health has flown away on the wings of love, it can only return by the ſame conveyance. I was ſurprized that Theophraſtus ſhould have as accurate intelligence of the ſecrets of my heart, as if he had diſſected it with his anatomical knife. I did not therefore conceal from him what he already knew, and added, in a tone of deep melancholy, How ſhall I hope for recovery from love, who has ſlily thrown his ſhackles round me, and faſtened them with a Gordian knot? Nothing remains but to reſign myſelf to my fate, and choak in the treacherous nooſe. By no means, replied he; hopeleſs love is in truth bitterer than death: do not therefore abandon all hopes. There is indeed nothing new under the ſun; but what has once happened, may happen again. Did the lean Tithonus, I pray you, dream that he ſhould ever ſleep in the bed of the Goddeſs of the dawn? yet he ſo ſpent himſelf with love in her arms, that at laſt his whole ſubſtance was ſcarce‘enough
