much better adapted; therefore ſhe diſpoſed every thing with the view of entrapping his heart through the medium of his ſenſes. But ſhe found herſelf miſtaken in her ſpeculations. Neither Epicurean ſenſuality, nor the more refined and ſentimental purity of Platonic love, ſeemed to be the ſyſtem for him: he appeared rather to be a ſtrict adherent of the Stoics—a diſcovery which raiſed no ſmall aſtoniſhment, while it afforded but faint hopes of the ring.
In this ſtate of indeciſion ſeveral months had elapſed, when the impatient dame thought it high time to hold a conference with her knight, for ſo ſhe uſed to call him, on the concerns of his heart. On the day when the return of ſpring was celebrated, and all her virgins, adorned with recent flowers, were engaged in the choral dance, ſhe found him penſive and alone. He was amuſing himſelf in an arbour, with a paſtime ſymbolical of unſucceſsful love—plucking and tearing to pieces freſh blown flowers. ‘Unfeeling knight!’ ſheexclaimed,
