ess.

_Mr._ SPECTATOR,

'I was the other day in Company with five or six Men of some Learning;
where chancing to mention the famous Verses which the Emperor _Adrian_
spoke on his Death-bed, they were all agreed that 'twas a Piece of
Gayety unworthy that Prince in those Circumstances. I could not but
dissent from this Opinion: Methinks it was by no means a gay, but a
very serious Soliloquy to his Soul at the Point of his Departure: in
which Sense I naturally took the Verses at my first reading them when
I was very young, and before I knew what Interpretation the World
generally put upon them:

'_Animula vagula, blandula,
Hospes Comesque corporis,
Quae nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec (ut soles) dabis Joca!_

'_Alas, my Soul! thou pleasing Companion of this Body, thou fleeting
thing that art now deserting it! whither art thou flying? to what
unknown Region? Thou art all trembling, fearful, and pensive. Now
what is become of thy former Wit and Humour? thou shall jest and be
gay no more._

I confess I cannot apprehend where lies the Trifling in all this; 'tis
the most natural and obvious Reflection imaginable to a dying Man: and
if we consider the Emperor was a Heathen, that Doubt concerning the
Future Fate of his Soul will seem so far from being the Effect of Want
of Thought, that 'twas scarce reasonable he should think otherwise;
not to mention that here is a plain Confession included of his Belief
in its Immortality. The diminutive Epithets of _Vagula, Blandula_, and
the rest, appear not to me as Expressions of Levity, but rather of
Endearment and Concern; such as we find in _Catullus_, and the Authors
of _Hendeca-syllabi_ after him, where they are used to express the
utmost Love and Tenderness for their Mistresses--If you think me right
in my Notion of the last Words of _Adrian_, be pleased to insert this
in the _Spectator_; if not, to suppress it.' [3]

_I am_, &c.

To the supposed Author of the 'Spectator'.

'In Courts licentious, and a shameless Stage,
How long the War shall Wit with Virtue wage?
Enchanted by this prostituted Fair,
Our Youth run headlong in the fatal Snare;
In height of Rapture clasp unheeded Pains,
And suck Pollution thro' their tingling Veins.

Thy spotless Thoughts unshock'd the Priest may hear,
And the pure Vestal in her Bosom wear.