govern the world with thy Pen, far greater than  
Sceptres.  
The Sword subdued the Britain's to Rome;  
Thy Quill, Rome to the Britain's:  
Which thus rejoicing to be vanquished,  
We now behold more sublime in the English Buskin,  
Than in the height of her own Hills.  
But what is greater, thou subdu'st the Age to Us;  
And, Vicar of the Oracle,  
Like a faithful Priest, perform'st what God commanded,  
Teaching men to know themselves.  
Our Language  
Nursed wit, increased by thee:  
Thou didst form the Country-speech and thy own words together.  
No more we boast our own, but Johnson's Eloquence;  
To the end thou mayst be always praised in thy own  
Language;  
Who hast also taught  
Rome itself more eloquent words,  
Vaunting in the servitude of a foreign Idiom.  
Greece also,  
The Mistress of the world, thou hast adorned;  
Now glorying in another than the Attic Dialect.  
Rich in thy self alone, thou were't able to contemn  
The Ingenuities of Others,  
And without them were't a Compendium of Wit.  
But as that Painter  
Who strove to give the world an Exemplar equal to the  
Idea,  
Artfully collected  
Those Beauties which Nature had here and there  
dispersed;  
And forcing the wand'ring Rivulets of Form into one Ocean,  
Commanded thence another unblemished Venus:  
So to the framing a structure of the same nature,  
Thy Poesy was like that Painting.  
Other Authors afforded Materials for thy Wit,  
Thou art added to them as Art and Polishing.  
And if others might be called Poets, thou Poesy itself.  
Not another Pen, but the Author of Authors.  
Long solicitous Writers teaching at length by thy Self,  
What Genius a Book that would live aught to have.  
How many soever went before,  
Did but serve as Guides in the Road:  
Thou alone the Pillar.  
That Virtue which profits others, endamaged  
The Owner.  
And thou that hadst more correctedly transcribed others,  
Art not to be transcribed thyself:  
A Match equal to them gone before,  
To Posterity unequal.  
Perpetual Dictator of the Stage.  Rob. Waring.  

These Flames of Love Robert Waring offers and consecrates to the Altars and religious Fires. This old and wormeaten Harp of Love he also hangs against the sacred Walls of his poor Habitation.  
NOw Cupid grant me Feathers and Quills from thy own Wings, and an Opportunity of Stealing thy Divinity. There is a greater Task in hand, and a larger Theme of Love, the Patron; whom I should believe more proper for me to invoke, were it not a piece of impious Worship to pretend so great a Person for the occasion of our Sloath. Yet (O thou to me more admired Divinity than Cupid himself) grant me the pardon of this one Crime (for it is not an unheardof Crime of Piety) to hang my Harp upon the sacred Walls, that will then at length prove grateful when it can sound no more. ay, in imitation of Praxitiles his Art, (for what is it we Lovers dare not do?) have sent this idle Piece, not so much for the Pencil's, as for Piety's sake, the Messenger of my Love, and as a Pledge for myself. Thou shalt not find here so much of the Painter, as of a person that makes his Confession, as having spent the Heats of a distempered Breast upon the Table, and weakly delineated, what I more powerfully suffered. Neither shall I seem to have described to the Life, but only the Blindness and Madness of Love. So that I fear a further demand, What it is I deliver into your Hands, under the notion of a Present. However, if deluded with the Shadow and Dream of a Representation, you require something farther, behold more willingly here approaches your Hands, either as a Present, or as a Captive, the very Picture, or if you please, Original of Love.   

The Answer of R. W. to his Friend, importunately desiring to know what LOVE might be?  
I Acknowledge the wanton Tyranny of imperious Love, that is always requiring the most difficult Trials of the Affections. Now though it be a kind of an Herculean Labour itself to Love, considering those severe duties, those toils, and hazards appendent to it; as if Cruelty were its sole delight: Nevertheless we believe it reasonable, what names soever we have given to Love, that he should exercise his Sovereignty, which is certainly very great and puissant; and by the Severity of his Commands, that he should augment the glory of his high Rule, and our obedient Submission. Let him command as well what is beyond, as well as what is within the verge of our ability to perform, all things, but only that one thing, Not to Love. Let him command nothing below a Miracle, seeing that he who exacts the duty, affords us also Strength and Power, and raises our Wit and Ingenuity above its self, transforming Man into a Semideity. So that he cannot be said to Love, who does not act beyond himself, and pursue the accomplishments of his desires, with Enterprises equal to his wishes. He is no thorough-paced Lover, who does not something above extraordinary, to gain his Prize.  
But justly do you redemand those Affections, which you yourself have taught, though despoiled of your Faceteness and Eloquence. Will it so delight ye, to behold in my devoted Breast, as in a Mirror, the reverberated resemblance of yourself? Or to take a thorough view of me, as being a piece of your own workmanship? because it is impossible that any outward stain should blemish your fair Image; the very Spots whereof afford a brightness, like those of the Sun. Will you not however, like a haughty Lady, be angry with the Looking-Glass, that discovers to your sight Freckles and Deformities not your own, and throws a counterfeit Scandal upon your Countenance? I know not for what reason; but certain it is, that we love the very miscarriages of Nature, and the disgraces of our own Bodies; as old and maimed Images are more religiously adored. Thus Parents for the most part caress with a more tender Affection, as it were to the comfort of their Misfortunes, the lamest and most deformed of their Children; more vehemently admiring these Monsters of the Womb, as the Portenders of some great matter. We are pleased to behold the transposed▪ Members of a distorted body, moving like Man's Anagram. Certainly, Deformity is a sacred thing, which much more divine than Beauty, pleased the ancient Priests, that assumed Divinity under antie shapes, to render their Oracles more reverend; which not only terrifies us Mortals, but admonishes us withal, that this Deformity is rather to be adored than loved. Every one is to himself the most pleasing Theatre, and the most delectable Object; and then the Eye seems to enjoy the Dignity and delights of the Mind, when it shoots its piercing sharpness backward upon itself, at once both the Spectator and the sight. Whatever it be, that for double reasons renders us doubly favoured by you, aught to be most chiefly in our esteem; which if it show us lame or imperfect, under that very notion either of injury or antiquity, we are also for that very reason to admire it. I am obliged to Nature that she hath afforded me a smooth Table, from whence to take off so much of your likeness, as to delight both herself and you too. But it will be a wonder indeed, that an Image should talk any longer.  
But I am much more apt to love, then speak a word, which covets rather to be the subject of Contemplation than Demonstration; and because it keeps its station in the most secret Recesses of the Heart, disdains acquaintance with the Tongue. A thing which we poor Mortals never learn, either from precept or examples; but then at length all first began to understand, when we had all practised the same thing. You would say that Love were not only blind, but Tongueless, who has made all the joints of our bodies vocal, unless the Tongue alone. Whence it comes to pass, that Lovers more eloquently make use of sighs than words, to convey the Intelligence of their secret flames, and like Paphian Doves weep enlivened Epistles; by which means they also discourse with their eloquent Fingers, without the assistance of a Pen; and dialogue in signs, with affable Nods, missary Smiles; and by means of those vocal Messengers of their Desires, hear each others mutual Wishes, and read each others visible Souls. At other times the Rhetorical Tropes of Gesture woe in a mysterious and various Idiom, while Pilgrim Glances, seeming to be out of their way, outwardly renouncing all familiarity, privately hold a strict correspondence together.  
Their counterfeited Frowns display an outward displeasure, when they are studying all the charms of Friendship in the midst of their Anger. At other times their Souls taking reciprocal flights from each others eyes, ravish from each other Bridal Kisses at a distance, returning in Triumph with the Thefts of Embraces in thought. And among all their Triumphs and their Pleasures, this they look upon as the chiefest, that the business lies hid. So frequent a thing it is for Lovers to appear upon the public Stage, and yet beguile the Spectators by disguising the Comedy. These Angelic Interlocutors seem indeed to be above all humane Laws, and consequently by most certain signs to understand each others Wishes, to inspect each others Entrails, and to manage their Affections rather by way of Oracle than Discourse; while they display in thought a clearer discovery of each others Minds, before the addresses of words, or that they know how to deceive; and their Desires, like Apparitions, show themselves to the eye: Such however as by no other Art are to be seen, than that which bred them; while issuing visibly from the Body, they not only appear to the sight, but assume the shape, and enliven the person whom they design to discourse. As if there were within the same Body a free Intercourse of restless and wandering thoughts, that common with others abroad with no less silence than they observe at home. This one Affection that cannot be expressed, is adored as a Mystery; whose sacred Rites, like those of the most ancient Deities, are like Crimes protected by a modest Shame and wary Silence. Love has always its Veil; and the Adorers of Venus, like Aeneas, walk enveloped in a Cloud, and keep themselves secret in the most public Assemblies of Men. Nay Cupid himself, hardly content with one Veil, delights to peep out of his Ambushments, and to see the hearts he daily wounds; beholding all, himself unseen. Thus Love that composed the world, kept his Station in Confusion, lurking in the ancient Darkness of the primitive Chaos.  
Still doth Venus, as if she were a Traitor, fly the Sun; and for fear of being discovered, I know not what Divinity has enclosed within a Labyrinth, not only the Affections of Pasiphaë, but the whole Love of all Mankind; or if at any time he chance to be apprehended, he appears either like one caught in a Net, or else in the shape of a Monster. Thus in complaisance to Mortals that love Riddles, Love is become a Problem to himself, living without Rule, and exercising the Affections at his own pleasure; while contrary Desires agitate him, no less impetuously driven this way and that way by the Ebbs and Flow of the Passions; from whence it may be easy to infer, that the Cyprian Queen was born upon the rolling Billows, in the midst of contrary Winds. Strange Riddles! That the same person should both serve and live free, should be at his own disposal, and at the command of another; as it happened to the Freedmen of the Roman Emperors, who governed their Lords and Masters under the title of Slaves! That this same Love should both live and die both at the same time, and like the Phoenix, revive from the Ashes of his own Funeral Pile! Mad and malignant Wishes of the same Lover, therefore to wish his most beloved Favourite unfortunate, only to have the opportunity of being his Comforter! Therefore to desire him deprived of Friends, and bereaved of Subsistance, that he may have the honour of supplying both! Therefore to wound, that he may be the Author of the Cure! That Necessity rather than Love and Merit should enforce the Obliged to retaliation! Not to know whether to desire the Hatred and Enmity, or the Favour and Kindness of his Friend! while Hatred and Jealousy are equally mischievous in their undertake. 'Tis a piece of Inhumanity, to hinder the effects of all other men's Kindness, only to engross the Affection singly to himself; to remove and implead all his other Rivals, as the injurious Authors of his private wrongs: but above all things, to be solicitously careful lest at any time hereafter he should grow wiser, which might render him contemptible; with so much delight are Lovers blindly misguided.  
See how an enamoured breast grows cold and hot reciprocally by fits, as it fares with those in high Fevers; neither is there any one that loves without perfect indignation. Deservedly he curses the pleasing Executioner, that burns him in those flames, that rob him of himself; Yet like a Butterfly, delights to play about those flames, and enjoy the happy Author of his Death.  
He seeks himself without himself, and lingers to be taken, that being a prisoner, he may be in a capacity to redeem himself; and to be next to himself, sticks close to his Possessor. It is a difficult thing for him to love; as difficult, not to love; but more difficult than both, to enjoy Love. So miserably is his afflicted Mind tormented, not so much with his own wishes themselves, as with the necessary event of what he desires. So that if the Heavens prove propitious, to favour him with success in his Love, he than cries out again for his former miseries, and that pleasing torment of sighing and desiring. So much more grateful it is to aspire to embraces, than to be fettered in the Chains. Every one more highly esteems the pleasure of desiring, than the Desires themselves; not likely to be happy in any condition, who complains of the event, and with reluctance suffers his Sighs and delightful Anxieties to be lost. Which is the hard and cruel fate of Lovers, that what way soever Fortune favour them, they are still adversaries to their Happiness.  
Whence comes it to pass, that he flies the sight of her, the sight of whom is his most pleasing Nourishment, while he thinks it a new birth to be admitted into her Presence? What unhappiness is this, that he that has his heart's desire, should not be able to enjoy his own Wishes? That Majesty encircled with the Graces, both allures and terrifies. That Sunlike splendour of a most serene Countenance, both recreates and annoys the sight. The Veneration of that Divinity, which he hath feigned terrible to himself, astonishes the Worshipper, suffering like a Cyclops, under the oppression of his own Thunderbolts. Love hath beguiled him with that imposture of Titles and Divinity, that he believes the possession more worthy than is fit for him to enjoy; neither will Religion suffer him to envy his misfortune; for what he looks upon as a Divinity, he judges not proper to be approached with the Eye, but with the Mind alone.  
So carefully hath Heaven provided for this Affection, by intermixing Fear and Anguish with Joy, to render that Pleasure more delicate. Hence it is that our Desires so torment us, that they may also delight us; and our Delights are so infested with Misfortunes, to increase our Sorrows. They are so sparingly distributed, that they appear like the Lady's Faces, which by their Silken Vails are but more openly concealed. So that they may be said to enjoy and to want, both at one time; being such for whom greater things are aimed at, than are convenient to be allowed them: the single felicities of a Glance, or a Smile, or a short charming Discourse, being enough at a time. Nevertheless, our restless and hungry Passion, not satisfied with the sweet repasts either of converse or view, attempts to taste something yet more Divine, which it is nor allowed neither to obtain or know. Neither do I know how it comes to pass that this Misfortune turmoils us, that because we are wont to enjoy Felicity only in Dreams, we are doubtful whether we possess what we really enjoy or no; and believing that we still enjoy what we imagine to be only Dreams and Shadows, we refuse to be any farther deluded, and therefore fear enjoyment.  
That Passion which settles all other motions of the Mind, that reconciles Men, Brutes, and Philosophers, is at enmity with itself alone; by the ties of Discord coupling things altogether repugnant to each other. We are not therefore to reproach him for soft and tender, whose Arms are tired only with Embraces; who always breathes either Perfumes or Sighs; who suffers himself to be cast to the ground by the threats of a smooth Brow, or the glance of an Eye. Neither are we to account him bold and daring, that endures the nocturnal Importunities of his Cares, or the diurnal Solicitations of his troubled Thoughts; or by a tedious sufferance of Injuries, exercises his greediness of Danger; so that although his fears cease, he delights to dissemble more, and to invoke jeopardy and Hazard, as favours and arguments of his Love: as if Paleness and Wanness were the Symptoms of Wooing; or that the only way to prove himself a Lover, were to make himself miserable.  
On the other side, shall we count a man stupid, because we find that Rigour and Disdain so frequently inflame and provoke a Lover? That person, believe me, is all transmigrated into Soul, or that Aethereal particle of Fire, which feels no wounds. Or if this seem a Riddle, know that it is Love's Philosophy to vanquish Hatred by Affection, and to assail one Fire by another, though much the brighter. Consider nevertheless, that this is not the Stupidity, but the Heat of a Lover. For as all Injuries contemned, lose their end and perish: so being kindly taken, they pass for Benefits; or else like flints, are broken by that soft & tender Breast that gives them way.  
Again, Why do we exclaim against him for being mad, or blind, who beholds the spots and blemishes of his Mistress, as so many Ornaments and little Stars; that he assigns her Imperfections for Beauties, and by a most kind mistake, extols and adorns her failings, with the title of the nearest resembling Virtues? The more she needs it, the more curious is her Lover to dress and set her forth in his own ascititious and borrowed Colours. But in this case men prove partial Censurers, not Friends, requiring Judgement instead of Affection; envying to the Lover that most happy Error, which gives him his greatest satisfaction. Suffer him to impose that most honest deceit upon himself, and to form in his Mind a more Majestical resemblance of Her, whom he has there decreed more seriously to contemplate, and to worship more devoutly. 'Tis the custom of Painters to pencil Faces not like, but fairer, and to flatter the Original; polishing his workmanship rather according to the reflection of the Mirror, than after the real Representative.  
Believe me, we are not to think that Lovers have lost their Eyes, which are only overshadowed with a Veil, through which they take their prospect more clearly and securely. Nevertheless you may think them three quarters shut, as in persons taking aim, that they may more judiciously discern; and being fixed upon one Object, they are not only purblind to all others, but loath the sight of them, and quite close up themselves. Now when the Eyes are wholly intent upon one Object, and employ all their quickness and vigour upon that, resolving, as it were for the nonce, not to contemplate any thing else; this is not to be dim, but too quicksighted. So that if to Philosophise be only to contemplate Ideas, then is it the particular work and office of Philosophy, to Love. Nay, if a man may be said to love as much as he understands, then that which is accounted the madness of Passion, that is to say, to be ready to die for Love, may be adjudged an Argument of Knowledge. Do but consider the Stratagems and Sieges of Lovers, equal even to the Assaults upon Cities, and winning of Kingdoms. Behold the Virgins daily led in Triumph, as the Trophies of so many wily Ingenuities, whom there was a necessity of deceiving, before they could be taken captive, and brought to an unwilling submission to their Admirers desires. So oddly do they choose rather to be deluded than beloved: As if they looked upon the Shackles of Wile and Fallacy to be the forerunners to the Fetters of Embraces. Consider how many great Wits the word Mistress has inspired; how many Lyrics Amorous Desire has begot; how extravagantly the rage of wounded Hearts has taught the Epigrammatist to wantonise. Then, emulous of so much glory, thou wilt cry, Give me an object to love: And then instead of Apollo, the Darling of Venus shall become thy Deity. He is in an Error, whoever he be, that believes those things to be the raving Dotages of a distracted Mind, which are the Mysteries of divine Fury. Thus the God of Love himself prosperously governs the violence of his Actions, though contrary to Reason. His right hand never misses when he shoots the Hearts of Mortals, though blind, and never aiming at the mark: For the hand is not governed by the Eye, but by an Inward and Divine Impulse. Neither is Love led by Reason, but by something more Celestial than Reason; and as a Deity, that avoids Reason, which might cause him to err, acts by a more certain Violence, and is wise without Wisdom.  
To be wise, and to Love, how harmoniously do they accord together! The first, in the first place, is the Attribute of Jove himself; and next to him, of a Prudent man, who, like an Oracle, can unfold Who is the best of Mortals: For it is impossible for any but the best of Men to love. He is the only Lover, whose Sentence, like that of Fate, is irrevocable. He cannot be said to love, whose Judgement failed, whose Embraces ever erred, or who at any time had an incumbent Necessity to hate.  
The Conjugal Obligation of Lovers, like solemn Wedlock, admits of no Divorce. When the Maiden-Girdle is once unloosed, that same Knot is knit, which is never to be untied; though like the Gordian Noose, it may be sometimes cut asunder. So though the ties of Souls may be cut asunder by Death, they cannot be by Death unloosed. Love ceases not, though the thing beloved cease. A Wife shall not seem old, when she is really in years; for still that Form, now withered and decayed, shall flourish in the faithful breast of her Husband; and she that hath so far suffered a change, as to be almost unknown, shall still remain in memory beloved. Then also when the Fates have snatched away the Mistress of my heart, as if only separated by intervals of absence, then shall she surviving breathe in my never-forgetful breast: and while I embrace the beloved Apparition, I will deny her dead. Fond Destinies! ye have spent your Malice in vain; we still converse, and still are two. From others ye have forced a Virgin, from me not so much as a Shade. Before, we enjoyed only the same Soul; now, Body and Soul together. She is reunited to us as to her particular Sphere.  
Now Love may seem to have finished his Circle, who always returns in that manner to the place from whence he sets forth, as if he intended with his perpetual Motion to imitate the Celestial Circumgyration; so ending in himself, that he may begin again. For he cannot be said to Love, who can at any time either slacken, or not love at all. There is not the same determination or satiety of Love, as of other things; neither is it satisfied like Hunger or Thirst. Love is not extinguished by satisfaction, but re-inflamed with new delights, and every day finds new objects of pleasure in his beloved Features. He takes perpetual recreation, a perpetual greediness seizes him, and he always finds something yet farther to desire. Like a mind devoted to Contemplation, or like the Heaven itself, he moves perpetually, never rests; never weary, but refreshed by toil: thus the end of one Benefit is the step to the next, which taking its rise from a redoubled heat, first cherishes the person, and then its own favours.  
Love aught to be immortal, whether as consecrated to Eternity, or whether it be, because he always supplies the Misfortunes that happen by Death. For who knows not, that the Death and last Will of a Lover both go together, while the expiring Lover breathes out his Soul, to be read in his last sigh, whereby he constitutes her the sole Heiress, sending back all his Affections thither from whence he last departed? With whom it fares, as with the ancient Philosophers, to be hurried out of themselves, to enjoy a perpetual ecstasy of Life; and to be deprived of their own Souls, that another's may take their place. Pythagoras as a Lover, not as a Philosopher, makes me believe the Transmigration of the Soul. Which in a fleeting posture, as it were at pleasure laying aside her proper Vestments, and putting off the Spoils of the Body, hastens to more delightful Mansions, and a fairer Entertainment, as it were to another Elysium. There is no man happy before this decease, of which Love and Philosophy are the Cause: while this from the Body frees the Soul, pleasingly swooning away in Contemplation; the former sends it forth to the Embraces of new Amours. Thence a loathing, hence the flight and Exit of its self; both ways eagerly desiring a hasty dissolution, as if covetous to perish like the Arabian Wonder. We find, that among some of the nicer sort of Ladies, upon the first sight of a noble Structure, there is a distaste and haughty disdain of the Building; then a peregrination to those flowery Canopies, wherein because they had not the chance to be born, they are willing to abide as Strangers, and wax old together; or rather to be born again, by renewing the first principles of Life. Whoever denies these to be the Excursions of Transmigrating Souls, let him more attentively consider, how the Soul still directs herself to that part, where she may approach nearest to her Lover. If two Lovers join right Hands, you would swear their Souls were to be felt in their Fingers, and that they mutually interweaved themselves together. If they close side to side, you shall perceive their very Bowels to leap for joy, and the mustering Spirits taking the alarm, assembled together in a body, beat and salute each other with frequent Pulses, and as it were strive to make way by breaking Prison. I would fain know what secret Charm that is, which summons all the blood into the Face, at the sight of the beloved Object, and causes the discoverer of the wound to fly upon the Assassinate; just as the blood of a slain Corpse bursts forth at the appearance of the Homicide, returning the wound to him that gave it: The purple stream, by what Instinct I know not, here hastening to Revenge, there speeding to apply the most present Remedy. Behold how greedily those souls that stand Sentinel in the Ears, catch the Sounds, and presently convert themselves into the same. The spirits interchange in the mixture of words, and enter into those very wishes which the Tongue expresses. Those Souls that with a continued succession dart themselves from the Eyes, consume themselves with gazing, and languish away with frequent beholding. To all true Lovers, it is the same thing to speak and to expire, to see and to abandon himself, to behold and transmigrate into the Object. Thus the whole man speeding to make his Exit, throws himself sometimes into the Eye, sometimes into the Ear; and only lives in that part, where he enjoys the object of his Love. Thus Love compels men to live more contractedly, and like some imperfect Animals to be contented with one Sense; and yet this to render a man not imperfect, but more Divine, by how much he requires the fewer Instruments of Life.  
However, the Soul is advantaged by the Body's loss. For by a certain extension of its Spiritual Bulk, that which seemed confined to one Breast, now governs two; as if it had two Lives. Distracted between two Bodies, it scarcely knows for which it was first form; such is the Increase that all true Love produces. As it fares with people that have drank overhard, all things appear double to Lovers: but no otherwise double, than as the Eyes are so; of which there is but one only Motion, one Sight alone. You may see two so closely folded in each others embraces, that they seem to be but one. 'Tis the same thing which desires and is desired; that knows not whether it love more truly, or be beloved more ardently; that cannot be said so much to enjoy, as to be converted into the wish itself. Ah! bountiful Cupid, thou play'st foul play, while thou hidest within my Breast what I desire to embrace. Thou art too favourable; act somewhat more rigidly; order it so, that we may be two, that we may find ourselves to be what we would be. In vain I beg; excess of Enjoyment will not suffer it: It cannot be; I would divide what is but still the same. To will and nill the same thing, affords much of Vanity and Irksomeness, nothing of Consortship. While we consult, we only mutually agree; we do not mutual Offices of Kindness, but incorporate our pleasure. I seem to embrace a shadow for my Mistress, that presses close at my heels, and imitates my footsteps. Forbear, my Fairest, I beseech thee, more near to me than myself; order it so, that we may wish well to each other, but love less. By how much the more simple and uncompounded every thing is, by so much the more perfect it is. Not to be comprehended, circumscribed either by Number or Place, is the mark of a Deity. Whatever is Best, and most supremely Chief, aught to be singly one.  
As Love therefore has this mark of Perfection, that is to say, Unity in an high degree; so is it dignified with another badge of Perfection, to be Communicative. For whatsoever is perfect, has this strange way to multiply and increase, by distributing and dealing itself into many parts. This is one part of his Revenue, that he enriches and advances others. Hence it was that this bountiful Deity, born for the tutelage of Humane Kind, as prone to Love, as worthy to be beloved of all men, first instituted that generous sort of Liberality, to give himself to another; which is the good that may be called man's Propriety, and is his primitive Gift. Other Gifts are not to be accounted our own, that is to say, the Graces and Favours of Heaven and Fortune; which are no more in our power to bestow, than to give away the Sun, or the common Air we breath, and only enjoy by permission.  
Whoever loves, approaches nearest to the Deity, and, like the Deity, makes this his only business, To do good. No less therefore than they who boast corporeal Strength, do they who prevail in Vigour of Mind, feel in themselves the titillations of generation, that is to say, of Speaking and Writing, which are the travails of the Brain, and a chaste desire to propagate Virtue. For the wrestling Inward Soul, and throbbing Spirits, compel fruitful Capacities to pour themselves forth, as the inward heat of Fountains forces up the boiling water. So far is Love from proceeding of Want, that it rather seems to be Opulency itself, whose chiefest aim is the relief of Nature; unless any one will account the Remedies Distempers, because they are joined with the diseases. We are to complain of the distresses and straits of Nature, since Love has indulged us this noble Commerce of Humane Kind, whereby every one delivers himself, and takes another; and whatever is divine in another, he transfers into his own Coffers: the Heir to another's wealth, and supplying his wants from the abundance of his female Friend.  
And yet I am deceived, or there is no Traffic in Friendship, neither is this the true Rule of Love, Love that thou mayst be beloved. Gratis, and not in hopes of Gain, we give freely away to another, this same Thing, whatever we are; yet with a desire of communicating, though it be our hap to change. For what more liberal and free Examples of Loving, than those of God and Parents? Whose Affections, above all Gratitude, can only be adored, but never retaliated. Yet where all endeavour of Gratitude might well be adjudged malapert and impossible, there are some glimpses of a submissive return, while the Worshipper of a Deity makes him in some measure to be a God by Adoration. And who from his Parents receives a short use of Life, repays him with a posthumous being, no less the Heir than Guardian of his transmitted Soul. Behold the Vine, more truly Cupid's than Bacchus' tree, how with a thousand Arms, a thousand Embraces, it courts the Oak her Husband, to the end she may afford to him, by whom she is supported, a more plentiful Ornament and Succour. She loads him with no other burdens than juicy Pearls, and shade to defend from the Injuries of the weather him that sustains her. Love never seeks, but brings assistance. So that it is a mark of Grandeur, and the grand Difference of those above, more willingly, more gladly to love, than be beloved.  
Hence then, you who believe, that like the feeble beasts, men only propagate for safety, rather than for Friendships' sake. Know, that Love, whom once you thought a Boy, is now grown up to Maturity. Know, that to these Mysteries whatever is infirm, or of weak and tender years, is forbidden to approach. Neither Children, nor Old-men, nor above all, any of perverse and froward Disposition, are to serve under Cupid's Banners. What an inequality of Combat is that, where it will be a shame either to vanquish or overcome, where to fly will be more honourable? What League or Commerce can there be between those, who have nothing in common but only this, That they live?  
And why should that wanton Age be admitted, that changes Companions like the Sports it uses? In whom not to understand the Causes of Love and Hatred, is the Merit of their Innocence, and a Virtue deserving Pity? Which as it renders to all Parents equal Duty and Affection, deserves for that reason their Parent's Indulgence.  
What should we do with that other overrigid fag-end of Life, no less troublesome to its self than others? That Age which only dotes upon a Staff, and takes a piece of Wood for a Man, to support himself; who is as often angry as his Gout rages, and querulously imputes his Diseases, as Crimes, to his Friend? Who with a Mind, as trembling and shivering as his Body, suspects all People and all Sexes. He fears all Kindnesses, as devices to ensnare him. To seek to please him, is to act the Surgeon, and embalm the dead. He envies me the Sports of Youth, or else corrects them according to the Exemplar of his past Life. He blames my actions, that he may applaud his own, too nearly my Rival. You'd think him crazed, to hear him repeat the Stories of his Youth, and make his own Epitaphs. Nay, he continually chides and bauls at me, because I am not as old as he, that we may die together. I seem to stand before a Magistrate, not a Companion. What man, more cruel than Mezentius, would espouse dead Carcases to warm Embraces? or disturb the Pleasures of Life with maundering Counsel and unseasonable Advice? What unequal Judge is that, who would command me to live backward with a man of another Age? With whom to live in familiarity, is a Crime; to reverence, is to proscribe him without the bounds of Love and Laws of Humanity, by a kind of Canonization. To whom this only remains, to intrigue themselves with the Amours of others, to intermix their Precepts and Directions like Philters, to teach and wish. For these poor Creatures only twinkle like an expiring Snuff; they live only to show they have lived; and usurp the Torches of Hymen, to grace their Funeral-Pomp, and light 'em to their Graves.  
But when Youth and Beauty court each other, there is the perfection of delight. For true Love is a desire of real Beauty; which real Beauty is not humane and mortal, but immortal and divine. So that they who associate with this divine Beauty, live not in this world, but as it were in Heaven, like so many Deities. For they are a sort of Deities, who despise mortal things as divine; and aspire to divine things as mortal. Now for a Man to love a beautiful Woman, is not to love another, but in part to love himself, or rather the other half of himself. For Man at first had two Faces, four Hands, four Feet, and all other Members alike; but afterwards he was divided into two Sexes, as now he remains, by Jupiter, against whom he adventured to rebel. But misliking this Separation, and willing to return to his first estate, as they rose upon their feet, both the halves closed together again, as they have done ever since; and this is called loving and being loved. For when a Man loves a Woman, he seeks his other half; and the same thing do Women, when they fix their Affections upon Men.  
However, this is the supreme Office of Reason, to make a right choice of Disposition and Conditions; to choose a Companion with whom we are sure to live with more delight than with ourselves; whose judgement we may be sure to follow as our own: or else to stay till we can find a proper Object of Love. Then also so to love, like one who is guided by Judgement, not carried away by Passion; like one so far from ceasing, that he is always beginning to Love. This is to join Patience with Constancy. This is to receive the Idea more fairly imprinted in the Mind, than in Wax, and to preserve more steadfastly. 'Tis the Office of Virtue, to determine upon one measure of wishing; to covet a disposition and inclination like his own, through all the changes of Fortune; and so to make two of one, that they may act the same person. They are to be such, as of necessity ought to have the same Will, having no other Desires but what are virtuous and noble. There ought also to be an exact Communion, because they are to impart the Virtues which they possess, without Envy; and therefore eagerly desire to communicate the Riches of the Mind. It being the part of a candid Soul, like the Light of Heaven, to lavish itself with a perpetual Prodigality. It is a firmer Bond, than the Stoic's Chain of the Fates, which creates the alliance of Souls, not so much to have the same Parent, as to have the same Original of Life, that is to say, Reason; and which has a more vital vigour to be filled with the same honest Affections, rather than with the same Blood: that the Heart should be smitten with the same Desires, rather than that the Arteries should spin the same Spirits. 'Tis a small thing to believe the same Soul, only somewhat separated in two Bodies, to have the same Thoughts in two Minds. There can be no distraction of thoughts, where there is nothing left to make a distinction of Two. For whatever distinguishes, at length separates; nay sometimes propinquity of Alliance begets a fiercer Enmity, which often happens among half Kindred.  
In vain do Vices imitate the leagues and ties of Friendship, as they endeavour to ape several other acts of Virtues. In vicious men, to have the same Delights, as well as to have the same Mistresses, kindles Hatred out of Love. To have the same Benefits, (though this sounds more religiously, than to have the same Parents) ill grounded upon familiarity, feeds Envy; and begets louder brawls, than those of Crows or Coheirs, that mutually prey upon each other. There are none that will envy them, but admire how they came together: rather they will deny any Complacency between them, but only as it fares with those that sail both in one Ship, whom Fears and Dangers knit together; who are no sooner come ashore, but their Friendship shipwrecks, as if they had met with a Land-storm; and their affection to Trade rather than Friendship, separates some one way, some another. With what Fidelity can they agree with others, whom nothing of Kindness, but a loathing of themselves, have constrained to this custom of Society? With much ado they endure themselves, and strive to shun themselves among the Crowd; not out of any delight, but to ease themselves as much as lies in their power. For who can please them, who are displeased with themselves? Who abominate undefiled conditions, and unlike their own, and dread them, as the Guilty do the Seat of Justice. Emulous manners (as if they feared to be tried by Imitation) as Rivals, lest they should be excluded, they utterly exclude, and like the deformed, fly the sight of the Mirror. This is the first punishment of Improbity, by her own Sentence to be condemned among men to the most desert of Solitudes, and unfaithful Society: with much labour to act all things in vain; by Obsequiousness to purchase the favour of others; to let out his mercenary Soul to Flattery; diligently to court his Friends, but no otherwise than as we clean our shoes, and take care of our Cattle, that they be the more serviceable to us: to toil for his own sake, to meet with Ingratitude in the midst of his profusion; and among all these Allurements of Fortune, to fear and doubt, and be tormented with a hatred and loathing of himself. Who would choose him for his other self, whom he sees to be his Adversary? Or who would accept the severe Favour of him, whom he cannot love with the same Affection as he loves himself? Whose most serene looks, like those of Mars or Fortune, he ought to fear; and timorously enjoy his own Joys as snares, or Pleasures perishing with the next Sun and Wind. Methinks I see Twins at strife with each other, the Embraces of Wrestlers, the Countenances of Divorcements; contrary flights, always avoiding each other. Hence, thou Prodigy of Venus; Nature abhors those more than Monsters, being the Copulations and mixtures of Creatures of various kinds: Who like the ancient Emperors, Married solemnly for a time; but when the humour was over, dissolved their Nuptials, and renewed their Divorces as often as the heat of their desire cooled. Whose Favours continue but the short space of a Banquet, which presently dismisses the Guests when their Bellies are full: Who are altogether ignorant of what they so eagerly desire; an accidental Affection, springing from the Rage of Desire, as Venus formerly from the rage of the Sea. Sustained by the Drunkenness of Error, but voluntarily condemned, so soon as they come to themselves. I may say indeed, that whosoever loves through violence of Passion or Distemper, may be thought to burn and rage like men in Feverish Fits, but never truly to consent, or harmoniously to agree.  
It was not for the maintenance of Luxury, but for the Instruction of the world, that Nature, like Lycurgus, provided by a more severe Edict, that no person should be without his Friend. Prudently done, that the same Necessity should be imposed upon us, of Living and Loving; and that the same Heat should cherish and inflame the Hearts of Men. Thus the Epicureans, who could think themselves secure without the Protection of the Gods, could not live without Love, the Fear and Religion whereof rendered their Lives more pleasant. So prone we are rather to feign than confess a Deity. And because it is natural to us, to be acted by the Instinct of Love and Piety; by the same Zeal of Superstition, lest we should want an Object of Veneration, we adopt into our Friendship Dogs, Cats, and whatever idle Egypt worshipped. Nay, for want of Wooers, the impatient Gellia commits Adultery with her own reflection in the Looking-Glass; and what Egypt would have been ashamed of, a more filthy creature than all the Monsters of Nile, she falls in lustful Love with herself: in this only to be pardoned, for that the same Madness possesses all Mortals, rather to love insipidly than not at all. Other Affections, being either at our own disposal, or wasting with their own violence, easily vanish. Grief, if it doth not give way to Reason, yields to Time or Hatred. Hatred itself reproached by crabbed Choler, or stifled by Fear, grows first of all displeasing to itself. Fear also, if other Remedies are wanting, may be oppressed by the evils themselves; and overcome by its own weight, may be cured by Insensibility. Anger also, the fiercest of all the Passions, tamely changes into a kind of Clemency; or being satisfied, buries its fury in the wound. This is the only Passion that riots in Adversity, and wantonizes in Oppression: not born, like the rest, to be extinguished; but being content to cease, it passes into Necessity and a voluntary Fate. Spontaneously it disrobes itself of that Liberty, which it has consumed in choosing that, which with a perpetual desire it may both possess and prosecute: what is distasteful, it may at some time utterly hate. For what shame or curb can there be upon Desire, whose wishes though erroneous, yet with an ingenuous Error, aspire to what they think the noblest of all things? He is also esteemed the most unworthy, who is not mad beyond all measure; who coveting more, still thinks he covets not enough; and more enjoying, believes he enjoys not enough; in vain applauding himself as always happy.  
So it is, Nature has by the same Edict ordained, that we should love none, or not the best. The first of which is, with an inhuman Pride to condemn all humane Kind. The other is the worst sort of Parricide, to make away with himself; who having the choice of Life, who being the Arbiter of his own Nativity, when it is in his power to create himself anew in another, had rather perish. There is but one Kingdom of the Heart, like that of Alexander, which is due to the best; whom to find out, is well worth the labour of Life. A person endowed with all the perfections of Humanity, adorned with the whole Hyperbole of Virtue, which we may either meet with or feign; which man has only the liberty to know, not to possess. Such an one, that when we have formed in our impossible Wishes, we shall find at length to be, either an Idea or a Deity. But now you'll say, we have imagined one too worthy, as to be above being lawful to be beloved, as being only fit for Adoration. That which is worthy of Love, is more worthy of being worshipped. These flames are only due to Altars. Nature indulged this desire, which she is not able to satisfy, as a reproach to herself. But lest that should become a Torment, which she intended as one of her chiefest Graces; whatever is wanting in the things themselves, she would have supplied by our Imagination and Opinion, that at least we may be happy in our Frenzy. We are deluded by the supposititious Fucus or false colouring of Beauty, and are deceived, before we seem happy. Like Pigmaleon, we fall in love with the Statue which we have made, not believing it to be carved, but begotten. Deluded by the Darkness of our own Mist, we embrace our Cloud for Juno: and it delights us to be deceived. So natural it is to Humanity to fail, to err and be beguiled. The Imposture is not put upon our Misfortunes, but upon our Wishes; to the end the Deceit may more gainfully delight than the juggles of Accomptants, and enrich with a specious sort of Gain. For that indeed we are more certainly happy in our Credulity, and as it happens among many, we are richer in the fame and opinion of our Wealth, than in the ampleness of our Fortunes. Most auspicious Gifts, not of Fortune, but of Imagination! Oh Prodigy of Riches never to be foregone, as oft as we think it requisite to be angry with the Gods, or jest with Fortune! Which no Violence nor no other opinion can ravish from us, but only to supply us with more. Let it be so, let Variety delight Opinion, as the Sister of Fortune or Nature; yet shall she not admit Monsters for variety's sake. She does not wantonnize in this Levity, but strives to supply the defect of things. For the Vicissitudes of Affections and things, are composed for Solace and Remedy, not for nice inspection. 'Tis not man's fault, but the Reproach and Infelicity of Nature, that we reprehend the wandering and alternative humours of Love. That put off their old Friends, like their old clothes; that slightly taste Men, as Bees do Flowers. To whom because we propound a Sceptical Love, it cannot be thought Inconstancy, but Judgement, to wander with delight, and sip from all Plants, that of which they can never find enough. There is nothing that deserves a long Embrace. Those things we so much boast of, are not Virtues, but the shadows of Virtue: which like Pictures that are to be looked on at a distance, will not endure a near, a close survey. The whole name of Constancy is not so much worth, that I should not admire clearer Merits; that I should not regard the greater Stars, because I was once born under lesser; that I should love my Diseases and Distempers, lest I should be said to have changed my former Condition; that I should submit to Chance, or what more often errs, my own Judgement, as to a certain Destiny. Suffer me, pray now, more vehemently to admire these particles of a Diviner Genius, which first astonished me in thee, grown to a riper perfection in another. Permit those progresses in Love, which thou thyself hast begot, cherished up. Thou who hast taught me to prefer the candour of the Mind, before the Snow of Lilies; and rude Sincerity, before soft but over-foolish Courtesy, hast now taught me, upon the sight of a brighter splendour, to despise thee; unless from thence I may not seem so much to contemn, as to adore thee, under a most illustrious Image. Thus lesser Tapers are not extinguished, but out-shone; and less Stars for shame abscond themselves, when a more splendid Constellation rises. Why dost thou invoke the Faith of Gods and Men? Thou art beloved by me on this condition, while thou either art, or seemest to me to be beyond compare, the best of all.  
Behold the insensible Love-sports of Nature! behold how she has excited the worst of all her pieces to workmanship to the best of Actions, out of an admiration of a more excellent Beauty. It was the Will of Nature, conscious to herself of Injury, and shameful sloth, which oftener brings forth Abortives, than perfect Births: and therefore she has endued them with an Operative Faculty, to enable them to come nearer their Ideas, and owe their own polishing to themselves. Hence the Marigold, though fixed in the Earth, follows the flight of the Sun; and sucking in his Beams with a greedy appetite, becomes a vegetable Star. With the same emulous Ardour while the Stones imbibe the Ethereal flames, they receive a congealed Brightness and solid Light; and they that were the excrements of a hard and rigid heap, become Jewels, and shine no less in the Rock, than in the Lover's Rings. By this alluring Art, while the Ocean admits as well the Image as the Motion of the Moon, it seems to correspond with the Intelligence of the Celestial Orb. By this lovely Envy, while Iron is drawn away, as it were with admiration of the Magnet, by and by becomes the Magnet itself; it exercises all its Operations, and draws, as it was drawn before. Though Philosophers were wanting, we have the Mathematical waves, that tell us of the Eclipses of the Moon, more certainly than the Ephemerideses. We have your Astronomer-Flowers, that teach us the Motion of the Sun, and instead of Dial's, show us the time of the Day. And though there were no Spectators of this Theatre, yet is universal Nature ravished with a Veneration of itself: And as both the Eyes of the World, so both Worlds contemplate and feed themselves with the mutual sight of each other. Nature hath ever provided for her affairs, by committing the World to the Guardianship of Love; so that an idle Deity may be either denied or contemned.  
But when other things are so ordered, as to receive and want, only Man knows how to love. In those things she has only rough drawn an imperfect Affection, to practise in lesser things, what she intended to bring to perfection in Man. Though I confess this Affection of men hath the same original and growth, as man himself; being as it were at several births endowed with Life, Sense and Reason. For Love at first unfeathered, creeps along by the instinct of formless Sympathy; than it comes to use the wings of Desire; after that it matures to Manhood, becomes Reason, which was before the violence of Passion, or the weight of the predominant Element. For while the Infant-heat sits brooding in the Heart, ere it has hatched the panting sparks, Desire dares hardly give credit to itself. When the new-wounded Heart, uncertain of the Smiters hand, or of the hurt itself, feels the pains of Infants, when their Teeth first cut their Gums: but when Desire increasing, they begin to kiss and bill, than Ringdoves you behold, not Men: When in wanton Contentions they make their Amorous moans, than you hear the Turtles voice, who being by Nature composed to Kindness, with a harmless Affection prosecute their innocent Loves, while Dolphins and Lizzards prefer humane kind. But a more generous Passion seizes Men whose flames are of full maturity, though blind enough perhaps. By this blind force, like the Idalian Doves with their eyes sealed up, we are carried upward, and ignorantly strive with all our might to reach Heaven, as our Nest. In this manner do the very Vices of Lovers show a nature covetous of Divinity, and the very Errors of this Affection breathe somewhat immortal. So that that more impure Desire which derides the Nuptials of the Virtues, and the Copulation of Minds, that seeks for something to fill its embraces, and worships Venus, though threatening Storms and Shipwreck to its Nativity, seems to be inflamed not so much with the Tapers of Hymen, as with the desire of Eternity; while it so eagerly seeks to survive itself, and by a continued series▪ of Succession to survive itself. He, whom a Supper makes thee his Friend, and a Morsel causes to sawn upon thee like a Beast, who loves thy Dainties, not thee: He that values Man, as he values his Farm, and exercises mercenary Love with a trafficking Soul; the one makes use of Love like Money, but the Money of the Gods, by means whereof we traffic with Heaven, and enrich ourselves with Divinity; the other enjoys his Love for the advantage of Luxury and Banquets: for Love is accounted the Nectar of the Gods. Both certainly with less Covetousness provide for their own advantage, whether he that seeks for a Patrimony, or for food out of Affection, than he who with a liberal Mind hastens to give away perishing Riches, and to transfer them out of the reach of Fortune or Fate, before they are quite decayed. Who though he expect no return of Gratitude, yet carries off a vast gain, which is, That he hath done a Kindness; So that although he gave greatly away, yet his recompense is much larger, that is, Virtue. Great Gifts, and such as Modesty almost forbids us to receive, are more profitable to the Donor, either because they render him the more revered, as from whom little things are not expected; or because he bestows a Benefit more necessary than that of Jove, or the Sun itself; as from whom Benefits are looked upon as Debts, paid by him out of Duty and Custom; whose Munificence is such, as if he intended to lose the benefit of Thanks, through the largeness and frequency of his Bounty.  
What shall I think of him, that seeks to please, and not to love? Whom I visit like a Summer-tree, which affords me leisure and shade, but of no use in the depth of Winter; to whom we that love more severely, are often used: thunder out this Saying, The name of Friend, like that of Wife, is a name of Dignity, not of Pleasure. Thou hast invented a new Delight, beyond that of embracing. By this sort of Wantonness, worse than that of the Stews, thou hast deflowered Love itself. Diligently to please, is the Art of Flatterers, and the alluring venom of Harlotry Society: Splendidly to entertain, is the Intrigue of those that fish for their own ends; to sooth with Bribes▪ the common trick of Suitors; the Rudiment of loving, not the life of Lovers. Far be it from us to believe him to be a Friend, whom while we desire, he is a torment to us; when we enjoy him, irksome. Yet they are not far out of the way, who believe all Lovers inhabit Elysium, and that Flowers spring up, wherere they tread. There are no other Joys in Heaven, than to Love and be Beloved; no other upon Earth. That divine Flame which makes the Empyreum, and is to be the Happiness of our future Life, shall be the only Solace of this. All other things we suffer; those only we enjoy, which we pluck up by force with our wishes, which we choose, and for whose sake we endure all other Hardships. In Storms we see the Brethren Twins, with an earnest gladness rejoicing together, and bringing no less liquid Joys to the Sailors than to themselves; but having joined their Lights, they lose themselves in their Embraces, and become Twins again. We have seen the Favourites of Venus encompassed with a Cloud, like young Brides under their silken Veils, led to their wishes with a more secret Triumph. We confess, there is in Love something more potent than Misery, more Majestical than Honour, more splendid than Riches, more delightful than Pleasure; for whose sake we despise all those things; for whose sake on the other side we do not contemn, but have those things in Veneration. It enjoys that Privilege of Majesty, that no Ignominy can touch it: rather it frees from Infamy, and renders glorious the very stains and blemishes of Life. Hence it comes to pass, that the Thirteenth Labour of Hercules is so much applauded, and that it is reckoned among his praiseworthy deeds to have handled a Distaff, as well as brandished his Club; wherewith, after he had vanquished all other wild Beasts, it remained for him to tame that Monster Woman. Why do we admire those immaculate Rays of Phoebus, since the Tapers of Hymen give a lustre to sordid things, being never themselves defiled?  
Why does the famished Soul so solicitously seek Divinity in things below, if it bring Divinity along with it? And indeed whatever we love, all that is Deity; Whatever thou desirest is Jupiter. How? Does Jupiter buy and sell for that sordid person stamped all over, that admits no Companion without a Dowry? Yes; but Jupiter thundering under the shape of Gold, and the Deity converted into a Price. How, Does Jupiter itch with a libidinous Desire? Yes; but Jupiter in the shape of a satire, and the Deity converted into Semeleian flames. Jupiter invites himself to Supper; but Jupiter lurking under the soft Down of a beautiful Swan. Jupiter is luxurious, but 'tis the Ganymedean jupiter, bedewed with Nectar and Ambrosia. The Poets were not altogether deceived. Our Loves and Amours, not those of Jupiter, transformed the Deity into these conceited Disfigurements.  
But because volatile and wandering Love is never at a stay till it come to the top, or pleasingly discerned, believes itself there arrived, when it is always the companion of the chiefest Good; or as if it were the chiefest, it ought to acquiesce in this one thing, and travel earnestly toward this, as Souls covet Heaven, or Fire the Centre. He will have no leisure to tend the Allurements of new Felicity, if there be any such: He will not endure to love another, nor so much as himself; he will complain that he is below his own desires, and so overmuch wanting to that which fills and wearies with overmuch desire; and after he has wholly set his mind upon one, yet cannot find he has done enough, it remains that he must be cruel to all, but Stoics and Monks. Hence Monster of Syracuse, who invented a new Tyranny, a third degree of Friendship. Who could not endure to murder a pair of Friends, but endeavoured to separate them; and to intercept the Fidelity which he had emulated, of a Tyrant, being become a Rival. Tell me, Tyrant, if thou cam'st a threefold Lover to these Twins, which wouldst thou first receive into thy Bosom? If thou challengest the equal Embraces of both: Suppose one of them to be led to Death, which wouldst thou choose, to die with the one, or live with the other? I find thee at a loss, like a piece of Iron between two Lodestones, detained from both, upon the confines of the two Elections. Foolishly thou desir'st to live and die both at a time. Equality of Affection amuses a Lover about to adhere to neither, yet to both. The one expects thy tears, the other would have thee laugh. Toward the one over-faithful and officious, toward the other impious. So that the Mind thus torn in several pieces, like Metius, deservedly merits the punishment of Metius for its Perjury. Consider well Loves Dominion, or his Submission (for certainly these new Eteocle's and Polynice's, command and obey by turns) there is in both somewhat singular, they will not admit of two Masters. If thou supposest Love to be a God, he has but one Heaven. If Fire, Fire has but one Sphere. If Death, the Gods forbid us to expire often; and not above once to deposit our Souls in the bosom of another, having allowed us but once to live. If thou callest a Lover the Representation, Coin, or Seal of the Party beloved, which take their form and price from the Image; the Mirror can be enlivened but with one Effigies at a time; the Coin is to carry the Face but of one Lord or Prince; the Seal closes up the Epistle to all but one. But if in Friendship you look upon the Marriage of Souls, it would be a great Crime to admit Polygamy in male Amours; to wed a new one, having married a former, and commit Adultery with his Friend.  
Does this Affection then, which has distinguished Humane Society from the herding of Beasts, bring Men about again to Stoic Barbarism, which is the contempt of all men? Must the the rest of Mankind be hated, to love one? Heavens forbid. There is nothing more kind, nothing more benign than Friendship and Philosophy, nothing more the support of the World (except the Deity.) Minds already soft, easy, and prone to Affability, behave themselves without Severity or Perverseness to all others. They diffuse their beams like Phoebus, who guilds Rhodes with a more peculiar Light. The party beloved is dedicated to the Lover, no otherwise than a Book; sent to one, but to be read by all. We congratulate those candid Souls, who like the Gods, cherish with their favourable Influence, not one person, but all humane Kind. Who like our first Parents, look upon all Nations as one Family; or as if their Minds were equal to the extent of the Terrestrial Globe, love all the World as their native Country. But this we do not call Friendship, but a certain Benevolence, and uncertain Humanity. Neither do we blame this, or receive it with less candour, than what we practise towards Enemies; but we would restrain those luxurious and Courtlike Affections, that pride themselves in number of Salutes, and bands of Followers; that hunt after these Ensigns as well of Grandeur as Virtue, sweeting in the crowds of their Retainers. But it is the humour of your haughty Ladies, and suspected for their Chastity, by a dissembled Obsequiousness to lie in wait for the Affections of others; merry toward all, but kind only to one; to give nods of distinction sometimes to one, sometimes to another; to distribute up and down their alluring Looks; to scatter and divide their enticing Smiles; lastly, as it were to swoon away; and having caught the prey, to withdraw both the bait and the allurement. A most wicked sort of Pride, to number the herds of Lovers among Female Riches and the Revenues of Beauty.  
But because he cannot endure to love less, and more he cannot love, whoever is inflamed to the highest with a genuine fire; nor is it enough for him to labour under a disgust of others, unless he also loath himself; denying the division of his flames as well to himself, as to others; therefore he freezes within his own proper Sphere, and in the midst of those fires wherein he breathes, grows stark and benumbed, like the cold Salamander. For that his Soul, being altogether departed from, and forgetful of its self, he fears all things in his Friend's behalf, in regard of himself, nothing, but only lest he should fail in any part of his duty. While he deceives himself, he is wise for another, and submits himself to Fate, or to a better Guardianship, the Providence of his Friend. Who on the other side, alternatively takes care of him, fears, and provides against Danger. He like an assisting Soul appoints him a Mind, that he may seem to approach the regiment of Heaven, which is governed by an Intelligence: Because, I say, whoever adopts himself to another, abjures himself, and as one deceased, delivers himself up to Oblivion; and as it is but reason, esteems him only dear, with whom, as youngest born, he lives a more lively Life, and like a pallid Shade abides and sports about his Body. Whoever he were that was the Doctor of Amours, he established for an unjust measure of Affections, the Love of himself; and idly proposed ourselves to ourselves, as Exemplars of Loving. How little is every one to himself? Who is he, not enslaved to his own Desires, or infected with his own Customs, that lives less for another, than for himself? Neither does this Precept spring from our Vices, but from our Virtues, that we should be assistant and serviceable to others. Some Virtues are severe toward the Professor; and they serve with us, that under others merit generous Stipends. That Modesty, which dictates reproaches to its self, and abhors all sorts of Scarlet but that of a chaste and humble Lip, obstinately vaunts the Praises of another, and translates the Honour's due to its self. Ambition that toils under another name, meets with the Titles of Candour and Fidelity. That Brass and Iron which surrounds the breast, only forms man into a shield for others; that he may be able to endure the blows, which he labours to ward from others. No man dies in the defence of himself, lest he should die; but to prevent the fate of Parents, Children, or some other Friend. What have I said, no man dies? No man lives for his own sake. If then so much Gallantry, on this side Friendship, proceed from bare Virtue and Nature itself, certainly Friendship should not impose any other Law upon Good Will, but only this, Not to know the measure, or to prefix other limits, than what the Desires of Lover's design. Let no man love who governs his Affection, but will not be governed; who loves cautiously according to rule, as if he were about to hate. Some one may love naturally; no man truly loves, who answers his Lover according to proportion, and as it were loves by weight.  
Long Veneration keeps me in suspense, as a confused Lover, that has wasted his Sight with beholding a Divine Form, uncertain which part of noble Beauty first to admire. Yet has he made such a progress, as to admire his own amazement, and to give the chief honour to every particular Feature; and to assent to all, though praising distinct parts, and various in their judgements. I hear Dionysius defining Love to be a Circle returning from Good, through Good, to Good again. Hence I acknowledge Rings to be not only Pledges, but the Hieroglyphics of Love. This Circle seems to be expressed by the perpetual heat of Lovers, that whirls round with the Blood like an Orbicular motion; such is that Ethereal fire, where the immortal flame both feeds and satisfies itself. Who loves what he has loved, moves Spherically in his own footsteps: And he that loves only that he may love, revolves to himself, and there meets himself, and closes the Circle.  
I hear Aristophanes, and readily assent, who affirms, that the main Mystery of Love, is to be reduced to the same from whence we were. For we see in Natural Motion, how all things run back to their first Principles. By the Law of Nature we wholly employ the Faculties of our Souls in the service of those from whom we received 'em; and by a certain series of Piety, and gradation of Affinity, we reverence those names of Country, Parents, God, as more dear than our Lives. I know not whether I may call a Man-lover blind and incestuous, or provident and holy, who is always deeply in love with something of his Original, and therefore prosecutes his Parents with a pious flame. Neither is he much out of the way, who takes for his Parent the person from whom he gains a new lot of Life; and renews his Nativity at the noble price of his Piety. But you, O Thales, and you, O Empedocles, the one leaping into the Water, the other into the Fire; the one by chance, the other advisedly; both of ye made too much haste to dissolve not only Philosophy, but the Philosophers themselves into their first Principles, and to plunge the vital Particles of Souls in their first Elements. Yet thus the Errors of Philosophers excuse the Errors of the Affections; and while famished Souls, like famished Bodies, are nourished with those things of which they consist, you would swear that the liquid Soul were infused into great Drinkers, the bloody Soul into Tyrants. You would say that sordid people were newly come out of the mud; that the barbarous Stoics were only the Statues of men, hewn out of the cold Stone. If we suppose that familiar and well-acquainted Souls are sent again into the world, not without a divorce from the common Seminary of Souls, or the conjoined Mansion of formerly Double-bodied Man; we find this in some measure to be true, by the eager endeavours of the Parts of dissected Worms to meet together again; as also by this, that we see some persons at first sight, rushing into each others Embraces, as if they had remembered their former Fellowship. How did the Platonic transmigrate all into Memory, when he taught▪ that to Love and Philosophise was but to remember!  
Indeed, to him who believes that to Love is the same thing as to Philosophise, this is no more than to excite those Souls slid down from Heaven, together with their Bodies, to a perpetual Contemplation of Heaven, and to breathe with a continual desire of Eternity. This is that, I know not what Ardour, which begetting in Mortals, always in Emulation with the Gods, both a loathing of their condition, and means to remedy it; hastens to put off the most frail part of man. Hence furnished with many eyes, what the Sun cannot do, we behold both ends of the Earth at one time. Hence it was that Amphitryo could look after his House and his Camp at once. Hence it is, that without any limit of time or space, we live a posthumous Life, either by our Friends the Guardians of our transmitted Souls, or our Children, Heirs of our transmitted Lives.  
Plato prevents the wonderer at these things, with a nearer Experiment; for this same Platonic affirms, that this same Cupid is a desire of enjoying and forming Beauty in a fair Object. Fain, indeed, we would enjoy, not with a fruitless delight always woe and contemplate, that by an addition of Splendour, as by the meeting of a Star in Conjunction, the Influence may be the greater, and that so the Star may become a Constellation. Therefore as Pictures, so the Countenances of extraordinary Majesty, flattering beyond our humane condition, affect the Beholders with a certain pleasure, but with no desire. And that same portion of Beauty, which recreates the Eyes with that same delicacy of Symmetry and Colour, after death shall meet with more Spectators than Lovers. Nothing withered, or dead, can move living Affections; neither is the pleasure of enjoying, greater than that of forming pleasure. Lust is from Nature, which indulges this Art as well to the Mind as to the Countenance, that where e'er it should fix its sight, it might expunge itself. Therefore all Beauty loves a Mirror; and lest there should want a Spectator, seeks its self, beholding its own reflection. I call thee to witness, noble Socrates, the Master both of Love and Sanctity; who dost the same as a Philosopher, which the Statuary did before, both shape and polish men; though the price not only of the Art, but of the matter, must be enhanced. For which reason it was thy Custom to enrol in thy Schools, as in a Nursery of Women, such beautiful Auditors, as Phaedrus and Alcibiades, who might easily imbibe thy Soul, and render thy reflection more fair: as being more smooth than all the Mirrors in the world, and more apt to take an impression than wax itself. Something there is, whatever it is, which with a Celestial brightness, like that of the Stars, surpasses humane Envy; but allures Adoration, and ravishes Love to itsself with a specious enticement; and so certainly, so entirely possesses us, that it will not suffer us to turn our sight upon any other Object. Nothing but what is adorned with such beams as these, nothing but what thus draws and smites the Eyes, can dazzle and inflame our Minds. Even our very Virtues flatter us under the lovely shape of Virtue. And as often as we are minded to err with Nature, as often as we seek among Monsters for something to be adopted into the number of Angels, as well as into humane Society; this in them appears pleasant and delightful, that they fear no Rival, and serve to show the incongruous pleasure of Nature in Contrariety. Unless any one will deny, that there is any thing deformed in Nature; since those Animals, which the Grand Artificer has condemned to darkness, retain a certain Beauty in ugliness; and like Warts and Shadows, set off the rest of the world's face. For that which less flatters the sight, is not therefore ugly to the Eye; but may be accounted a rarity, not frequently seen; which the nicer sort are wont to purchase at any rate. What may not be accounted sacred, when Owls and the most ill-favoured Creatures have found Adorers? Where since there is no Deformity, nothing of Hatred remains; neither is the name of Antipathy admitted, but among the Sects of Philosophers. Wherefore dost thou tell me, among the Documents of Sobriety, how the Colewort shuns the Vine? Sober, not out of a loathing of Wine, or love of Sobriety, but for thy health's sake. Thus the Wolf devours the Lamb, Fire feeds upon Water, not out of Hatred, but for Self-preservation. Thus Man abhors not Man, but Inhumanity; and therefore guards himself. Thus we do not envy others their Riches, as offended at 'em, but over-unjustly solicitous for ourselves. If there be any Strife of Nature, certainly the Contention is very favourable, and such as found'st and raiseth Commonwealths; as sociable Thievery, which lays the foundations of its Greatness upon others Losses; neither can we call these Spoils, but Gifts, by a reciprocal Concession. Severe Love! If these Wars must be carried on with thy Weapons; if Helena must be always purchased by Rapine and Bloodshed, and Venus be only granted to Mars? Nevertheless, of so great moment it is for us to perish, that we may please him. Nor do I wonder, when Beauty sets the Gods at odds, if miserable Paris, and the rest of Mortals, prove such vigorous Rivals in the same case. Hence it was that Love, the Parent of all the world, formed Harmony out of Discord, and coupled Vulcan to Venus, that is to say, Fire to Water; and made an intertexture of the most disagreeing things in Nature. And when he had framed and adorned the vast bulk of the Universe, for a more than ordinary Show, He was the first Admirer of his own work; and first felt the force of that Beauty, which He himself infused. This is that Order, from whence things borrow not their Softness, but their Strength and Ornament together. Beauty seems to me to be nothing else but the Consummation, Flower, and Maturity of every thing. That I take to be beautiful and splendid, which is entirely what it ought to be. The innate Vigour gives Strength and Figure to the Sinews: how the half-concocted Gem sparkles in the unpolished mass! and how the inward juice not only fructifies, but adorns with an Emral-greenness! Thus we find a Mind composed within, polishes the outward Countenance; honest Thoughts, and a Mind incontaminated, adorn the cheeks beyond all the Fucus in the world. The Mind appears through its natural Veil, like the Sun through a Cloud. This is that brightness of an undefiled Mind, that adds a lustre to the members, that by the virtue of Similitude they may be capable to allure Souls to themselves; till we come to understand this Original Form, to take a nearer view of this Deity: and then we find the small value of this Image of Clay. For what are those Features of the Face, that busy our Eyes with viewing new Graces, springing every Day? Which we show one to another, calling auxiliary Worshippers to aid our praises, though so jealous of Rivals? Nothing but a Superficies, nothing but mere Colour, a certain reflection of Lights, a most thin Shadow; which if we long admire, fades and vanishes while we behold it. What is that bulk and structure of Sinews, built as it were by Rule and Compass? Alas! Statues boast a finer skin than men; and the Palace shows us a more noble Building, than the Master himself. What is that, which is the chiefest grace of our Bodies, which no painting can imitate, I mean Motion? Were it more soft and equal than that of the Spheres or Time itself, it has only this to patronise its vanity; that while it pleases, lest it should grow irksome, it passes away, and ceases assoon as it begins. But I seem more than I ought to favour the Errors of Lovers, and the Encomiums of Beauty, who believe all that is thought beautiful in Bodies, to be rather the shadows of Beauty, than the rave of Imagination, or the false colouring of Opinion. Every where we love that which we suppose to ourselves, not what we see. Tell me whence it comes to pass, that the same face which to one seems brighter than the Stars, another meets with dislike. Tell me, why some are alured by the fallacious Softness and Delicacy of the Female Sex? Why Women are delighted with a manly Fierceness, or, which is more, a careless and stern countenance of Terror? Why the little and Diminutive are admired by some; Why to others the tall Proportion, which fills the Eye, appears most Majestic.  
I will tell you freely how the business stands. Whatever Figure it be that feeds the eyes, is either imaginary, and of that kind, that we lose it, when we cease fond to dream; or if it be true, unworthy to detain the Soul; but only it stirs it up, admonishes it, and sends it otherwhere. What ardour of mind can remain in that, which only the Eye enjoys, and which it knows not how to communicate? For no man whatsoever, the Beauty of the Mind excepted, could ever believe himself to be made beautiful by the view of Handsomeness, by a kind of Contagion. That which abides beneath the Soul, ought certainly to be akin to the Divinity, that is, incorporeal; much more would we have it be beloved: though that grace of Body, how little soever it be, is without a bulk, and like our Soul, is seen to reign and wander through every part. There is manifestly to be discerned a flux and splendour of the Soul, or of the Idea, which intermixing itself in the last operation, diffuses itself through all the Arteries, and forming all things to its own likeness, translates an assembled collection of Graces into the Cheeks and Eyes, as to the Centre.  
Here the Boy Cupid has his Throne erected, who cheats the Beholders, and brandishes his enlivened flames, having besmeared his Arrows with the wanton Tapers kindled by the Lightning of his Mother's Eyes. Here Love sports away his youthful days; but when he comes to riper years, he changes both his abode and his Arrows. First possessing a middle Dominion, between the Mind and the Body, upon the confines of both, he innocently deceives the sight: but by and by he takes his flight into the Mind, where he makes use of a pure and Starry Flame; or else he descends to the Body, and like a Meteor, deludes it with an impure and drossy splendour. Not to use many Arguments, this one thing will condemn the unhappiness of that Affection, for that it more frequently seizes the absent, than those that are present; and that sight and enjoyment enforces them either to a Loathing, or to Madness. What Deity thus afflicts the Madness of misguided Cupid? Who compels him to desire that, which he most amply enjoys; and what he most eagerly panted after, nauseously to refuse: and sooner to loathe himself, than to be satisfied with what he desired? He confesses, that he sought not these delights, but that being ignorant what he should desire, through the force of a blind Passion, he fell by accident upon these things. But because these are only the shadows of the thing which the Mind hungers after, it flies greedily to them, as deluded Birds to painted Grapes, though those painted Junkets prove rather its torment than its food. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that these shadows of Beauty will beget the shadows of Love. And as in the Soul we reverence the likeness of God, so in the Body we admire a certain shadow, in both a Deity in similitude, and become the wooers of Divinity. For the Mind looks up toward God, as the Eye toward the Sun: From whose Light it obtains this peculiar, that it sees, that there is nothing else available to be seen, nor that it can behold any thing else, beyond the sight of that Object; the full lustre of whose beams however we are not able to behold: For which reason we rather choose to fix our Eyes upon the refracted Beams, and clouded splendour, to refresh ourselves with shadows and faint delights. Whatever it be, whether a ray of Divinity, a reflection of the Idea, or an efflux of the Soul, that takes our Eyes and Minds captive under the Notion of Beauty, it must be something divine, it being only proper to Man to covet and contemplate Beauty.  
And here I cannot but take notice of those Spectrums of supercilious Severity, who under a form of Sanctity take upon 'em to be pleased with nothing; who condemn all acts of Humanity, as the extravagancies of solid Kindness tending to Luxury; who would make this God Cupid, the Contriver of Lust and immoderate Desires, and the Author of all manner of Tragic Crimes and Impieties; whom we find to be the Matchmaker of Immortality, and the Author of Divinity. Herein Love exceeds effeminate Luxury, that where there is no return of thanks, there is the same profit in Love and Liberality; it has its reward in its self. It is recompense enough to have well deserved. But there is that sought for, which is of greater value than all this, to be retaliated with equal love; where Souls equally heated, intermix their awakened flames and light by a mutual collision, in the same manner as Iron is sharpened by Iron; and foster each other by reciprocal generation; while the Reflections of two harmonious Hearts answer each to other, like Faces in a Crystal Fountain. Certainly there is nothing more pleasing than to love or be beloved, unless it be to love and be beloved both at one time.  
For where we love unfortunately, and that Animals are espoused to our Embraces, as where Zerxes was joined as it were in solemn Matrimony to Plato, Polydorus to a Statue, Lesbian to a Statue, whereby they did not so much desire as undergo a change, and experiment in themselves the Fables of the Poets, finding themselves as it were changed into Trees, Stones and Birds; it is not our meanest Felicity to feign Discourses, Answers, and frame Delights to ourselves, as if we intended to be happy at our own, not at the Will of another. It pleases us to enjoy an Affection, not in vain returning to the Author; where there is that of Delight still remaining, which is accounted the chiefest in Love; that we love our Love reciprocally, and like the Sun, enjoy the reflection of our own heat.  
Nor does that other chance of being Beloved, afford less Delight; but more of Honour. Whence men more extensively court the Affections of others, than they expend their own. This is without the Ensigns of Magistracy or the Sceptre, to extend the proper Kingdom of the Gods in the Minds of Men. This shows us vast Felicities and Virtues, and causes us rather to suffer, than render good Offices. Hence are reckoned so many Trophies of thy Virtues, as we find Retainers following thy Triumphal Chariot.  
But when the Contest is, who shall render most good Offices; when it is a Combat of Kindness, not after the fashion of the Court, but with a modest shame to submit, and out of a fear of less well-doing, then is that parity of reciprocal Kindness, which Aristotle dignified with the known Title of Friendship, though giving no Example. Well fare that Equality which Justice, with her Sword and her Balance, has been long attempting, but Love has easily brought into Custom among Mankind. Sometimes it happens that the distance of Fortunes or Merits separates Friendship. Jupiter must descend to Earth, and put off his Deity, before he can enjoy the Embraces of Mortals; Nay, the brute Deity must descend below man, and work his admittance rather by Contempt than Terror. Semele has sufficiently taught us, how great a punishment it is to admit a Deity to her Bed. The adoration of great people, is only sweet to the ignorant, as approaching nearer to Flattery, than Charity. 'Tis our Ambition, not our Friendship, advises us to this, to purchase ourselves into the number of Servants, rather than of Friends. But they are both equal, who have captivated each other at the expense of true worth. Sometimes we experiment a more fragrant Ambition, while humble Masters strive to love themselves, and choose rather to suffer a contempt of Dignity, than a decrease of Candour. Alexander puts off the Emperor, and by Loving, loses what he won by Conquest; content that Ephestio should reign, upon condition he may be a part of his Kingdom. He bestows upon Ephestio the Flatteries which he receives from others; while he serves Ephestio, he seems to enjoy more than another World. We all confess that Love is a soothing and restless desire of pleasing them who please us, either by chance, or through their own virtue, or our mistake. It little imports either to Life or Friendship, where the heat first kindled. The Heart moves and throbs never the less for that, continually reverberating our breasts; and like a double-diligent Importunate, either to tyre or force, to deserve or assuage, cherishes Kindnesses with Kindnesses; and where there is no place for kind Offices, like one always rendering something, obliges the Inclinations of the other with a countenance of diligent Obsequiousness, and strives to please with a fear of displeasing. But this he accounts a benefit, to have sometimes displeased; by which means he may either hate or reform his own proceedings. For to be most like to this person, is to be both good and happy: he dives into the most inward Motions of the heart; performs commands by conjecture, and fulfils them as yet unknown to the Master, before the pangs of labouring desire can come to torment him. Neither shall he ever satisfy himself, though the other has done sufficient: whereby it is apparent, that he who is the Courter, is delighted with those Offices of Kindness, not so much to gain favour, as out of a desire to serve; as if Man were a Slave, born by nature for that one Mistress.  
For you must know, that there is the same pedigree and original of Loving, as of Living. Of some certain things there is an order and mutual agreement among themselves, either instituted by Nature, or voluntarily undertaken: of things like or dislike, whereby those are conjoined, those are disunited and parted asunder. But that tye of Blood is the work of chance, nor does it show any merit of Affection, as being engrafted in our Breasts, we never admit, but ignorantly suffer; and now so much as it brings of Necessity, so much it imposes of Burden. Pardon me therefore, if I hold the name of Friends more holy than that of Parents. We owe all that to Love, which we attribute to our Parents; that is, to be led by the Error of easy Piety. For out of their mutual Love, not out of any Charity to us, it happens that we come to receive the benefit of this light. Neither does proper Alliance inflame or cherish Domestic Friendship, but Familiarity, and that same sweet Society in Calamities, and reciprocal Kindness in common Miseries. I am deceived, or Lovers are joined together by a more strict alliance, and by a tye so much the straighter, by how much Reason is above Nature. The force of a man's own Will is greater than that of Consanguinity. For every one obeys himself the more steadfastly, by how much he does it with more pleasure, and submits to his own Laws. But both these conspiring together, how promptly and placidly does this Affection sway the Mind, by a tacit consent confederating our Will with Nature?  
But O thou least of all the Gods, though greatest of all the Deities, divine Cupid! It is beneath thy Merits, that the audacious Philosophers and Poets should only feign thee a God. However, thou hast this proper to a Deity, to be unknown, and to receive sacred reproaches from men. He has also this farther property of a God, to lead men by a tacit Influence, so that they obey, though they feel not his Motions; and to draw others against their Wills: insomuch that all Affections contrary to it, at the beck of his Majesty submit their Services. While he is pleased to jest, the lofty hang their drooping heads: the brave and stout fear and tremble at the glittering Darts of splendid eyes. The Illiterate Heir of a sudden grows eloquent; he no longer buys his Lovesongs, but grows enraged himself, and sings her praise. To omit the other Attributes of his Divinity, Love is a Circle eternal, immense, in whom reside those acts of Providence, to Govern and Cherish: wherein I am the more confirmed, for that Love's Religion strikes an awe upon the very wicked. They court in such a manner, as if they were performing Divine Service: Their Countenances fail, they view their Garments, and compose themselves to all the habits of Reverence. To what intent? That they may approach their Mistresses, as so many Altars: Nay, they strive to be decently absent: For whatever we love, we believe to be every where present. She is the Arbitatrix of our Undertake, the Assistant both of our Virtue and Wit; the lucky Guide of all our Erterprises; from whom he that goes a Voyage begs fair Wether, the Traveller safe Return, the Soldier Victory, and all from her to whom he has devoted the Spoils of his Enemies. Henceforward let it be lawful for Lovers to salute each other with names borrowed from Heaven, and reverently to soothe one another with those Titles, under which they are wont to worship the Immortal Gods.  
Neither is there any one who has any reason to envy this Deity, who is so easily pleased without slaughter and bloodshed; who requires not the fat of beasts, but faithful Adorers for his Victims; and that he may not want Temples, erects Altars, and kindles Fires in humane breasts, while the God himself converted into fire, seems to take care of his own worship. And thus it is, when a Lover sends forth the sighs of Grief, it seems to me like a certain kind of Lightning breaking from a Cloud, with a rumbling Thunder, that afterwards vanishes into smoke. While he sweats Tears and boils his Complaints, I then think upon the burning of Aetna, and Vesuvius vomiting flames in the midst of Snow and clouds of Ashes. When burning with a short ardour, feigned Love sells itself to counterfeit flames, I acknowledge those fictitious Tapers, and vain Meteors, like the wandering Lights of the middle Region. What though Fire serve only for humane Use, and for the worship of the Gods? What though it not only enlighten, but heat out Wits, so that Bacchus and Apollo may be truly said to derive their Birth from the flames of Love? What though it rage, where it finds Obstacles in the way, and be nourished with Injuries and Offences as with Water? All this does but show the properties of the Ethereal Fire, which burns and refreshes; which being immortal, satisfies itself, and needs no fuel. For Love, contented with itself, is the price of its self; that being immaculate and inviolable, it expiates and takes away the Crimes which it does not admit, and maintains the Virgin Honours of the Vestal Flame. Lastly, This farther property has the Celestial Fire, that as the uppermost Element, it encompasses the vast Orb for the safeguard of the world. Thus the fire of Love possesses the supremest Creatures, and preserves and closes all the other Affections. In this only unlike, that it descends below its Sphere to cherish and foster all the meaner sort of Creatures with vital Heat. Thus is Love made equal to those two most pure and powerful Being's, God and Fire.  
But that which is numbered among the Miracles of Love, astonishes us much more; while we feel a burning Fever creeping up and down, and burning in the midst of our Bowels, and yet nothing appears; so that while we feel this Subterraneal Heat, yet cannot tell from whence it arises, we deny that we burn. We admire whence it comes to pass, that the Fibres of the Heart, like the strings of two Lutes, so Harmoniously answer one another. To this, like the ignorant Musician, we stand mute, and cry, that those Fibres and Strings were formerly extracted out of the same Entrails. We grant this Maxim to the Physicians, That Motion is a certain consent in Bodies; finding the same thing to be true in Minds.  
Nor let us torment ourselves with doubting, but confidently aver with Plato, that Love is a Magician. Whence comes it to pass, that Souls by a secret contact conceive the Seeds and first Flames of Desire? Whence comes it to pass, that Lovers, like Sorceresses, burn and melt away, by the means of Images and little Figures, the Bowels of wasting men? Whence comes it to pass, that beautiful Eyes, like those of Basilisks, bewitch the Sight, and intermixing beams with beams, knit those Knots, and frame those Chains that bind and fetter the Beholders? What may I call other than these, those soft Charms by which Endymion called down the Moon from Heaven? What are all those alluring Sobs other than Magic Murmurs, and the Philters of Discourse? What are Presents other than Charms, which infuse a pleasing Poison into those that wear them? I know not whether to admire the forcible Attracts in her that is Beloved, or the vanquishing Arguments of obsequiousness in a Lover; those Incantations against which there is no Remedy, as against Sorcery, either by way of Curse or Exorcism. Certainly all the whole force of Magic is seated in Love, of which this is said to be one Miracle, mutually to attract and change things by a certain commutation of Nature; For that the Members of this world, like the Arteries of some great Animal, depending upon the same communion of Nature, are coupled together by a Spirit, that throws itself into the whole Body. By reason of this binding and commerce of things, it secretly comes to pass, that Love by a mutual Attraction of Souls, like a Disease contracted by Contagion, seizes chiefly upon the sound, yet by and by willing to submit to the pleasing Distemper; while the Captive more severely binds himself, than finds himself bound in these soft Chains and silken Fetters, and like the Chain itself, is ignorant of the embraces which he enjoys.  
Methinks I seem rather to suffer than describe the passionate and violent Desires of Lovers, and to act my Argument before I have finished it. Before, being gently deluded with Dreams and Apparitions, I rather underwent, than described the alternative Fluctuations of a Madness newly enraged. But so soon as the lovely Countenance of my Mistress had infected my Blood, not with the rude Image, but with the shadow of the Image; so soon as it has signed my very Soul, and imprinted its indelible Characters, and possessed the entire man, no otherwise in my sick Breast, than beneath the tossed and troubled waves; an incertain species and shadow, withered and meager, which flies the Approacher, and vanishes from my Embraces. Straightway removing gently Cupid's Veil, no sooner does the divine Form of tasted Felicity show itself, but a troublesome Ignorance begat a care in me of seeking into particulars, what Disposition, what Endowments, what Family, what Pedigree. For this is the first and last of Lovers cares and joys, not only to call to remembrance their former Sports, and rudiments of their Amours; but also to inquire into the years and worth of the Parents, and to discourse from what noble beginnings their Friendship took its rise.  
Whither does this first Violence, not only of Nature, but of Reason carry us! Voluntarily deceived, we not only adore Virtue itself, but whatever carries with it the outside and appearance of Virtue. Sometimes that difficulty, which guards the path of Virtue with a sacred Horror, and drives away the profane Vulgar, repels, and yet allures with flatterng Injuries. We more greedily suck the Honey that lies hid among the Stings. Thus it is a kind of Spur and Encitement to our future Pleasure, to wait at the threshold of a Mistress, to suffer a repulse from a more unworthy Rival; and undergo indignities, which cause him to tear his Hair and bite his Lips.  
Note also, that those are the Allurements of Lovers, which among the shadows of the Virtues are accounted the chiefest. Praises wherewith, as with Incense, the Gods and Men are pacified; how easily they obtain this property, that while we endeavour to please others, we please ourselves! By what precious Allurements they enable us to please the most chaste of Matrons; who denying to be beloved, yet covet to seem amiable. Both egregious Arguments of Virtue. But there is more of certainty in praising than being praised. For the undeserving are wont to be most praised, and most desire it, as the deformed covet Fucus'. But no man can truly praise, but he that is praiseworthy himself. The same thing does he, or at least would do, that seeks renown by other men's deeds; as he that erects a Statue to himself, erects a Monument of Virtue. For this is not to exercise, but to admire and worship Virtue, as a high desert. These are the Darts of Cupid feathered with his own Wings, which while they gently seem to stroke, wound more severely.  
We are so much men of Glory, and creatures of Virtue, that I am doubtful, whether I ought to confess, that among the Virtues, we diligently regard those which are profitable; that is, which exercise and invite Humanity, as Modesty and Equity; or those which govern and preserve Humanity, as Fortitude and Munificence. But as Emulation is to the rest of the Virtues, so Munificence knits our Affections together. Though his Merit is accounted greatest, by how much there is the less of Desert in the receiver. For all which we ought to be beholding to Favour, and not to Judgement, which for our sake would cast Contumely upon the Well-doer. To this Munificence thus awakened, that Liberality answers which is bred in the breast of every one. And though perhaps at first it had an unjust esteem of the Donor, because of the Benefits; yet by and by it loves the Gifts for the Author's sake, who extended that indulgent mind of Household-gods and Parents, beyond the verge of his own Family, and with a nursing Piety receives Strangers into his bosom, and fosters as her Relations. Here vanquished Gratitude submits, and being sensible that nothing can be returned, unless the man himself, he retaliates the Patroness, like a Goddess, with a faithful Worshipper. Neither does that seem to me to be an ingenuous Ardour, which returns Benefits as it were Debts, and repays Gifts as if to quit Scores. He acts not piously but proudly, who unwillingly suffers himself to be overcome. This is, to refuse, to stop, and not to receive: this is with greater Pride than Gratitude, to boast particular Wealth, and a wonderful strife of Munificence. But in regard that Benefits seek nothing more beyond reception, he only knows to exercise Liberality in receiving, who candidly interprets, and returns nothing but a grateful Mind. Neither does he believe this to be the price of his own, but the pledge of another man's Liberality. These Benefits are the Darts of Cupid, which with a Golden Shaft inflict a faithful, but a splendid wound. Jupiter courts more powerfully in the shape of Gold, than under his gaudy Feathers, or in his own divine Form. For the Idioms of Presents are understood by all; but the Characters of Majesty and Dignity, and the persuasions of a Rhetorical Pen, are discernible to few.  
May not I affirm▪ that from this Humanity of a facile Mind, proceeds that Commiseration, which softens the Breast like Wax, and causes it to receive any impression? May I not say, that from this amplitude of Mind, that proud Benignity springs, which while it seeks the place of Munificence, extremely loves the miserable, and loathes the fortunate? May I not believe that hence proceeds that generous Haughtiness, which shows more Kindness to bended Knees and downcast Looks, than the Embraces of the Happy; and loves with that magnificent condition, not to be beloved again?  
And here we must confess the wonderful Amours which are darted from the whole body, where Virtue shows itself; where Candour of Mind tempers the Blood with Milk; where a liberal Countenance as it were entertains the Beholders; and the glances of the Eyes are gathered like scattered Coins; where thou mayst observe the dictates of a prudent Lip, and draw from thence certain tacit consultations of Wisdom; where you may observe reduced to a certain Law, by the balance of Justice, the strength and vigour of our Arteries, as well as of our Inclinations; and mayst as it were handle with thine eyes the enlivened System of Ethics; where when thou hast beheld the transparent Members, like Gems fixed to the members for Ornament as well as Service, then beholding the rammassed strength of Beauty, thou shalt cry out, Here, Vulcan, here; come bring away thy Nets, we have once more here taken Mars in Copulation with Venus. O most admirable Form! worthy the Empire of more than one Sphere. We give thanks to Jupiter, that he hath not envied so much Beauty to the world. The sight of this Form, more powerful than Orpheus' Lyre, is sufficient to tame wild Beasts and Philosophers. This Splendour, more pleasant than the Light itself, deserves, instead of Phoebus' Rays, not only to try the births of Eagles, but of Men: One would swear that Souls, like falling Stars, had flowed from Heaven, while we admire the glittering Splendour of Beauty. These are the Darts of Cupid, tipped with the Light of Eyes brandishing flames, that sparkling bourn and prick.  
Thus whatsoever is conspicuous, and to which we would be like, that snatches us to itself with the same ardency, with which we draw those things to ourselves, to which we seem to be like. We give and ask pardon of this Madness, through which, as Men, we act as Boys, and covet the representations of our Looking-glasses to kiss and embrace. 'Tis not the Fate of one Narcissus, but of all Mankind, to be in love with their own Shadows. This Covetousness is to be indulged us, whereby we feed upon our like; it being the Law of Minds to be nourished with their like. Wherefore I do not so much admire the force of Custom, which reconciles us not only to Bodies, but to Places themselves, and inanimate trifles. Thus Familiarity, without which, though present, we are but Pilgrims, gives this efficacy to Custom, to form natural and proper Manners, and to fit the Mind to the Mind, that we may converse more sweetly and freely with another, than with ourselves. 'Tis a Hell upon earth, not a Society, for fear of displeasing, to set our faces in the Looking-glass, in respect to the Visit; to weigh our words like Gold, before we speak 'em; and to be put to behave ourselves, as at a public Assembly, with premeditated Gestures.  
But why do I recount those agreeable species, slightly painted in our Minds, either by Art, or Nature, or by Custom? When Love has fixed a living Image in our breasts of all these things, by whose power they move and act. It was well provided for Lovers, that it is lawful to Love the unwilling. There is no need of requiring returns and the debt of Loving. If it move nothing that thou art her Image and her Slave, that thou hast lost thy Life and Liberty for her sake; if the Crime of Impiety and Homicide terrify nothing; yet necessity of Nature kindles Love out of Love, and Flame out of Flame. Yet Nature would not indulge that power to love, to dissemble, or otherwise to burn, than as a painted fire. For let the Countenance or Gestures sergeant never so much, Dissimulation will betray itself, either out of an overstudious emulation of imitating, or by reason of its own sloth. If yet thou wilt not acknowledge Love to be the price of Man, that thou mayst admit him under the notion of Profit, know that he comprehends in himself all the benefits which he does, or is able to do, and all above our wishes; without whom I would attribute the Benefits themselves to Chance and Fate, not to Man; and shall account them rather as things found, than accepted. By virtue of which Gift, the Poor is Liberal, while he gives nothing, but liberally wishes. Than which, the Gods neither ask, nor bestow any thing greater upon Mortals. Surely the potent Philter is this, beyond all the power of Herbs and Flowers; Love, if thou wilt be beloved.  
But as it is an uncomely thing to ask or give a reason of Love, so is that Love most worthy which springs, like some Flowers, without the help of seed; and has this property of Eternity, to exist without a Cause; and like the Heavens, to be moved by an unseen Intelligence. This is that which we acknowledge to be all Love by Nature: That Similitude, which partly manifest, but chiefly occult, which we call Sympathy. From whence without Propinquity or Custom the near and familiar Soul adheres to the Soul, as plain Bodies adhere to plain Bodies, only by the glue of Aptitude, never to be separated. Nature seems to produce Twinlike Minds, as to assign companions for Minds, like Shades and Genius's to Bodies. Hence, contrary to the Wills of their Nativities, Men undergo the same Fates, and are born Twins. Most happy pair of Lovers! more noble sight than that of the Gladiators, where the whole strife in the duel of Liberality is carried on by good Offices. In this one thing disagreeing Passions show themselves, while both solicitous for one another, exercise their Hatred and their Fears; both, endued with each others Choler, discern and judge the same things, the one as the other; both touched with the same Magnet, turn themselves the same way, tend and close the same way. The one puts on the Countenance of the other, and represents it more faithfully than the Mirror: The one imitates the Inclinations of the other, more than a Parasite; to the end he may be like his other self, yet not himself.  
While I was stammering out these imperfect Notions, Cupid in disdain snatched the Pen out of my Hand, and flew away.  
FINIS.