DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD, Ancient and Modern.  
The Second Part.  
Dedicated to LUCIAN in ELYSIUM.  
LONDON, Printed for R. B. at the Foot of Parnassus Hill. 1685.   

NEW DIALOGUES OF SOME ANCIENT DEAD.  
The Second Part.  

First DIALOGUE.  Herostrates, Demetrius, Phalerian. Herostrates. 
THREE hundred and sixty Statues Erected in your Honour at Athens! 'Tis very much.  Demetrius. 
I seized upon the Government; and than you may judge the People would be striving how to Honour me most.  Herost. 
How pleased were you, that you had thus multiplied yourself three hundred and sixty times, and met with none but yourself throughout the whole Town?  Dem. 
I own it: but alas! this joy was but of short continuance; Affairs altered. The very next day, not one of all my Statues was standing: Some were beaten down, the rest all battered in pieces.  Herost. 
What a dreadful turn was this; and who performed this Noble Exploit?  Demet. 
'Twas Demetrius-Poliorcetes, Son to Antigonus.  Herost. 
Demetrius-Poliorcetes! Would I had been in his place. What a pleasant thing it was to pull down such a multitude of Statues that were made for one same Man.  Demet. 
Such a kind of wish becomes none but him that burned the Temple of Ephesus. You are still the same.  Herost. 
I have been much upbraided with this burning of the Temple of Ephesus; all Greece rung of it; but 'tis a sad thing, in earnest, Men are but weak in their Judgements.  Demet. 
I think you had best to complain of the injustice has been done you in detesting so brave an Action, and of the Law whereby the Ephesians forbade that no one should ever pronounce the Name of Herostrates.  Herost. 
I have no reason at least to complain of the Effect of this Law; for the Ephe●●●ns were good downright People, they were not sensible, that in prohibiting me to be named, was the only way to render my Name immortal. But what ground was there for this Law? I was desirous beyond reason, to make myself spoken of, and I set their Temple on fire. Ought not they to think themselves happy, that my Ambition was not more expensive to them. They could not have come off at an easier rate. Another would have perhaps destroyed their whole Town, State and all.  Demet. 
To hear you, one would say, you had a Right to spare nothing that might make you be spoken of, and that People ought to take (as a favour) all the Evils you have not committed.  Herost. 
It is easy to prove the Right I had to burn the Temple of Ephesus. Why did they Build it with such Art and Magnificence? Did not the Architect design to perpetuate his Name?  Demet. 
'Tis like enough.  Herost. 
Well then, 'twas to perpetuate my Name too, that I burned this Temple.  Demet. 
A fine Argument! is it lawful for you to destroy, for your Glory's sake, the Works of another?  Herost. 
Yes. Vanity which built this Temple by the Hands of another, has been able to destroy it by the means of mine. It is impowered with a Right over all the Works of Mankind; Vanity made them all, and Vanity can reduce them again to nothing. The greatest States of all, have no reason to complain that she subverts them, when she has her ends therein; they could not make out an Original Independent of Vanity. A King, who, to Honour the Funerals of an Horse, should cause the Town of Bucephalia to be razed, would he deal unjustly with it? I think not, for there was no thought of building up this Town, but to insure the Memory of Bucephalus; and so by consequence, it is affected to the Honour of Horses.  Demet. 
In your Judgement, nothing would be safe. I know not whether Men would.  Herost. 
Vanity sports herself with their Lives, as with all things else. A Father leaves as many Children as he can, to keep up his Name. A Conqueror destroys as many Men as he can, to perpetuate his.  Demet. 
I do not wonder that you make use of all manner of Arguments to justify Destroyer's; but in fine, if pulling down the Monuments of another's Glory, is a means to set up ones own, it is at least the meanest of all means.  Herost. 
I know not whether it be meaner than the other; but I very well know that it is requisite there should be such Persons as do use it.  Demet. 
Requisite!  Herost. 
Most certainly. The Earth is like a great Table-Book, where every one will Write his Name. When this Book is full, those Names which are already set down in it must needs be blotted out, for new ones to be writ. What would it be, if all the Monuments of the Ancients were in being? The Modern People would have no room to set up theirs in. Could you hope that your three hundred and sixty Statues would be of any long standing? Did you not perceive that there was scarce place enough for your Glory?  Demet. 
'Twas a pleasant kind of revenge that Demetrius-Poliorcetes did Execute upon my Statues. Since they were once Erected all about Athens, had not he as good have let them stood?  Herost. 
He had so; but before they were Erected, would it not have been as well if they had not been set up at all? Our Passions do, and undo all. If Reason did rule upon Earth, there would be nothing done then. They say that your Pilots are most afraid of those Calm Seas where they can't make Sail, and that they desire a Wind, though with the hazard of a Tempest. Passions are necessary Winds in Men, to give all things a motion, though they raise many a Storm.   

Second Dialogue.  Callirhea, Paulina. Paulina. 
FOR my part, I maintain that a Woman is in danger so soon as she is beloved with eagerness. What does not a Passionate Lover bethink himself of to compass his Designs? I stood it out a long time with Mundus, a handsome young Roman; but in fine, he got the Victory by a stratagem. I was very devout to Anubis the God. One day a she Priest of this God came and told me from him, that he was in love with me, and that he desired I would give him the meeting in his Temple. Mistress to Anubis! Judge you what an Honour. I failed not to be at the Rendez-vous, I was received with great manifestations of kindness; but to tell you the truth, this Anubis was Mundus. See whether I could withstand him. They say indeed, that some Women have yielded to Gods that were disguised like Men, and sometimes like Beasts; much more ought one to yield to Men disguised like Gods.  Call. 
Truly, Men are full of Guiles. I speak by experience, and the same chance almost has happened to me as to you. I was a Trojan Lass, and just upon the point of Marriage I went, according to the usual manner of the Country, attended by a vast number of Persons, and finely dressed, to offer up my Virginity to the River Scamander. Having made my Compliment, out comes Scamander from amongst the Rushes, and takes me at my word. I thought myself very much honoured, and so did every one else perhaps, I will not except my Betrothed. All kept a respectful silence; my Companions did secretly envy my happiness, and Scamander retired into his Rushes when he would himself. But how surprised was I, one day, when I met this Scamander walking up and down in a little Country Town, and that I understood he was an Athenian Captain, that had his Fleet of Ships upon that Coast.  Paul. 
What? You took him then for the right Scamander?  Call. 
No doubt of it.  Paul. 
And was it your Country Fashion, that the River should accept the Offerings which young Maids that were to be Married came to offer unto it?  Call. 
No; and if perhaps it should have accepted them, they would not have been made. It was satisfied with the respects they showed it; without abusing them.  Paul. 
You ought then to be very Jealous of the Scamander.  Call. 
Why so? might not a young Maiden think that all the other had not had Beauty enough to please the God, or that they had made him but false Offerings, whereunto he had not vouchsafed to Answer? Women are apt to flatter themselves. But you, that will not allow that I was the Scamander's Culley, you were God Anubis' Culley though.  Paul. 
Not altogether so. I did a little mistrust that Anubis was something of a Mortal.  Call. 
And you gave him the meeting, there's no excuse for that.  Paul. 
What would you have? I heard all the Wiser sort say, that if we did not help to deceive our own selves, our Pleasures would be but few.  Call. 
That's a good one; help to deceive one's self! in all likelihood they took it not in that sense. Their meaning was, that the most delightful things of the World, if throughly looked into, had so little in them, that they would make but small impression, if People did make the least serious reflection on them. Pleasures are not designed for a strict Examination, and we are every day reduced to befriend them in many things, wherein it would be improper for us to make any difficulties. This is what your Wiseones—  Paul. 
'Tis what I would say too; if I had stood upon Terms with Anubis, I should even have found that he was no God; But I owned his Divinity, being unwilling to examine it with over much curiosity. And where is the Lover that would be entertained, if he were obliged to undergo an Examination of our Reason?  Call. 
Mine was not so strict. Such a Lover might be found, as my Reason would consent I might love; and 'tis in fine, more easy to believe one is beloved of a sincere and faithful Man, than of a God.  Paul. 
In earnest, 'tis one and the same thing. I should have been as soon persuaded that Mundus was true and constant, as that he was a God.  Call. 
Ah! there's nothing so injurious as what you say. If we believe that Gods have loved, we can't, at least, believe that such a thing has been frequent; but we have often seen faithful Lovers that did not divide their heart, but did Sacrifice all to their Mistresses.  Paul. 
If you take for true marks of Fidelity, the diligences, the eagerness of Sacrifices, an entire preference, I grant there will be faithful Lovers enough found out; but I don't reckon so. I strike out of the number of those Lovers, all those whose passion has not been of that continuance as to have had time to cease of itself, or so happy as to have had some cause for it. I have no more to reckon, but such as have held out against time, and against favours, and they are near as many in number as the Gods are that have loved Mortals.  Call. 
Still according to this same Idea, there must be some Fidelity in being. For let a Man go tell a Woman, that he is a God, taken with her Merits, she'll not believe it; let a Man swear he'll be true to her, she will believe him. Why this difference? 'Tis because there are Examples of th'one, and there are none of th'other.  Paul. 
For Examples, I hold the matter equal; but the Reason why we fall not into the Error of taking a Man for a God, is that this same Error is not upheld by the heart. We don't believe that a Lover is a Divinity, because we don't desire he should be so; but we wish he may be faithful, and we believe he is.  Call. 
You jeer now. What Woman would take their Lovers for Gods, if they did wish them such?  Paul. 
I scarce doubt it: If this mistake were necessary for Love, Nature would have disposed our heart to inspire it into us. The heart is the original of all the Errors we need; it denies us nothing in this Point.   

Third Dialogue.  Candaulus, Gigees. Candaulus. 
THE more I think on't, the more I find it was not necessary you should put me to death.  Gigees. 
What could I do? The next day after you had let me see the hidden Beauties of the Queen, she sent for me, she told me she had discovered that you brought me overnight into her Chamber, and made me a very fair Discourse upon the offence which her Modesty had received, the conclusion of it was, that I must resolve to die, or kill you, and then Mary her; for, as she pretended, it concerned her Honour, that I should either enjoy what I had seen, or that I could never boast of having seen it. I understood very well the meaning of all this. The injury was not so great, but the Queen might have dissembled it, and her Honour might have let you live, if she had been willing; but to be free with you, she was out of conceit with you, and she was overcome with Joy, that she had a pretence of Glory to rid herself of her Husband. You see well enough, that in the alternative she proposed unto me, I had but one choice to make.  Cand. 
I am much afraid, you were more taken with her, than she was disgusted with me. Ah! how was I to blame that I did not foresee the Effects of her Beauty upon you, and that I took you for an Honester Man than you proved!  Gig. 
Blame yourself rather for the great delight you took in being Husband to so handsome a Woman. Why could you not keep the secret to yourself?  Cand. 
I should blame myself for the thing in the World most natural. There's no hiding a Man's joy in an extreme Happiness.  Gig. 
That would be pardonable, if it were a Lover's Happiness, but yours was an Husband's Happiness; one may be indiscreet for a Mistress; but for a Wife! and what would the World think of Marriage, if it did judge of it by what you did? Nothing would be imagined more delicious.  Cand. 
But seriously, do you think we may be satisfied with an Happiness, which we enjoy without Witnesses? The bravest Men desire to have Spectators of their Bravery; and your happy Men desire likewise to be esteemed such, to perfect their Happiness. Nay, how do I know but they would resolve to be less happy, so they might appear to the World to be more happy? 'Tis however most certain, that a Man does not make a show of his Felicity, without insulting, as it were over others, that completes his Joy.  Gig. 
According to what you say, a Man might easily revenge himself of that insult. he need but shut his Eyes, and refuse those looks to People, or if you will, those prickles of Jealousy which make a part of their Happiness.  Cand. 
Herein I agree with you. The other day I heard one of the Dead that had been King of Persia make a Relation, How he was led Captive, and loaden with Chains into the Capital City of a great Empire. The Victorious Emperor was Seated on a most Stately Throne, and environed of all his Courtiers; the People were gathered together in a spacious Square, which was fitted up with conveniences for the purpose. Never was Spectacle attended with greater Pomp. When this King appeared in the Rear of a multitude of Prisoners and Spoils, he made a stop full against the Emperor, and cried out with a merry Countenance, Folly, Folly, and all is Folly. He said that these words alone spoiled the Emperor's whole Triumph; and I am so sensible of it, that I believe I should not have been willing to triumph at that rate over the most Cruel and most Dreadful of my Enemies.  Gig. 
You would not have loved the Queen any more then, if I had not thought her handsome; and if, when I saw her, I had cried out, Folly, Folly?  Cand. 
I must needs say that my Husband-like Vanity would have been injured. Judge you upon that score how sensible the love of an handsome Woman must flatter a Man, and how difficult a Virtue discretion must be.  Gig. 
Here me, as Dead as I am, I will not say this to another Dead, but in his Ear; the Vanity of gaining Love from a Mistress is not so great. Nature has so well established the Traffic of Love, that there is but little left for Merit to do. She has designed to each heart another heart; and she has not taken care to match together, at all times, all such Persons as be worthy of esteem; herein there is a great mixture, and Experience does make it too well known, that the choice of a lovely Woman is of little or no avail to him on whom it falls. Methinks these same Reasons should make Lovers discreet.  Cand. 
I declare to you, the Woman would not allow of this kind of discretion, that should be grounded on nothing else, but that a Man should not purchase much Honour from their Love.  Gig. 
Is it not sufficient to make one's full delight? tender love will reap an advantage from that which I shall take away from Vanity.  Cand. 
No. Women will never yield to this.  Gig. 
But call to mind, that so soon as Honour gets in, it spoils all Love concerns. At first, women's Honour is concerned, which is quite opposite to the Interests of Lovers; and then the wrack of this same Honour makes way for Lovers to design another, that is very much against the Interests of Women. See what it is to have placed Honour on the wrong side.   

Fourth Dialogue.  Helen, Fulvia. Helen. 
I Must know of you, Fulvia, a thing which Augustus told me of late. Is it true, that you had a kindness for him, but he making no return, you encouraged your Husband Mark Anthony to enter into War with him?  Fulvia. 
Nothing more true, my Dear Helen; for among we Dead Women, this confession is of no consequence. Mark Anthony was mad in Love with Citherida the Comedian, and I wished I could be revenged of him, by making myself beloved of Augustus; but Augustus was hard to please in Mistresses. He neither thought me young enough, nor handsome enough; and though I let him understand, that he was engaging himself in a Civil War, merely because he neglected me, I could not possible make him comply in the least. Nay, I will recite you, if you will, some Verses he made about this matter, but they are not much for my Honour: Here they are,  

Wherefore should Fulvia think that I,  
'Cause Usum is false to you  
Can dote on Love's Antipathy,  
And prise what could not make him true:   

Because your Beauties want the Art  
To keep your Husband to your Breast,  
Gain not Reprisal on my Heart,  
Nor make my Mind your Slavish Guest.   

By the same Rule, all the decayed,  
Forsaken Wives, and Widows too,  
Will hope to ride me like a Jade,  
Since I was such an Ass to you.   

Love me, you say, or else prepare  
With Death to Fight, or Anthony—  
She's ugly— then, why should I fear!  
Sound Trumpet, I had rather die.   Helen. 
You and I then have been the occasion of two of the greatest Wars, that perhaps, ever were; you, of that betwixt Anthony and Agustus; and myself, of that of Troy.  Fulvia. 
But with this difference. Your Beauty caused the War of Troy, and my Unhandsomness, that between Augustus and Anthony.  Helen. 
For amends, you have another advantage over me; it is that your War is far more pleasant than mine. My Husband revenges himself of the Affront offered him in another's loving me, and that is pretty natural; your Husband revenges you of the Affront done you, because you were not loved of another, that is not very ordinary with Husbands.  Fulvia. 
Ay, but Anthony knew not that he made War upon my account, and Menelaus knew well enough that it was for you he Warred. In this particular he is unpardonable; for whereas Menelaus being followed by the whole Country of Greece, did lay. Siege to Troy, for the space of ten years, that he might recover you from out of the Arms of Paris, is not it true, that if Paris would have yielded you up, Menelans had been obliged to withstand a ten years' Siege in Sparta, for not receiving you? In earnest, I see they had all lost their Senses, both Greeks and Troyans'. The first were Fools so demanding you again. The other were yet greater Fools for retaining you. How chance so many Persons of Honour did Sacrifice themselves to the Pleasures of a young Man that knew not what he did? I could not forbear laughing, as I read that passage in Homer, where after a nine years' Siege, and a late Battle, wherein a world of Men were lost, a Council is called before Priamus' Palace. There, Antenor is for yielding you up, and methinks there was no doubt in the case; all is, they ought to blame themselves they did not sooner think of this Expedient. Yet Paris seems displeased at the Proposition; and Priamus who, as Homer relates, is equal to the Gods in Wisdom, being troubled to see his Council divided upon so difficult a Point, and not knowing which side to take, giveth Order that every one should go to Supper.  Helen. 
There was, at least, this of good in the Trojan War, the ridicule of it was easily found out; but the Civil War of Augustus and Anthony, appeared otherways than it was. When so many Roman Eagles were seen in the Field, People could little imagine that the thing that did egg them on so cruelly against one another, was Augustus his refusal to love you.  Fulvia. 
Thus go Affairs with Men. Their motions are great, but the ground of them is commonly ridiculous enough. It is of great Consequence, for the Honour of the most weighty Events, that the Causes of them should be kept reserved.   

Fifth Dialogue.  Parmenisehus, Theocritus. Theoc. 
IN earnest, you could no longer laugh after you had got down into Trophonius' Cave?  Parmen. 
I could not. I was extraordinarily 〈◊〉  Theoc. 
Had I known that Trophonius' Cave had that virtue, I had been obliged to make a little Journey thither: I have laughed but too much much in my life time, nay, my life had been of longer continuance, had I laughed less. An unlucky Jest brought me into this place where we are. King Antigonus was blind of one Eye: I had offended him most cruelly; notwithstanding he had promised he would not resent it, so I would come and present myself before him. They did in a manner force me to go, and my Friends, to encourage me, said to me; Go, fear nothing, your life is secure, so soon as you have appeared to the King's Eyes. Ah! answered I, if I can't obtain my Pardon without appearing to his Eyes, I am undone. Antigonus, who was in a disposition to forgive me a Crime, could not forgive me this merry conceit, and this unseasonable Jest cost me my Head.  Parmen. 
I cannot tell whether I should not have been willing to have had your Talon of fooling, though I lost my Head for it too.  Theoc. 
And what would I have given now to be of your serious Temper?  Parmen. 
Ah! you do not think of what you say. I had like to have died of that serious Temper you covet so much. Nothing did delight me; I did all I could to laugh, and could not compass it. I took no farther Pleasure in the ridicule of the World, this Ridicule was become sad to me. In fine, being in despair upon my proving so sober, I went to Delphos, and I begged earnestly of the God to teach me a means to laugh. He turned me off in ambiguous terms, to the Maternal Power. I thought that by the Maternal Power, he meant my native Country. I go back again into it, but my Country could not overcome my serious mood. I began to muse upon it, as in an incurable Disease, when by chance I made a Journey to Delos. There I did contemplate with admiration, the Magnificence of Apollo's Temples, and the Beauty of his Statues. He was all about in Marble, or in Gold, and made by the best Workmen of Greece; but when I came to a Latona of Wood, that was very ill made, and had the Countenance of an Old Woman, I burst out in laughing, when I compared the Son's Statues with that of the Mother. I cannot express how much I was surprised, satisfied, and taken with my having laughed. Then I did conceive the true meaning of the Oracle. I made not an Offering to all those Apollo's of Gold and Marble. The Wooden Latona had all my Presents, and all my Vows. I made it I know not how many Sacrifices. I all besmoked it with Incense; and if I had been in a condition to bear the charge of it, I would have builded a Temple, To Latona that causeth laughing.  Theoc. 
Methinks Apollo might restore you the faculty of laughing, without troubling his Mother. You would have discovered but too many Objects that were fit to work the same Effect as Latona did.  Parmen. 
When a Man is in an ill humour, he finds that Men are not worth while to be laughed at; they are made to be ridiculous, and they are so, that is no wonder; but a Goddess that takes upon her to be so, that is very wonderful. Moreover, Apollo in all likelihood had a mind to let me see that my serious humour was a distemper not curable by any humane Remedy, and that I was reduced to a condition wherein I stood in need of the help of the Gods themselves.  Theoc. 
That Joy and that Mirth which you earnestly desired, is a far worse Distemper. A whole Nation was heretofore seized with it, and did suffer extremely by it.  Parmen. 
What? There has been a whole Nation that was too much disposed to mirth and joy.  Theoc. 
Ay, the ●irinthyans were the People.  Parmen. 
Happy People▪  Theoc. 
Not at all. As they could not settle themselves to be serious in any thing, all sell into confusion amongst them. If they met together in the public Walks▪ a all their Discourses run upon Follies, instead of public Concerns; if they received Ambassadors, they turned them into ridicule; if they held the Town Council, the Advices of the Gravest Senators, were mere Buffoonism; in short, a reasonable Word or Action, would have been a Prodigy with the Tirinthians. They found themselves troubled with this Spirit of merriment, at least as much as you had been troubled with your sadness, and they went and consulted the Oracle of Delphos, as well as you, but for a very different end, that is, they went to ask him by what means they might recover a little seriousness again. The Oracle made answer, that if they could Sacrifice a Bull to Neptune without laughing, they might have it in their power to be more wise. A Sacrifice is of itself no pleasant action; however to the end they might perform it in a serious manner, they used many preparatives. They resolved to admit of no Young People, but Old People only, and not of all sorts of Old Men neither, but of such only as were either full of Diseases, or up to the Ears in debt, or very troublesome Women. When all these choice Persons were upon the Sea side, to immolate the Victim, notwithstanding the Women, Debts, Diseases, and Age, they were fain to settle their Countenances, cast their Eyes down upon the ground, and bite their Lips; but by misfortune a little Boy had crept in amongst them. They would have driven him away, according to order, and he cried out; What? are you afraid I should eat up your Bull? This folly put them quite out of those counterfeit gravities. They burst out into laughing, the Sacrifice was interrupted, and the Tirinthians remained void of Reason. They were much to blame, after they had miscarried in their Bull, they did not bethink themselves of this Cave of Trophonius, that had the Virtue of rendering People so serious, and that wrought so considerable an Effect upon you.  Parmen. 
It is true indeed, I went down into Trophonius' Cave; but Trophonius his Cave, which made me so sad, is not what People take it to be.  Theoc. 
And what is it then?  Parmen. 
Reflections do the business. I had made some, and they put an end to my laughing. If the Oracle had enjoined the Tirinthians to make some, they had been Cured of their merry humour.  Theoc. 
I must confess I do not very well understand what Reflections are, but I cannot conceive why they would be perplexive. May not one have some solid foresights, that at the same time may not be melanchollick? Is there no Mirth but in Error; and is Reason made for no other end but to destroy us?  Parmen. 
In all appearance it was not the intention of Nature that we should think for she sets a vast price upon thoughts: You will make reflections▪ says she to us, look to it, I will be revenged of them through the sadness they shall cause you.  Theoc. 
But you do not tell me the reason why Nature will not let us think.  Parmen. 
She has set Men in the World to live in it; and to live, is not to know what we do the most part of the time. When we make a discovery of the little value of the thing that does take us up and of that thing which we are concerned at we rob Nature of her only Secret? a Man grows wise, than he ceases to be Man; he thinks, than he desists from Action; this it is that Nature dislikes.  Theoc. 
But Reason that makes you think better than others, does however charge you to act as they do.  Parmen. 
You say true. There is a Reason that sets us above all things by thoughts; there is another that brings us back again to all things by Actions. But upon that very same account too▪ were it not as well a Man had not thought?   

Sixth Dialogue.  Brutus, Faustina. Brutus. 
HOw? Is it possible you could take a delight to pass a thousand Infidelities upon the Emperor Marcus-Aurelius, upon an Husband that was so condescending to you stand who was without contradiction, the best Man of all the Roman Empire?  Faustina. 
And is it possible that you did Murder Julius Caesar, who was so mild and moderate an Emperor?  Brut. 
I had a mind to terrify all Usurpers, by Caesar's Example, whose moderation and mildness was no security to him.  Faust. 
And if I did tell you that I had a mind to strike such a terror into all Husbands, that no Man should dare to think of being one, after the Example of Marcus-Aurelius, whose goodness had been so ill requited?  Brut. 
A fine Design! There must be Husbands, for who should rule the Women? But Rome stood in no need to be Governed by Caesar.  Faust. 
Who told you so? Rome began to be possessed with as disorderly Fancies, and as strange Humours, as those which are attributed to the most part of Women; she could no longer be without a Master, and yet she was not pleased with having one. Women are just of the same Nature. It must be granted likewise, that Men are over jealous of their Authority. They exercise it in Marriage, that is already a main Article; but they would do the like too in Love matters. When they require a Mistress to be faithful to them; by faithful is meant subject. The Dominion ought to be equally divided betwixt the Lover and the Mistress; however it always turns on the one side, or the other, and ever on the Lover's side almost.  Brut. 
You are now strangely bend against all Men.  Faust. 
I am a Roman Lady, and am clearly for Liberty.  Brut. 
I assure you that upon that account the whole World is full of Roman Ladies; but you'll grant that Roman Men, such as myself, are a little more rare.  Faust. 
All the better, let them be more rare. I do not believe that an honest Man would do what you have done, murder his Benefactor.  Brut. 
Nor do I believe that any honest Women would behave themselves, as you did. As for my Wife, you cannot deny but she has been constant enough. There was need of Courage, not to be touched with the kindness which Caesar did bear me.  Faust. 
Do you believe than I stood in less need of Courage to withstand the sweet Disposition and Patience of Marcus Aurelius? All my Infidelities were of indifferent concern to him; he would not Honour me so much as to be jealous of me; he wholly deprived me of the pleasure of having it in my Power to deceive him. I was many times so mad at it, that I could willingly have become an honest Woman. Motwithstanding I still kept myself clear of that weakness; and after my death, did not Marcus Aurelius do me that injury, as to build me Temples, allot me Priests, institute Faustinian Feasts in my Honour? What? make me a solemn consecration to insult over me! Set me up for a Goddess by way of contempt! These things are not to be forgiven.  Brut. 
Now I confess I do not understand Women. These are the oddest kind of Complaints I ever heard.  Faust. 
Would not you rather have been obliged to Conspire against Sylla, than against Caesar? Sylla, through his extreme cruelty would have stirred up your Indignation and Hatred against him. I had rather have had a Jealous Man to deceive; even Caesar himself, for example, whom we speak of. He was possessed with an intolerable Vanity; nothing would satisfy him but the entire Dominion of the World, and he would have his Wife to himself too; and because he saw that Clodius was a partaker with him in the one, and Pompey in the other, he could endure neither Pompey, nor Clodius. How happy should I have been with Caesar!  Brut. 
But just now you were for the extermination of all Husbands, and at present you stand up for the worst of them all.  Faust. 
I wish there were none at all, that one might be always free; but if there be a necessity there should be some, I esteem the bad ones most, to the end a Woman may take her Liberty with more delight.  Brut. 
My Opinion is, that for Women that are like you, it is best there should be Husbands. The sense of Liberty is more lively, the more it is intermixed with Malice.    

NEW DIALOGUES OF SOME ANCIENT DEAD, With some other MODERN DEAD.  

First DIALOGUE.  Seneca, Marot. Seneca. 
I'M overcome with Joy now you tell me the Stoics are still in being, and that in these later days you owned yourself to be of that Sect.  Marot. 
Without boasting I was a greater Stoic than either yourself, or Chrysippus, or Zeno our Founder. You might all of you play the Philosophers without any trouble; for your own part, you were well stored with Riches: as for the rest, they were not, at least, dispatched away into Banishment, nor clapped up in Prisons; But I, I have been forced to undergo both Poverty, Banishment, and Imprisonment, and I have made it appear that all these same troubles did for upon the Body, without being able to reach the Soul of a Wise Man. Discontent could never work upon me, in the least.  Seneca. 
I'm glad beyond measure to hear what you say, Your very speech declares you a great Stoic. And were not you the wonder of the Age you lived in?  Marot. 
I was so indeed indeed. I did not think it enough to bear my miseries with an unusual constancy. I insulted over them with jeers. Constancy would have been honourable enough in another, but I proceeded to mirth.  Seneca. 
O Stoic Wisdom, thou art then no Chimaera, as People fancy. Thou art in being amongst Men, and here is now a Sage whom thou madest as happy as Jove himself. Come away, I must present you to Zeno, and our other Stoics, I have a mind they should see the fruit of their most admirable Instructions.  Marot. 
You'd highly oblige me, in making me known to such famous Deadmen.  Seneca. 
How may I call you?  Marot. 
Clement. Marot.  Seneca. 
Marot? that Name I know. Have not I heard several Modern Princes that are here, speak of you?  Marot. 
That may be.  Seneca. 
Did not you make several small Poems to delight them?  Marot. 
I did.  Seneca. 
You were no Philosopher then?  Marot. 
Why not?  Seneca. 
It does not become a Stoic to write joking Stories.  Marot. 
Oh! Now I see you did not rightly understand the parfections of Joques. Therein lies hidden all Wisdom itself: A Man may pick out something of Ridicule out of all things; I could, if I had a mind to it, easily pick some out of your Writings; but all things do not produce seriousness, and take my Writings in what sense you will, I defy you to find any thing of that nature in them. Is not that as much as to say, that your Ridicule does rule over all, and that the concerns of the World were not designed to be managed in a serious way? I'm told here, that your Virgil's divine Aeneid has been turned into Burlesque Verses. I'm glad of it at my heart, there could be no better way found out to make it appear, that State and your Ridicule are such near Neighbours, that they even go hand in hand together. All resembles those Prospective Glasses, wherein the dispersed Figures do represent you, for example, a Caesar, if you look upon them one way; change the cast of your Eye, there, you have a Shab.  Seneca. 
I pity you, because People did not conceive that your foolish Verses were made on purpose to lead Men to such profound reflections. You would have been more respected by far, had it been known how great a Philosopher you were; but it was no easy matter to judge you were so by the writings you left the public.  Marot. 
If I had writ huge Volumes to prove that Imprisonment, want of means, banishment, ought not, in the least, to work upon the merry disposition of a Sage, would they not have been thought worthy of a Stoic?  Seneca. 
No doubt of it.  Marot. 
And I have writ I know not how many Books which prove that in spite of Banishment, Imprisonment, want of Means, I still retained my merry Disposition, is not that better? Your Treatises of Morality are no other than Speculations upon Wisdom; but my Verses were a continual practice of it in my several conditions.  Seneca. 
I'm sure that your pretended Wisdom was not an Effect of your Reason, but of your Temper.  Marot. 
And that is the best kind of Wisdom in the World.  Seneca. 
That's a good one. Those are pleasant Wise Men, indeed, that are so by Temper. If they are not Fools, no God a mercy to them. The happiness of being Virtuous, may sometimes arise from Nature; but the merit of being so can proceed from nothing but Reason.  Marot. 
That same thing which you call Merit, is commonly little set by; for if a Man be endued with Virtue, and discovery made that is not Natural to him, little account is made of it. One would think, though that the great Diligences and Cares taken to purchase it, should procure it more Credit: it's not a straw matter, 'tis a mere effect of Reason, and no Man will trust to it.  Seneca. 
There is less Reason to trust to the inequality of your Sages temper. Their fits of Wisdom depend upon their blood; one should be acquainted with the interior Disposition of their Bodies, to know how far their Virtue would extend. Ah! is it not better far to put one's self altogether under the Conduct of Reason, and become so independent of Nature, as not to apprehend the danger of her Surprisals.  Marot. 
It were the best way, if such a thing were possible, but, as ill-luck will have it, Nature does still maintain her rights, she influenceth the motions in Man without control, and there's no help for it; they often get the start of Reason; and when at last, Reason does its Duty, she finds all out of order: and 'tis a question too, whether she can settle things again. Indeed, I do not wonder that so many do under value Reason.  Seneca. 
'Tis her right, though alone, to govern Men, and Rule all things in the World.  Marot. 
She is but in a bad condition to make her Authority known. I have heard say, that about an hundred years after your Death, a Platonic Philosopher did beg of the then reigning Emperor, a small ruined Town of Calabria, that he might build it up again, establish the Laws of Plato's Commonwealth in it, and call it Platonopole; but the Emperor would not by any means grant the Philosopher his desire, and had not so much confidence in divine Plato's reason, as to give him the Government of this petty Town. See by this, how much Reason is cried down. If it did deserve to be esteemed ever so little, who should esteem it but men; however, Men themselves value it not.   

Second Dialogue.  Artemisia, Raymond Lullus. Artemisia. 
YOU say there is a Secret how to turn all Metals into Gold, and that this Secret is called the Philosopher's Stone, or the great Work of all. This is news to me.  R. Lullus. 
Ay, and I sought it along time.  Artemisia. 
Did you find it out?  R. Lullus. 
No; but every one thought I did, and does so still. To tell you the truth, this Secret is but a Chimaera.  Artimesia. 
Why did you seek for it then?  R. Lullus. 
I found my Error, but since I came hither.  Artemisia. 
There methinks you stayed a little too long.  R. Lullus. 
I see you have a mind to jeer me. We resemble one another, though more than you think.  Artemisia. 
Who I? I should resemble you? ay, who was an example of conjugal Fidelity, drank my Husband's Ashes, and builded him a most stately Monument; how could I resemble a Man that had spent his time in seeking out a Secret, to turn Metals into Gold?  R. Lullus. 
Yes, yes, I know well enough what I say: after all these fine brags, you became crack-brained, and you fell in Love with a young Man, that cared not for you. You sacrificed this sumptuous Piece unto him, which might have redounded so much to your Glory; and Mausolus' Ashes which you drank, were no good Receipt for a new fashion.  Artimesia. 
I did not believe you had been so well acquainted with my Affairs. This passage of my Life was private enough, and I thought no body had known of it.  R. Lullus. 
You'll own then that your Fate and mine have been something alike, insomuch as we have both been honoured beyond our Merit; you, in being thought always faithful to the memory of your Husband, and myself, because 'twas believed, I had found out the Philosphers Stone.  Artem. 
I shall own it very freely. The People are designed to be the Cully of some certain things; and a Body must take advantage of their Dispositions.  R. Lullus. 
But might-there not be something, else that were common to both?  Artem. 
Hitherto I am well contented to resemble you. Come, out with it.  R. Lullus. 
Did not we both of us seek for a thing that is not to be found; you, the Secret how to be faithful to your Husband; and I, that of turning Metals into Gold? I believe there is no difference betwixt Conjugal Fidelity, and the Philosopher's Stone.  Artem. 
Some People are so preoccupated with an ill opinion of married Women, that they will perhaps say, that it is not impossible for the Philosopher's Stone to have a share in this comparison.  R. Lullus. 
Oh! I will warrant it you, as impossible as is needful.  Artem. 
But how chance Men seek for it, and how fell it out that you, who seem to have been a Man of Sense, were given to that folly?  R. Lullus. 
It is true, that the Philosopher's Stone is not to be found, but it is fit Men should seek for it. In seeking for it, there are many rare secrets discovered, which were not sought after.  Artem. 
It were better to seek out Secrets, which may be found, and not think of a thing that will never be found.  R. Lullus. 
All Sciences have their Chimaera, they hunt for it, and are not able to lay hold of it; but they pick up by the way other very solid Notions. If Chemistry has her Philosopher's Stone, Geometry hath its Circular square, Astronomy her Longitudes, the Mechanics their perpetual Motion; 'tis impossible to find all this out, but 'tis useful to look for it. I speak to you of things which perhaps you understand not very well, but you may at least, understand that Moral Philosophy has its Chimaera too: and that is, a waving of ones private Interest, true Friendship. Man will never attain to this, but 'tis good to pretend to it; at least in pretending thereto, he will attain many other Virtues.  Artem. 
Once more, I should be of Opinion, that all Chimeras ought to be laid aside, and that People should be earnest in their pursuit of Realities only.  R. Lullus. 
Would you believe it? In all things Men must propose to themselves a degree of Perfection, which does not so much as come within their reach. They would never settle to any thing, if they believed they should attain no more, than what they will really attain to; it is necessary they should propose to themselves an imaginary scope of things to egg them on. Whoever should have told me, that Chemistry could not have taught me to make Gold, I would have forbore it. Whoever should have told you, that the extreme Fidelity, you so much stood upon, in reference to your Husband, was not Natural, you would not have taken the trouble upon you to honour Mausolus' Memory with so sumptuous a Tomb. Men would be out of heart, if they were not supported by false Ideas.  Artem. 
There is no harm then in men's being deceived?  R. Lullus. 
How, harm! If by mischance Truth should discover herself, all were spoiled; but its manifest she knows the importance of it, because she keeps herself always hidden.   

Third Dialogue.  Apicius, Galileus. Apicius. 
AH! how sorry am I, that I was not born in your time?  Galil. 
Considering your temper, I think you chose a good Age to live in. You were minded to far deliciously, and you happened to be in the World, and in Rome too just at the time when she was Mistress of the whole World; thither came from all parts the choicest sort of Fowls and Fish; to be short, the whole Earth seemed to have been subdued by the Romans, to no other end, but to supply them with necessaries for their good cheer.  Apic. 
But the Age I lived in was an ignorant Age; and had there been any Man like you, I would have gone to the World's end to seek him out. I made nothing of Voyages. Have you heard of that I made for a certain kind of Fish I eat at Minternum in Campania? I was told that this Fish was much bigger in Africa; I immediately fitted up a Vessel, and sailed away to Africa. The Voyage was difficult and dangerous. When we drew near to the Coast of Africa, away come several Fisherboats to me, (for they had had notice of my coming) and bring me some of that kind of Fish; they proved to be no bigger than those of Minternum; and in that very same instant of time, without being moved with the curiosity to see a Country I had never seen, and without any regard to the Entreaties of my Men, who desired to go and refresh themselves one shore, I ordered the Pilots to sail back again for Italy. You may believe, I should willingly have undertaken the like trouble upon your account.  Gal. 
I can't imagine what your design could be. I was a poor Learned wretch of a spare Diet, always intent upon the Stars, and very unskilful in Ragous'.  Apic. 
But you invented Prospective Glasses; in imitation of you, some Body or other made as much for the Ears, as you had made for the Eyes, and my meaning is, that Trumpets were invented, they thicken the voice, and make it double again and again. In fine, you perfected, and you taught others to perfect the Senses. I should have entreated you to have used your endeavours for the sense of Tasting, and fancied some Instrument that might have added to the pleasure of Eating.  Gal. 
Very well; as though Tasting was not endued with its natural perfection.  Apic. 
Why has Taste that privilege above Sight?  Gal. 
Sight is likewise very perfect. Men have excellent Eyes.  Apic. 
And which are then the bad Eyes, that stand in need of your Glasses?  Gal. 
Marry, your Philosopher's Eyes. These People, whose business it is, to know whether the Sun be stained with Spots, or no; whethe Planets do turn upon their Centre, or whether the milky way be made up of little Stars, have not Eyes good enough to discover these Objects so clearly, and so distinctly as is requisite; but your other Men, who consider all these things with indifferency, have an admirable Eyesight. If you will only enjoy things, nothing is wanting towards your enjoyment of them; but towards our knowing of them, you want every thing. Men in general stand in need of nothing, and Philosophers want all things. Art has no new Instruments to bestow upon the one, and she can never supply the others to the full.  Apic. 
I grant you, that Art does not furnish the generality of Men with new Instruments, whereby to eat more deliciously; but I would have her afford some to your Philosophers, in the same manner as she gives them Glasses, that they may see better, and then I should think them well rewarded for their labours in Philosophy; for in short, what good does she do, if she make no discoveries, and what need is there of discoveries, if they be not upon the score of Pleasures?  Gal. 
That matter has been sifted over and over, and out of date long ago.  Apic. 
But Reason does often purchase new advantages, why should the Senses be debarred of that Privilege? If they had it, it would prove of far greater consequence.  Gal. 
It would lessen them very much. They are so perfect, that they immediately found out all the pleasures that could delight them. If Reason does find out new notions, she is to be pitied; 'tis because she was naturally imperfect.  Apic. 
And were those Kings of Persia Fools, that did propose such great Rewards those, that could invent new Pleasures?  Gal. 
Yes, they were Fools. I am certain they did not undo themselves in these rewards. Invent new Pleasures! They should first have created new wants in Men.  Apic. 
How? Should each Pleasure be grounded upon a Want? I should e'en leave the one for the other. Nature would have given us nothing then out of good will.  Gal. 
That's no fault of mine. But you, that blame my advice, it concerns you more than another, it should be true. If there were new pleasures, how would you ever be contented, since you were not reserved to live in the later Ages, where you might have made your Advantage of the Discoveries of all former Ages? As for new notions, I know you'll not grudge those that have them.  Apic. 
I'm of your mind, it suits with my Inclinations more than I believed. I perceive the advantage of Notions is no great matter, since they are left to any that will catch them up; and since that Nature has not troubled herself to make Men of former and future Ages equal upon this account; but Pleasures are of greater value, it would have been a very unjust thing, if one Age had enjoyed more than another, so each Age shared alike.   

Fourth Dialogue.  Plato, Margaret of Scotland. Marg. 
HElp, help, divine Plato, come and take my part, or I am undone.  Plato. 
What's the matter?  Marg. 
Here is a dispute about an hearty kiss, I gave a Learned Man, but huge ugly. And 'tis in vain for me to say the same for my justification now, as I did then, That I had a mind to kiss that mouth, which had uttered so many fine words; here are I know not how many Shadows, that laugh me to scorn, and justify it to my face, that such favours are to be bestowed upon handsome Mouths only, and not upon them that speak well; and that Learning ought not to be paid in the same Coin as Love is. Come away and teach these Shadows, that the Eyes cannot discover that which is really worthy to stir up our passions, and that we may be Charmed with Beauty, though wrapped up in a very ugly Body.  Plato. 
Why would you have me vent these Stories? They are not true.  Marg. 
You have vented them already above a thousand, and a thousand times.  Plato. 
I have so, but I was living then. I was a Philosopher, and I had a mind to speak of Love; it would not have been handsome for one of my calling to speak of it in terms like the Authors of the Milesian Fables; I hid those matters under a Philosophical Gibberish, because the World should not know what they meant.  Marg. 
I do not believe, you know what you say now. It must needs be that you spoke of some other Love, besides ordinary Love, when you described, with so much pomp, those Voyages which the winged Souls make in Chariots upon the lowermost vault of the Heavens, where they contemplate Beauty in its essence, their unhappy falls from thence to the very Earth, through the unruliness of one of their Horses, the beating of their Wings, their abode in Bodies, their behaviour when they meet with an handsome Face, which they own to be a Copy of that Beauty which they beheld in Heaven, the growing again of their Wings which they they endeavour to make use of, to fly towards their Beloved; in fine, the Fear, Horror, and Terror which seizeth them, upon the sight of the Beauty which they know to be Divine, the Holy Fury wherewith they are carried away; as al●o their earnest desire to offer up Sacrifices to the Object of their love, just as they do to the Gods.  Plato. 
I assure you, that the meaning of all this (rightly understood, and faithfully expounded) is, that handsome Persons are apt to work strange effects upon frail Nature.  Marg. 
But you will have it, that People are not touched with the Beauty of the Body, which does only put them in mind of a Beauty infinitely more Charming. How is it possible, that so many lively motions, as are described by you, should arise from nothing but full Eyes, a little Mouth, and a fresh Complexion? Ah! let the Beauty of the Soul be their Object, if you will justify them, and yourself too, for describing them.  Plat. 
Shall I be plain with you? The Beauty of the Mind stirs up Admiration; the Beauty of the Soul Creates Esteem; and the Beauty of the Body begets Love. Esteem and Admiration are peaceable and quiet enough, Love only is turbulent.  Marg. 
You are grown a Libertin since your Death; for, whilst you lived, you did not only speak otherwise of Love; but you also put in practice those sublime Ideas of yours. Were you not in love with Arqueanassa the Colophonite, when she was Old? Did not you make these Verses of her?  

The lovely Arqueanassa's true,  
And has described my Faith in lieu.  
You say she's wrinkled, but whole shoals  
Of Cupid's wanton in those holes.  
You who have felt her Youth, whilst Harms,  
Like Armies mustered in her Charms,  
ere Cursed Age had ploughed those Fallows,  
And envious years those little hollows.  
What Pleasure and what Pain 'twas sure!  
Ah what did you not then endure!   
'Tis most certain, that this Troop of Amours, which lay sporting themselves in Arqueanassa's wrinkles, were the pleasing dispositions, of her Mind, which Age had rendered more perfect. You pitied those that had seen her in her Youth, because her Beauty did work too sensibly upon them, and you loved her Merit, which Age could not destroy.  Plat. 
You oblige me very much, in that you are pleased to make so favourable an Interpretation of a small satire, which I made upon Arqueanassa, who thought she could have made me fall in Love with her, though grown in years. My Passions were not so Metaphysical, as you fancy, and I can prove it by other Verses which I made. If I were alive again, I would perform the vain Ceremony, which I make my Socrates' use, when he begins to speak of Love; I would cover my face, and you should not hear me, but through a Veil; but in this place, those Circumstances are needless. Here are my Verses.  

When Agathis who always used me hard,  
Allowed me once a Kiss for my reward;  
No greedy Falcon with such Joy does tower,  
As my fierce Soul up to her Lips did soar,  
To hunt, to chase, and the soft Pleasure to devour.   Marg. 
Who's this I hear? Plato.  Plat. 
The same.  Marg. 
How, was Plato with his broad Shoulders, serious Countenance, and his Head brim full of Philosophy, acquainted with these kind of Kisses?  Plat. 
Yes.  Marg. 
But do you observe, that the Kiss I gave my Doctor, was altogether Philosophical, and that yours which you gave your Mistress, was in no manner such; I acted your part, and you acted mine.  Plat. 
Herein I agree with you; Philosophers are the Gallants, whilst such as were born to be Gallants, will needs be Philosophers. We suffer those People to run after the Chimeras of Philosophy, that understand them not, and we weary ourselves about realities.  Marg. 
I find I miss of my aim, in calling upon Agathis' Lover to stand up for the defence of my Kiss. If I had had any kindness for this ugly Doctor, I should still have failed of my design with you. Nevertheless the Mind is able to create Passions by itself, and that makes well for Women. They secure themselves that way, if they are not handsome.  Plat. 
I know not, whether the mind does frame Passions; I only know, that it puts the Body in a condition to frame some without the assistance of Beauty, and supplies it with the delight which was wanting to it. And for proof of this, the Body must make one in the case, and must always contribute something of its own, that is, something of youth at least; for if it do not help itself at at all, the mind is altogether unuseful to it.  Mar. 
Always something of substance in love concerns!  Pla. 
'Tis the nature of it. Let it have, if you will, the mind only for Object, you'll do no good on't, you'll wonder to see how it runs upon substance. You loved your Doctor's mind only; but why did you kiss then? It is because the body is designed to reap the benefit of those Passions, which the mind does suggest.   

Fifth Dialogue.  Strato, Raphael Urbino. Strato. 
I Did not expect, that the Counsel, I gave my Slave, would have produced such happy Effects. Yonder above it both saved me my Life, and got me a Kingdom; and here it procures me the admiration of all the Wise.  R. Urbin. 
And what was this Consel?  Stra. 
I was of Tyr. All the Slaves of this Town revolted, and cut their Master's Throats; but a Slave of mine had so much humanity in him, as to spare my Blood, and secure me from the Fury of the rest. They agreed to choose him for King, who, upon a certain appointed day, should first of them all discover the rising of the Sun. They met together in a Field. This multitude of People did fix their Eyes steady upon the Eastern part of the Sky, where the Sun should rise; only my Slave, whom I had instructed, looked towards the West. I suppose, you do not question but they thought him a Fool for it. However, whilst he was thus with his back turned towards them, he first saw the Beams of the Sun, which appeared upon the Top of a very high Tower, and his Companions were still peeping towards the East for the whole body of the Sun. He was admired for his quick Wit, but he freely confessed, he was beholding to me for it, and that I was still living, thereupon I was immediately chose King, as though I had been some Divinity.  R. Urbin. 
I find your Counsel to your Slave proved very useful to you, but I see nothing that is admirable in it.  Stra. 
Ah! All the Philosophers in these parts, will answer for me, that I taught my Slave the very thing, that all the Wise should practise, would they find out the truth? Let them go contrary to the generality of the People, for common Opinions are the Rule of sound Opinions, provided they be taken in a contrary sense.  R. Urbin. 
Those kind of Philosophers, speak like Philosophers indeed. They make it their business to speak ill of common Opinions and Prejudications, in the mean time, there's nothing more convenient, nor more useful.  Stra. 
One may judge by what you say, that you were no loser by following them.  R. Urbin. 
I assure you, if I am for Prejudications, 'tis not for Interests sake; on the contrary, whilst I was in the World, they were a great Ridicule to me. They were trying at Rome to save some Statues, that were fallen under the Ruins, and I being a good Carver, and a good Painter, I was made choice of, to judge whether they were Pieces of Antiquity or not. Michael Angelo, my Competitor, did privately make a Statue of Bacchus, and rarely well he made it. Having finished it, he broke off one of the Fingers, and buried it in a place, where he knew they would dig. They had no sooner found it, but I declared it to be a piece of Antiquity. Michael Angelo maintained it was a Modern Piece. I grounded my Judgement chiefly upon the Beauty of the Statue, which, according to the principles of Art, might pass for the Workmanship of some Greek Hand; and being strongly opposed, I run this Bacchus up to the time, wherein Polycletes and Phidias did flourish. At last Micha-An●●gelo shows the broken Finger, which was an Argument not to be opposed. I was laughed at for my preoccupation; but what I could I have done without this preoccupation. I was Judge, and that quality forceth one to a Decision.  Stra. 
You might have decided the Dispute according to Reason.  R. Urbin. 
And does Reason decide things? By consulting her, I should never have known, whether the Statue had been a piece of Antiquity or not, I should only have known that it was a very fine piece. But Prejudication comes and tells me, that a fine Statute must be a piece of Antiquity; here's a Decision, and I Judge.  Stra. 
It is very probable, that Reason might not supply Men with undeniable Principles in matters of so little Consequence, as this is; but in reference to all that concerns the Conduct of Men, she is sure in her Decisions; the mischief is, they do not consult her.  R. Urbin. 
Let us consult her a little in some point or other, to see how she concludes. Let us ask her, whether we should cry or laugh at the Death of Friends, and Relations. Here she'll tell you, they can do you no farther good, you must Weep. Again, they are freed from the miseries of Life, Rejoice then. These are the Answers of Reason; but the custom of our Country tells us, what we must do in this case. We Weep, if the Custom be such, and that so bitterly, that we imagine it to be impossible we could laugh, upon that score; or else we Laugh, and that so heartily, that we think it impossible we could weep.  Stra. 
Reason is not always thus irresolute. When she meets with a thing, that is not worth her concern in it, she turns it over to Prejudication; but how exact are the Ideas, which she frames upon a World of considerable things; and the Consequences she draws from them, are no less considerable.  R. Urbin. 
I am very much deceived, if these exact Ideas you speak of, are so many as you would have them to be.  Stra. 
'Tis no matter. They only ought to be believed.  R. Urbin. 
That can't be.  Stra. 
Methinks, you make too positive a Conclusion. Why may it not be?  R. Urbin. 
Because the infallible Maxims, which Reason proposes to us, are too few in number, and our mind is made to believe more. Thus the surplusage of her Inclination to believe redounds to the profit of Prejudications.  Stra. 
And may not a Man suspend his Judgement? Reason is at a stand, when she can't resolve which way to take.  R. Urbin. 
You are in the right; Reason has but one Secret to keep herself from going astray, and that is, not to move a step. When she finds the way does separate in two, she is at a stand; but this is a violent State for the Mind of Man; it is in motion, and must have its full career. 'Tis not every one, that knows how to make doubts, to attain to that, a man had need of a good insight into things, and strength to hold there. Moreover Doubt is void of Action, and Men are for Action.  Stra. 
Prejudications should not be customary neither, if one man would act like another; but if he will think as a wise man should, he must rid himself of the Prejudications of the Mind.  R. Urbin. 
It is better to keep them all. I see you do not know the two Answers which the Old Samnite made for his Country Men, when they sent to know of him what they should do after they had shut up the whole Army of the Romans, their mortal Enemies, in the Straits of Candinium, and had it in their power to do with them, as they pleased. The Old Man made answer, that they should put all the Romans to the Sword. His Counsel seemed too hard and too cruel, and the Samnites sent to him, to let him understand the inconveniences of it. The Old Man's answer was, that they should spare the Romans Lives, without making any Articles. Neither of his Counsels was followed, and they smarted for it. It is just so with Prejudications, they must either be all preserved, or all quite laid aside. Otherwise, those, which you have cast off, make you begin to mistrust all your other Opinions. The unhappiness of being deceived in many things has no amends from the pleasure of being deceived without knowing it; and you neither enjoy the bright beams of Truth, nor the delights of Error.  Stra. 
If the Alternative, you propose, be unavoidable, a man need not stand studying which side he'll take. Away then with all your Prejudications.  R. Urbin. 
But Reason will drive all former Opinions out of our mind, without supplying it with new ones. Wisdom is a kind of Vacuum. And who can maintain that? No, no, with that little Reason men are endued, they must still have their usual allowance of Prejudications. They are the supplies of Reason. What is wanting in the one, is made good in the other.   

Sixth Dialogue.  Lucretia, Barbara Plomberg. B. Plomb. 
SInce you have such difficulty to believe me, I will tell you once again. The Emperor, Charles the Fifth, had an Intrigue with the Princess I told you of, and I was made use of for a Blind; but the concern went farther; besides this, the Princess desired me, I would be Mother to a young Prince newly born; to oblige her, I consented. Now you'll wonder! Have you not heard say, that whatever our Merit is, we must still be above that Merit, through the little esteem we ought to make of it; that your Wits, for example, aught in this manner to be above their Talon in that kind? For my part, I was above my Virtue, I had more than I desired.  Lucretia. 
That's a good one. You are foolish, one can't have too much.  B. Plomb. 
Now I am serious, whoever would send me into the World again, upon condition I should be a right accomplished Person, I do not think, I should accept of the proffer. I know that in being so very perfect, I should be a cause of vexation to many persons, I should be always wishing for some defect, or some weakness or other, for the comfort of those, I should live withal.  Lucr. 
That is to say, that for the women's sake, who had not so much Virtue, you had qualified yours.  B. Plomb. 
I had qualified the appearance of it, lest they should look upon me, as to their Accuser to the public, if they had thought me more severe than themselves.  Lucr. 
They were indeed much obliged to you, and more particularly the Princess, who was so happy as to find out a Mother for her Children. And did she put but one upon you?  B. Plomb. 
No, but one.  Lucr. 
I wonder, she did not make farther use of the opportunity she had, for you mattered not Reputation.  
Now I will surprise you. Know then, that my indifferency for Reputation was lucky to me. I do not comprehend, what the power of Truth is? but it was found out at last, that the Prince, that went for my Son, was none of mine; I have had more Justice done me, than I desired, and it seems as if People did desire to make me satisfaction in that manner, because I made no show of my Virtue, and because I had generously waved the Esteem, which was due to me.  Lucr. 
This is a fine kind of Generosity; there is no dispensing with the Public upon this account.  B. Plomb. 
You think so! It is very humorous and sometimes it strives to fly in the face of such, as would huff it into an esteem of them. You should know this better, than any one. Some persons have been strangely scandalised at your over-earnest desire of Glory; they have done what they could to undervalue their death.  Lucr. 
And what way did they find, to quarrel with so Heroical an Action?  B. Plomb. 
How do I know? They said, you killed yourself somewhat too late; and that your Death had been far more creditable, had you not stayed for Tarquin's last Attempts; but that in all likelihood you would not kill yourself upon slight grounds without knowing wherefore. In short, 'tis evident, People did you Justice with a very ill will; but they took a pleasure to do me right; may be it was, because you were too eager of Glory, whereas I let it come of itself, without so much as wishing for it.  Lucr. 
Say too, that you did your utter most to hinder it.  B. Plomb. 
But does modesty go for nothing? I was so modest as to be willing that my Virtue should be unknown. On the contrary, you exposed yours in great state; nay, you would not kill yourself, but in the presence of your whole Family. Is not Virtue contented with itself alone, without desiring Witnesses? Is it not the property of a great Soul, to scorn this Chimaera of Glory?  Lucr. 
Have a care of that. It would be too dangerous a piece of Wisdom. This kind of Chimaera is the only powerful thing in the World. It is the Soul of all things, it is preferred before all things, and do but see what a world of People it brings into Elysium. Glory brings us more Persons, than a Fever does; I am of that number, so I may speak by experience.  B. Plomb. 
You may well be taken for Bubbles then; you, here, that died of that Distemper, for at the very instant, that you come into these lower parts, all the Glory imaginable does you no good.  Lucr. 
That is a Secret of the place, where we now are. The Living must not be made privy to it.  B. Plomb. 
They are to be very much pitied, that they do not conceive how insensible we are. Did they know it, they would not depend upon an Immortality, that concerns them not.  Lucr. 
What matters it, whilst they are alive, they still enjoy the pleasure, to believe it does concern them?  B. Plomb. 
Ay, but this Pleasure which they enjoy before hand, is all they will ever enjoy; they had better rid themselves of an Idea that deceives them.  Lucr. 
Farewell all Heroical Actions.  B. Plomb. 
Why so? The consideration of doing their Duty, would put men upon them; that is, a far more noble consideration. It is grounded upon Reason only.  B. Plomb. 
And that is the very thing that makes it too insufficient. Glory is grounded upon nothing but the Imagination, and is far more Powerful Reason herself would not allow that Men should submit themselves to her Conduct alone. She knows but too well, that she stands in need of the help of the Imagination. When Curtius was just going to sacrifice himself for his Country, and was ready to leap, armed as he was on Horseback, into that Gulf which broke out in the middle of Rome, if one should have said to him, You ought in duty to cast yourself into this Precipice; but rest assured, that no body will ever speak of your Action: in earnest, I am much afraid, Curtius would have made his Horse go back again. For my part, I cannot say, that I should have killed myself upon a bare Consideration of my Duty. Why, kill myself? I should have believed that my Duty was not injured through the Violence that was offered me: at the uttermost, I should have thought to have made satisfaction with Tears: But to make my Name Famous, I stabbed myself.  B, Plomb. 
Shall I tell you what I think of the Matter? These Actions were as good let alone, as executed out of a Principle as false as that of Glory.  Lucr. 
You are a little too quick. All Duties, if rightly considered, are fulfilled though not by way of Duty; all those brave Feats which Men should perform, are duly performed: In fine, the Order established by Nature in the World has its Course still: All that is to be said, is, That what Nature could not have obtained from our Reason, she hath it of our Folly.    

DIALOGUES OF SOME MODERN DEAD.  

First DIALOGUE.  Soliman, Julietta of Gonzaga. Soliman. 
AH! What's the reason I have not seen you till now? Why did I lose all those Pains I took in my Life-time to seek after you? I had had the Beauty of Italy in my Seraglio, and now I see a Shadow only, without Features, and no ways differing from the rest.  Julietta. 
I cannot express my due Thanks to you for the Love you conceived for me upon the Reports of my Beauty. It added much to the Reputation I had of being Beautiful; and I am bound to you for those Moment's wherein I took most delight. It will ever be a Pleasure to me to think of that Night, above all other, when the Pirate Barbarossa, whom you ordered to take me up, thought to have surprised me in Cajetto, and forced me out of Town all in disorder.  Soliman. 
What moved you to fly, if you were glad that I sent to seek you?  Julietta. 
I was pleased that I was sought for; and I was yet better pleased they could not lay hold on me. Nothing was so pleasing to my Thoughts, as that I was wanting to Soliman's Happiness, and that I was esteemed worth speaking of in the Seraglio, a Place so replenished with Beauties: but I wished for no more. The Seraglio is pleasant to none but such as are wished for there, and not for them that are shut up in it.  Sol. 
I see now what you were afraid of; so many Rivals would not have suited with your Humour. You were apprehensive too, perhaps, that among so many Lovely Women, most of them might serve only for an Ornament to the Seraglio.  Jul. 
You charge me here with very pretty Thoughts.  Sol. 
What was there then in the Seraglio that was so dreadful?  Jul. 
There I should have been strangely offended at the Vanity of you Sultan's, who, out of ostentation of your Grandeur, do shut up therein I know not how many fine Creatures, whereof the greatest part are of no use to you, and yet are lost to the rest of the World. You force them into a Fidelity to you, which does you no good; and Fidelity, even that which might be voluntary, seems contrary to Nature: She did not intend that the Proceedings of Women should be carried on in a straight and even manner, for the same reason that she did not intend the Course of Rivers should be straight.  Sol. 
And why is not the Course of Rivers straight?  Jul. 
Because if they were, but few would be the better for them. Judge you by this, how much Injustice you commit in the Seraglio, out of a foolish vanity of not being betrayed, love or love not. Moreover, who could bear the intolerable Pride of a Sultan, whose sole Declarations of Love are indispensible Commands, and who makes his absolute Authority pass for languishing Complaints? No, I was no ways fit for the Seraglio: You needed not to have commanded a Search for me, I should never have made you happy.  Sol. 
How can you be so sure of that?  Jul. 
Because I know you could not have made me happy.  Sol. 
I do not very well understand the Consequence. Is it any matter whether I had made you happy or not?  Jul. 
How? You fancy one may be made happy in Love, by a Person that does not partake of that Happiness; that there are solitary Pleasures, as I may call them, and such as need not be communicative; and that one may enjoy them, when one does not bestow them? Oh! these Opinions cause Horror in well-disposed Hearts.  Sol. 
I am a Turk; therefore I may be excused if I am not so tenderhearted as I should be. However, methinks I am not so much in the wrong. Did not you just now highly blame Vanity?  Jul. 
Yes.  
And is not this Desire to render others happy, a Motion of Vanity? Is it not an intolerable Pride in you to refuse to make me happy, unless I will make you happy too? A Sultan is more modest; he receives Pleasure from many very lovely Women, without concerning himself to afford them any. Don't laugh at this manner of Argument, it has more solidity in it than you are aware of. Think of it, consult the Heart of Mankind, and you'll find that this Tenderness which you value so much, is but a kind of a proud requital. Men will be clear of all Ties of Obligations, they will owe nothing.  Jul. 
Well then, I grant you, that Vanity is necessary.  Sol. 
Just now you condemned it highly.  Jul. 
That which I spoke of, I did condemn; but I like this very well. Have you any difficulty to conceive that the good Qualities of Man do hang by others that are bad, and that it would be dangerous to cure him of his Failings?  Sol. 
But one does not know what to fix upon. What must we think of Vanity?  Jul. 
In one certain degree, 'tis a Vice; a little more on this side, 'tis a Virtue.   

Second Dialogue.  Paracelsus, Moliere. Moliere. 
IF it were but for your Name sake alone, I should be in love with you. Paracelsus! A Man would take you to be either a Greek or a Latin, and he would never bethink himself that Paracelsus was a Philosopher of Switzerland.  Paracelsus 
I have rendered that Name as famous, as 'tis graceful. My Writings are a great Help to all that are desirous to dive into the Secrets of Nature, and most especially to those that aim at the Knowledge of Genius's, and those other Elementary Inhabitants.  Mol. 
I easily conceive that those are the true Sciences. To know those Men one sees every day, is nothing; every Body can do as much: But to know the Genius's, which one does not see, is clear another thing.  Par. 
Doubtless it is. I have set forth in an exact manner their Nature, their Employments, their Inclinations, their different Degrees, as also what their Power is in the World.  Mol. 
How happy were you in having all these Insights! For it stands to reason, that you perfectly understood Man, and yet a great many could not so much as attain to that.  Par. 
Oh! Every petty Philosopher did attain to it.  Mol. 
I believe as much. You met with no farther Difficulty, than in what concerned the Nature of Man's Soul, her Functions, her Union with the Body?  Par. 
To be free with you, It is impossible but there must always be some Difficulties remaining about these Matters; but, in short, a Man knows as much of them as is possible to be learned of Philosophy.  Mol. 
And you know no more?  Par. 
No: Is not that enough too?  Mol. 
Enough? 'Tis just nothing at all: And you hopped thus over Men, whom you knew not, to get to the Genius of them.  Par. 
Your Genius hath something extraordinary in it, that does egg on Natural Curiosity.  Mol. 
It has so; but we ought not to mind them, till first we are assured, that Man has nothing farther in him that is worth our studying. It seems as if the Wit of Man had drained every thing, considering how it frames to itself Objects of Sciences, that perhaps have nothing of Reality in them, and wherewith it does entangle itself by way of sport: Yet it is assured, there are real Objects enough to entertain it.  Par. 
The Mind does naturally wave the plainer sort of Sciences, and hunts after those that are obscure and Mysterious. These only are able to make Work for its Activity.  Mol. 
The Mind has the worst of that; what you say, redounds to its Infamy. Truth offers herself to it; but because she is plain, it disowns her, and entertains ridiculous Mysteries in her room, merely because they are Mysteries. I am apt to believe, that if most People did see the Order of the World so as in effect it is, by neglecting to take notice either of Virtues of Numbers, Properties of Planets, or of the Fatalities' attending some certain Seasons or Revolutions, they could not forbear saying, What, is this all?  Par. 
You turn into Ridicule these Mysteries, which you could not dive into, and which indeed are reserved for none but Men of great Parts.  Mol. 
I prefer those that do not understand these Mysteries, far before those that do understand them; but by misfortune, Nature has not made every one incapable of understanding them.  Par. 
But you, that take upon you to decide things with such Authority, what Trade did you follow when you were living?  Mol. 
A Trade very different from yours. You studied the Virtues of Man's Genius, and I studied the Follies of Men.  Par. 
A fine Study indeed. Is it not well enough known, that Men are subject to commit but too many Follies?  Mol. 
We know it in grofs, and confusedly; but we must come to Particulars, and then we are surprised at the extent of this Science.  Par. 
And in conclusion, what use did you make of it?  Mol. 
I gathered together, in a certain Place, as many People as I could; and there I let them see they were all Fools.  Par. 
Your Arguments were terrible, sure, since you could persuade them to such a Truth.  Mol. 
Not at all.: Nothing so easy. There needs no such great Eloquence, nor premeditated Arguments, to prove their Follies. What they do, is so ridiculous, that 'tis but doing the same thing over again before them, and you'll presently see them burst out into Laughter.  Par. 
I know your meaning; you were a Stage-player. For my part, I can't imagine what pleasure there is in Plays. People go thither to laugh at the Humours and Manners which they represent; but why done't thy laugh at the Manners themselves?  Mol. 
To laugh at the Passages in the World, a Man must, as it were, be out of it; and Plays do withdraw you from it. They expose all to your sight, just as if you were no Party concerned.  Par. 
But a Man is not long before he unites himself again to this all, which he laughed at, and he begins to make a part of it again.  Mol. 
You need not doubt it. Whilst I was diverting myself the other day, I made here a little Tale upon that Subject. A young Goose did fly with that uncomeliness as is usual to the Kind; and during this Flight, of a moments lasting, which raised it about a Foot high from the Ground, it insulted over the rest of the Back-yard Inhabitants. Ah! you wretched Creatures, says it, that I see underneath me, and that know not how to make your way through the Air! But at the same time the Goose fell down again.  Par. 
What is the Benefit then of those Reflections which your Plays stir up in Man, since they are like the Flight of this Goose, and since at the very same moment he falls again into all common Follies?  Mol. 
'Tis a great matter, that a Man mocked himself. Nature has made us very apt to it, that so we might not become our own Bubble. How often does it happen, that whilst one Part of us is doing any thing with eagerness, another Part laughs at the former; and, if need were too, a third Part might be found out that would laugh at both the two first. Does not Man seem to be a Compound of Contraries?  Par. 
All this will not much trouble a Man's Brain. Some slight Reflections, some merry Conceits, that are many times ill applied, such as these indeed deserve no great esteem; but how must a Man strain his Thoughts to treat of higher Subjects?  Mol. 
You come back again to your Genius's, and I keep to my Sots. However, though I have done nothing but labour in these Matters, so exposed to the Eyes of the whole World, I can foretell you, that my Plays will last longer than your sublime Writings. All is subject to the Changes of the Mode; the Productions of the Mind are not secure from the Fate of Clothes. I have seen I know not how many Books, and several sorts of Writing, buried with their Authors; like as, in some Parts of the World, they bury with the deceased every thing they most delighted in whilst they lived. I perfectly know what may be the Revolutions of the Empire of Learning; and besides all this, I dare warrant the continuance of my Pieces. I can tell you the Reason of it. He that will paint to last for ever, must paint Sots.   

Third Dialogue.  Marry Stuart, David Riccio. D. Riccio. 
NO, I shall never be satisfied with my Death.  M. Stuart. 
Me thinks, though, it was good enough for a Musician. The chiefest Lords of the Court of Scotland, and the King my Husband too, were fain to plot against thee; and never such Measures were taken, nor so much ado made to put any Prince to death.  D. Ric. 
A Death so glorious as that, was not intended for a poor Player on the Lute, whom Poverty had driven out of Italy into Scotland. You had better have let me pass away my Days in quiet, as one of your Musicians, than raise me to the Dignity of a Minister of State, which doubtless did shorten my Life.  M. Stu. 
I should have never believed that thou wouldst prove to be so little sensible of my Favours towards thee. Thou alone didst sit every day at my Table with me; was that but a small distinction? Believe me, Riccio, a Favour of that kind was no prejudice to thy Reputation.  D. Ric. 
It did me no other harm, but that I was to die for receiving it too frequently. Alas! I sat Cheek-by-Joul with you at Dinner, when I saw the King come in, attended by the Gentleman that was chosen out to be one of my Murderers, because he was naturally the frightfullest Scot that ever was born; besides, he had been newly cured of a Quartan-Ague, which made him look more frightfully. I can't tell whether he bestowed any Blows upon me; but as much as I can remember, the very fright he put me in, struck me dead.  M. Stu. 
I honoured thy Memory so far, as to make thee be entombed with the Kings of Scotland.  D. Ric. 
I am entombed with the Kings of Scotland?  M. Stu. 
Nothing more true.  D. Ric. 
I have been so little sensible of the good that did me, that you now tell me the first News of it. But, O my Lute, was I so unlucky as to forsake thee, and mind nothing but how to govern a Kingdom!  M. Stu. 
Thou complainest! Know then, that my Death was a thousand times more unfortunate than thine.  D. Ric. 
Oh! but you were born in a Condition that was subject to great Turns and Changes; but for me, I was born to die in my Bed. Nature had settled me in the best Condition in the World; no Estate, of mean Extraction, something only of a Voice, and a little Wit to play on the Lute.  M. Stu. 
Thy Lute does still stick in thy Stomach. Well then, thou didst meet with one unlucky Moment; but before that, how many pleasant Days didst thou enjoy? What wouldst thou have done, if thou hadst never been other than a Musician? Thou wouldst have been weary of so low a Condition.  D. Ric. 
I would have sought my Happiness in my own self.  M. Stu. 
Go, thou art foolish. Thou hast spoiled thyself since thou hast been dead, either by thy idle Reflections, or by the Conversation thou hast had with the Philosophers that are here. 'Tis a likely matter, indeed, that Men should be happy in their own selves.  D. Ric. 
They want only to be persuaded, they may be so. A Poet of my Country did describe an Enchanted Castle, wherein Lovers of both Sexes do seek for one another with great concern and eagerness; they meet together at every turn, and never know one another. There is a Charm of the same nature upon the Happiness of Men: They have it in their Thoughts, and do not know it, it offers itself a thousand times to them, and they wander afar off to seek it out.  M. Stu. 
Lay aside the Jangling and Chimeras of Philosophy. When there is nothing to help to make us happy, are we of a disposition to take the pains to be so by our Reason?  D. Ric. 
Yet Happiness does very well deserve as much as that from us.  M. Stu. 
We should labour in vain, our Reason and It can't agree together. We cease to be happy, so soon as we feel the Strifes we are put to, to be happy. If any one did feel how each Part of his Body does labour to keep itself in good temper, do you think he would be well in health? For my part, I should take him to be sick. Happiness resembles Man's Health; he must have it in him, without his own putting in; and if Reason does contribute any Happiness to him, it is like Health that is maintained by force of Remedies, and is always very weakly and uncertain.   

Fourth Dialogue.  The Third False Demetrius, Descartes. Descartes. 
SUre I should know the Northern Countries almost as well as you. I passed a good part of my time in Holland, where I did nothing but play the Philosopher; and at last I went and died in Suede, still a greater Philosopher than ever.  Demetrius. 
I see, that according to the Relation you make me of your Life, it has been very easy; it was wholly applied to Philosophy. I was far from living so quietly.  Desc. 
'Twas your own fault. How come you to think of making yourself Great Duke of Muscovy, and of taking those ways to compass your Design, as you did? You undertake to pass for Prince Demetrius, who has Right to the Crown; and you have already before your Eyes the Example of two False Demetrius', who having taken that Name upon them one after the other, were found out what they were, and perished most miserably. You ought at least to have bethought yourself of some newer Cheat: It is not likely, that that, which had been already worn out of date, should take effect.  Dem. 
Betwixt you and I, the Muscovites are no such Wits: They are so weak, as to pretend to be like the ancient Greeks; but God knows what Ground they have for it.  Desc. 
Yet they are not such Sots, as to let themselves be bubbled by three False Demetrius' one after another. I am sure, that when you began to take that Quality upon you, they almost all said, in a scornful manner, What, still more Demetrius ' s?  Dem. 
Notwithstanding all this, I made myself a considerable Party. The Name of Demetrius was beloved, People always ran after the Name. You know what the People are.  Desc. 
And did not the ill Success of the other two Demetrius' make you afraid?  Dem. 
It encouraged me. Who could believe, that any but the true Demetrius would have dared to appear, after what had happened to the other two? It was a Presumption too, had he been never so much the True Demetrius.  Desc. 
But suppose you had been the first that had taken that Name upon you, with what Face could you take it, unless you had been assured that you could make it good by some colourable Proofs?  Dem. 
But you, that put so many Questions to me, and are so hard to please, how did you dare to make yourself the Author of a New Philosophy, which was to contain all the Truths that were unknown till then?  Desc. 
I had made discovery of many things that were probable enough, and I soothed myself up with a fancy they might be true; they were, besides, so new, that they might easily make up a Sect by itself.  Dem. 
And did not the Example of so many Philosophers (whose Opinions seemed as solid as yours, yet were reckoned at last but sorry Philosophers) startle you? A Man might name you a vast number of such; but you can tell me but of two False Demetrius' besides myself: I was but the third of my kind, that had undertaken to gull the Muscovites; but a thousand more, besides yourself, did make it their study how to impose upon Men.  Desc. 
You knew you was not Prince Demetrius; but I never published any thing but what I believed was true, and I did not believe it without good Grounds. I was not cured of Philosophy till I came hither.  Dem. 
'Tis no matter. Notwithstanding your good Belief, you must needs be very bold, to affirm so confidently, That you had found out the Truth. People have been deceived already by so many others that did aver the same, that when any new Philosophers do offer themselves, I wonder they do not all cry out in one Voice, What, still more and more Philosophers and Philosophy!  Desc. 
There is some Reason for People to be always cheated with the Promises of Philosophers; there is a discovery made from time to time of some small inconsiderable Truths, that amuse the World a little; but, I confess, there is little Progress made into the depth of Philosophy. I believe also, that in some considerable Points the Truth is now and then found out; but the mischief is, Men do not know they have found it: For Philosophy (I think a dead Man may say what he list) is like a Play which Children use, where one amongst them runs blindfold after the rest: If he catches any of them, he is obliged to name him, else he must let him go, and then run again. Not but that we Philosophers, though our Eyes be very close hid, do sometimes lay hold of the Truth: But what? we cannot justify it to her that 'tis she we have laid hold of, then at that very instant she gives us the slip.  Dem. 
It is but too apparent, that Truth is not made for us: So, at last you'll see, there will be no seeking after her, Men will be out of heart, and be at ease.  Desc. 
I assure you, your Prediction is not right. Men are huge eager of those things which they once take a fancy to. Each one believes, that which is denied all others, is reserved for him alone. Within these four and twenty thousand Years, there will come Philosophers, that shall make it their Brags, That they will root out all those Errors that were in being for the space of thirty thousand years; and there will be those that will believe, that then will be the time indeed that Men shall begin to open their Eyes, and see clear.  Dem. 
What? 'twas a great Venture to try to deceive the Muscovites a third time; and it shall be no Venture at all, for a Man to endeavour to deceive all Mankind for the thirtieth thousand time? They are then greater Bubbles than the Muscovites?  Desc. 
Yes, in point of Truth. They are more in love with it, than the Muscovites were with the Name of Demetrius.  Dem. 
If I were to begin again, I would not be a False Demetrius, I would become a Philosopher: But how if People should chance to fall into a dislike of Philosophy, and despair of ever finding out the Truth? I should still fear this.  Desc. 
You had far greater reason to be in fear when you were Prince. Believe it, Men will never be discouraged. It would be great pity they could fall into such Despair. Since your Modern People make as little discovery of the Truth as your Ancient did, it is but just, they should at least have as great hopes of discovering it. This Hope is pleasing, though it be but a vain one. If Truth be no Right of th' one, nor of th' other, at least, they Both have a Right to Error.   

Fifth Dialogue.  The Duchess of Valentinia, Anne of Bullen. Anne of Bullen. 
I Admire your good luck. S. Valier your Father commits a Crime, as it were on purpose to raise your Fortune. He is condemned to lose his Head, you go and beg his Pardon of the King. To be pretty, and beg Favours of a young Prince, does engage a Person to grant some: And thus you became Mistress to Francis the First.  Duchess. 
My greatest happiness in this, is, that my Love to my Father did bring me into this Gallantry. My Inclinations might easily lie hid under so favourable a Pretence.  A. of B. 
But the Issue of your Inclinations did quickly discover whither they tended; for your Gallantries out-lasted your Father's Danger.  Dutch. 
That's nothing. In Love-concerns, the Beginning is all in all. The whole World knows, that he that makes one Step forward, will make many more. The main Point is to begin this first Step well. I fancy my Conduct was pretty suitable to the Opportunity Fortune did offer me, and that History will not record me for an half-witted Creature. 'Tis looked upon as a great matter, that the Lord High Constable Montmorency should be a Minister of State, and a Favourite, to three Kings: But I was Mistress to two Kings; and I reckon that a greater matter.  A. of B. 
Far be it from me to question your able Parts; but I think I out did you. You held out as a Mistress a long time; but I made myself a Wife. A King follows you close, so long as his Heart inclines towards you; that's no trouble to him: If he makes you Queen, 'tis but when he is out of hopes of satisfying his Passion otherwise.  Dutch. 
But a Lover's Passion must be nourished still, and entertained; and a Marriage once made up, puts us off of all farther Concern. Love is easily exasperated, when one ceases to comply with it; and 'tis a very hard matter to quench it, when one yields to it. In fine, It was your part to refuse still with your wont severity; and I was forced to be still yielding, and study new ways to please.  A. of B. 
Since you follow me thus close with your Reasons and Arguments, I must tell you farther, That if I made myself a Wife, 'twas not because I was over loaded with Virtue.  Dutch. 
And if I purchased myself a constant Love, 'twas not because I was so very faithful.  A. of B. 
I will tell you yet more; I had neither Virtue, nor Reputation of Virtue.  Dutch. 
I thought as much before; for I should have taken Reputation for Virtue itself.  A. of B. 
Me thinks you should not reckon up, in the number of your Advantages, some Infidelities you committed against your Lover, and which, in all likelihood, were very private: They cannot add to your Glory. But when I began to be beloved of the King of England, the People who had been made acquainted with my Adventures, did not keep them secret, and yet I got the better of Reputation.  Dutch. 
I could perhaps make it appear to you, if I would myself, that I was unfaithful to Henry the Second, though not with so much mystery as to redound to my Honour; but I will not insist upon this Point. The want of Fidelity may either be hid, or the Breach made up again; but how is it possible to hide or repair the want of Youth? However, I overcame it. I was full of Tongue, and I made myself be adored; that's nothing; but I was grown in Years. You, you were young, and suffered your Head to be cut off. Though I was a Grandmother, I should not have suffered my Head to be cut off.  A. of B. 
I confess, that is the only Blemish of my Life; let us say no more of it. I cannot yield to you about your Age neither, which you make such a Business of, that was not so hard to disguise as my Course of Life was. I must needs disturb the Brains of him that resolved to make me his Wife; but it was enough for you, that you had prepossessed the Eyes of him that still thought you handsome, and accustomed them by Degrees to the Alterations of your Beauty.  Dutch. 
You are not well versed in the Humours of Men. When a Woman appears lovely to their Eye, she seems to their Mind what she pleases herself; Virtuous, if you will, though she be nothing less: The only difficulty is to appear lovely to them so long as she would herself.  A. of B. 
I yield, you have convinced me; but tell me your Secret, how you did repair your Age. I am dead, and you may teach it me, without any fear that I shall make an Advantage of it.  Dutch. 
In earnest, I do not know myself. We do all great things, without knowing how we do them, and we are surprised when we have done them. Ask Caesar how he made himself Master of the World, he may perhaps be put to it how to answer you.  A. of B. 
A glorious Comparison!  Dutch. 
It is a just one. I stood in need of Caesar's good Fortune, to be beloved at my Years. The greatest Happiness is this, that to Persons who have performed such great things as he and I have, (the Feat once done) People do not fail to attribute infallible Designs and Secrets to them, and honour them far beyond what they deserve.   

Sixth Dialogue.  Ferdinando Cortes, Montezuma. F. Cortes. 
OWn the Truth. You were very dull People, you Americans, when you took the Spaniards for Men that came down from the Fiery Sphere, because they had Cannons; and when their Ships seemed to you to be great Birds that flew upon the Sea.  Montezuma. 
I own it: But I must ask you, Whether the Athenians were a fine accomplished People, or not?  Fr. Cort. 
How? They instructed the rest of the World.  Montez. 
And what think you of the Means which Pisistnatus the Tyrant made use of to get into the Citadel of Athens again, out of which he had been beaten? Did not he dress up a Woman like Minerva? (For 'tis said, that Minerva was the Goddess Protectress of Athens.) Did not he ride up and down the Town in a Chariot, with this Goddess of his own making, she holding of him by the Hand, and saying to the Athenians, Here I bring you Pisistratus, and I command you to receive him? And did not these People, which pass for such Wits, submit themselves to the Tyrant, because they would please Minerva, who had declared her Mind to them with her own Mouth?  E. Cort. 
And who made you so well acquainted with the Athenians Concerns?  Montez. 
Since my abode here, I betook myself to the Study of History, by the Conversation I have had with several of the Dead. But you will, in fine, grant, that the Athenians were greater Bubbles than we. We had never seen Ships, nor Guns; but they had seen Women: and when Pisistratus undertook to subdue them by the means of his Goddess, he made it appear, he valued them less than you valued us, when you subdued us with your great Guns.  F. Cort. 
There are no People but may be overseen once in their Life-time. Men are surprised; the Multitude oversways the more understanding sort. What shall I say to you? There are besides other Circumstances which a Man can't think of, and which perhaps he would not take notice of, though he should discover them.  Montez. 
But was it by surprisal that the Greeks did believe in all times, that the knowledge of future things was kept in a little Hole under Ground, from whence it dispersed itself into Exhalations? And what tricks did they use to persuade them, that when the Moon was eclipsed, they could bring her to herself again by making an hideous Noise: And how chance a few Persons only did dare to whisper it into one another's Ear, that she was darkened by th'interposition of the Earth? I shall take no notice of the Romans, nor of those Gods they invited to eat with them upon their Days of Rejoicing, nor of those Holy Chickens whose Appetite did determine all in the Head-City of the World. In short, tell me of any one Folly committed by our Americans, and I will presently match it with a far greater one of your Countrymen; and I will be bound to reckon you none but Greek and Roman Follies.  F. Cort. 
Notwithstanding these Follies, the Greeks and the Romans were the Inventors of those Arts and Sciences which you did not so much as dream of.  Montez. 
We were very happy in our not knowing that there were any Sciences in the World: We should not perhaps have had so much Reason, as to have avoided being Learned. People are not always in a capacity to follow the Example of the Greeks, who took such care to preserve themselves from th' infection of their Neighbour's Sciences. As for Arts, America had found out such ways to live without them, as were perhaps more wonderful than the Arts of Europe themselves. When one can write, 'tis an easy matter to make Histories; but we knew not how to write, and yet we made Histories. It is easy, for such as can build in Water, to make Bridges; but the difficulty is, to build Bridges, and not know how to build in Water. You must remember, that in our Grounds the Spaniards met with a great many things that surpassed their Understanding: I mean, for Example, Stones of such a prodigious bigness, that they did not conceive how they were raised up to that height as they were, without the help of Engines for the purpose. What think you of all this? Me thinks that hitherto you have not made it very well appear what the Advantages of Europe are over America.  F. Cort. 
They are sufficiently proved by all that may distinguish Civilised People from Barbarous People. Civility reigns amongst us; there is no room for Force and Violence; Power is moderated by Justice, Wars are grounded upon lawful Causes: See besides how very scrupulous we were; we did not make War upon your Country, till we had strictly examined whether we had any Right to it, and decided the Question in our own behalf.  Montez. 
Doubtless you did therein treat Barbarians with more consideration than they deserved. I believe your Civility and Justice to one another, is answerable to your scrupulosity with us. Take away from Europe her Formalities, she will differ little from America. Civility measures all your Steps, dictates all your Words, embroils all your Discourses, and plagues all your Actions; but no news of her in your Principles; and all that Justice which should attend your Designs, is no where met with but in your Pretences.  F. Cort. 
I cannot answer for men's Hearts; we only see their Outside. An Heir that loses a Father, and gets store of Means, puts on Mourning Clothes: Does he grieve much? In all appearance, he does not. Yet if he did not put himself into Mourning, he would injure Reason.  Mont. 
I understand your meaning. Reason does not rule among you, but she makes a Protestation, That things should be carried on in another manner than they are; That Heirs, for example, should lament their Parents: They admit this Protestation; and for better proof thereof, they cloth themselves in Black. Your Formalities serve only to show a Right which Reason has, and which you will not let her execute; and you do not do, but you represent what you should do.  F. Cort. 
And is not that very much? Reason bears so little sway among you, that she cannot so much as come to give you the least hint of what you should do.  Montez. 
But you think of her to as little purpose, as some of your Greeks did think of their first beginning. They were settled in Tuscany, a Barbarous Country as they thought; and they had by little and little so accustomed themselves to the ways of that Country, that they had forgotten their own ways: Yet they seemed concerned at their being grown Barbarous, and they met together every year, upon a certain prefixed day; they read over their ancient Laws in Greek, which they had laid aside, and scarce so much as understood them; they wept, and then separated: They no sooner came out of that Place, but they merrily betook themselves to the manner of Living of the Country. They stood upon the Greek Laws, as you do upon Reason: They knew there were such Laws in the World, they spoke of them, yet slightly, and without any benefit. Notwithstanding, they did in some manner grieve for them; but you are not concerned that you have forsaken Reason; you have taken an habit to know her, and despise her.  F. Cort. 
By this means a Man may, at least, be more enabled to follow her, than bettered in the knowledge of her.  Montez. 
And herein only we yield to you? Ah! How unhappy were we, that we had not Ships to go and discover your Countries? And why did not we bethink ourselves of determining the Case, and declare, That they belonged to us? We should have had as much Right to conquer Them, as you had to conquer Ours.  
FINIS.    

A Catalogue of some Novels and Plays Printed for R. Bentley and S. Magnes.  

NOVELS.  
1 ZElinda, a famed Romance.  
2 Happy Slave, in three Parts.  
3 Count Brion.  
4 Count Gabales.  
5 Halige, or the Amours of the King of Tamaran.  
6 Mad Lavalier and the King of France.  
7 Madam and the Duke of Guise.  
8 Mad. Colonna's Memoirs.  
9 Queen of Majork, two Parts.  
10 Don Sebastian King of Portugal.  
13 Heroine Musketeer.  
12 Princess of Cleves.  
13 Obliging Mistress.  
14 Fatal Prudence.  
15 Princess of Fez.  
16 Disorders of Love.  
17 Triumph of Love.  
18 Victorious Lovers.  
19 Almanzor and Almanzaida.  
20 Earl of Essex and Qu. Elizabeth.  
21 Neopolitan, or, the Defender of his Mistress.  
22 Nicostratis.  
23 Amorous Abbess.  
24 Homais Queen of Tunis.  
25 Pilgrim, in two Parts.  
26 Meroveus, Prince of the Blood-Royal of France.  
27 Life of the Duke of Guise.  
28 Extravagant Poet.  
29 Memoires Gallant.  
30 Instruction for a Young Nobleman.   

PLAYS.  
1 Tartuff, or the French Puritan.  
2 Forced Marriage, or the Jealous Bridegroom.  
3 English Monsieur.  
4 All mistaken, or the Mad Couple.  
5 Generous Enemies, or the Ridiculous Lovers.  
6 The Plain-Dealer.  
7 Sertorius, a Tragedy.  
8 Nero, a Tragedy.  
9 Sophonisba, or Hannibal's Overthrow.  
10 Gloriana, or the Court of Augustus Caesar.  
11 Alexander the Great.  
12 Mithridates King of Pontus.  
13 Oedipus King of Thebes.  
14 Caesar Borgia.  
15 Theodosius, or the Force of Love.  
16 Madam Fickle, or the Witty False One.  
17 The Fond Husband, or the Plotting Sisters.  
18 Esquire Old-Sap, or the Night-Adventures.  
19 Fool turned Critic.  
20 Virtuous Wife, or Good Luck at last.  
21 The Fatal Wager.  
22 Andromache.  
23 Country Wit.  
24 Calisto, or the Chaste Nymph.  
25 Destruction of Jerusalem, in two Parts.  
26 Ambitious Statesman, or the Loyal Favourite.  
27 Misery of Civil War.  
28 The Murder of the Duke of Gloucester.  
29 Thyestes, a Tragedy.  
30 Hamlet Prince of Denmark, a Tragedy.  
31 The Orphan, or the Unhappy Marriage.  
32 The Soldiers Fortune.  
33 Tamerlain the Great.  
34 Mr. Limberham, or the Kind Keeper.  
35 Mistaken Husband.  
36 Notes of Morocco, by the Wits.  
37 Essex and Elizabeth, or the Unhappy Favourite.  
38 Virtue Betrayed, or Anna Bullen.  
39 King Leer.  
40 Abdellazor, or the Moor's Revenge.  
41 Town-Fop, or Sir Tim. Tawdery.  
42 Rare en tout, a French Comedy.  
43 Moor of Venice.  
44 Country Wife.  
45 City Politics.  
46 Duke of Guise.  
47 Rehearsal.  
48 King and no King.  
49 Philaster, or Love lies a Bleeding.  
50 Maid's Tragedy.  
51 Grateful Servant.  
52 Strange Discovery.  
53 Atheist, or the Second Part of the Soldiers Fortune.  
54 Wit without Money.  
55 Little Thief.  
56 Valiant Scot  
57 Constantine.  
58 Valentinian.  
59 Amorous Prince.  
60 Dutch Lovers.  
61 Woman Rules.  
62 Reformation.  
63 Hero and Leander.  
64 Love Tricks.  
65 Julius Caesar.  
66 Fatal Jealousy.  
67 Monsieur Ragou.