inſidious attempt to haſten her fall by apparent reſpect. Virtue and pleaſure are not, in fact, ſo nearly allied in this life as ſome eloquent writers have laboured to prove. Pleaſure prepares the fading wreath, and mixes the intoxicating cup; but the fruit which virtue gives, is the recompence of toil: and, gradually ſeen as it ripens, only affords calm ſatisfaction; nay, appearing to be the reſult of the natural tendency of things, it is ſcarcely obſerved. Bread, the common food of life, ſeldom thought of as a bleſſing, ſupports the conſtitution and preſerves health; ſtill feaſts delight the heart of man, though diſeaſe and even death lurk in the cup or dainty that elevates the ſpirits or tickles the palate. The lively heated imagination, in the ſame ſtyle, draws the picture of love, as it draws every other picture, with thoſe glowing colours, which the daring hand will ſteal from the rainbow that is directed by a mind, condemned in a world like this, to prove its noble origin by panting after unattainable perfection; ever purſuing what it acknowledges to be a fleeting dream. An imagination of this vigorous caſt can give exiſtence to inſubſtantial forms, and ſtability to the ſhadowy reveries which the mind naturally falls into when realities are found vapid. It can then depict love with celeſtial charms, and dote on the grand ideal object—it can imagine a degree of mutual affection that ſhall refine the ſoul, and not expire when it has ſerved as a 'ſcale to heavenly;' and, like devotion, make it abſorb every meaner affection and deſire. In each others arms, as in a temple, with its ſummit loſt in the clouds, the world is to be ſhut out, and every
