not only a pretty
gentleman, but also a pretty poet, found the true cause of his distemper
was a violent grief that moved his affections too strongly: for during
the late Treaty of Peace, he had written a most excellent poem on that
subject; and when he wanted but two lines in the last stanza for
finishing the whole piece, there comes news that the French tyrant would
not sign. Spindle in few days took his bed, and had lain there still,
had not I been sent for. I immediately told him, there was great
probability the French would now sue to us for peace. I saw immediately
a new life in his eyes; and knew, that nothing could help him forward
so well, as hearing verses which he would believe worse than his own; I
read him therefore the "Brussels Postscript";[456] after which I recited
some heroic lines of my own, which operated so strongly on the tympanum
of his ear, that I doubt not but I have kept out all other sounds for a
fortnight; and have reason to hope, we shall see him abroad the day
before his poem. This you see, is a particular secret I have found out,
viz., that you are not to choose your physician for his knowledge in
your distemper, but for having it himself. Therefore I am at hand for
all maladies arising from poetical vapours, beyond which I never
pretend. For being called the other day to one in love, I took indeed
their three guineas, and gave them my advice; which was, to send for
AEsculapius.[457] AEsculapius, as soon as he saw the patient, cries out,
"'Tis love! 'tis love! Oh! the unequal pulse! these are the symptoms a
lover feels; such sighs, such pangs, attend the uneasy mind; nor can our
art, or all our boasted skill, avail--Yet O fair! for thee--" Thus the
sage ran on, and owned the passion which he pitied, as well as that he
felt a greater pain than ever he cured. After which he concluded, "All I
can advise, is marriage: charms and beauty will give new life and
vigour, and turn the course of nature to its better prospect." This is
the new way; and thus AEsculapius has left his beloved powders, and
writes a recipe for a wife at sixty. In short, my friend followed the
prescription, and married youth and beauty in its perfect bloom.

_Supine in Silvia's snowy arms he lies,
And all the busy care of life defies:
Each happy hour is filled with fresh delight,
While peace the day, and pleasure crowns the night._

From my own Apartment, July 27.

Tragical passion was the subject of th