 friend, with the most tender,

ardent, and hopeless love, that ever yet possessed a human heart! and in my breast, shall that fond love lie ever buried—I think it will not cease even with my life, but death itself shall never force me to reveal my passion.
Press me no farther on this theme, my friend, nor cast away your useless pity on me; for while I can behold her lovely form, and gaze in silent rapture on her beauty, I am not wretched—nay in those blissful moments, I feel a sort of happiness I would not change for all your joys with Margarita.
You may, very probably, have but an imperfect idea of that kind of passion, which I have described; but do not from thence unphilosophically conclude that

it cannot exist in any heart, because you do not feel it in your own. This I know to be a common, but erroneous mode of judging—we are all too apt to search in our own breasts for the motives of other people's actions; and when a want of sympathy of sentiment, prevents our discovering similar principles in ourselves, we are too often tempted to deny their existence in others.
I have particularly warn'd you, my dear Hume, on this subject, because I am certain I could full as easily forgive your doubting my honour, as the unsullied purity of my passion.—I most sincerely wish you every pleasure that a life of frolic and gayety can yield, but beware, my dear Hume, of those thorns, that grow spontaneous with the rose.

Write to Miss Cleveland, I conjure you; and, when your leisure will permit, bestow a few lines on yours sincerely,
LUCAN.


MAY I perish this moment if ever I read such a letter! I shall begin to look upon Ovid's Metamorphoses, as a history of serious, and natural events; and not be at all surprised, if I should find myself fluttering through the air, in the form of a lapwing, or a butterfly.—Surely your transformation is still more miraculous! what, Lucan! the gay, the lively Lucan! changed into a melancholy, timid, whining, love-sick swain;
"and death itself shall never force him to reveal

his passion!"
Why what, in the name of nonsense, must she be, that has inspired it? deaf, and blind, I suppose—for no woman that has ears and eyes, need ever be informed that a man is in love with her—in those cases, they are sharp-sighted as the lynx, and quick-eared as
