him, I can't tell how, without thinking about it.'——'Ah! I have it, 'tis young Imola?'—'Good, who can fix such fribbles?'—'What is it then?'——'I can't tell, I am angry with the whole earth?'——'Ah! Madam, you are in the wrong; for this earth, at which you are angry, might furnish you wherewithal to repair your losses.'——'Then, Amisadar, you sincerely believe that there are still some good souls, who have escaped from the corruption of the age, and are capable of love?'——'How, love! Is it possible that you give into those pitiful notions? you expect to be loved, you?'——'And why not?'——'But reflect, madam, that a man who loves, pretends to be loved, and alone too. You have too much good sense, to enslave your self to the jealousies and caprices of a tender and faithful lover. Nothing so fatiguing as these folks. To see but them, to love but them, to dream of none but them, to have no wit, humour, or charms but for them; all this most