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deft and unaffuming. It even induces us to think indifferently of ourselves, and, by laying the blame on our own unworthinefs, to excufe the inattention or disdain of others.

Perhaps I was void of all thought,

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

That a nymph so complete would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.

Sorrow of this tender complexion, leading us to complain, but not to accuse, and finding remonftrances and complaint ineffectual, retires from fociety, and ponders its woe in fecret.

Ye woods, fpread your branches apace,
To your deepest receffes I fly;

I would hide with the beafts of the chace,
I would vanifh from every eye.

The state of mind produced by these emotions, is exhibited to us with uncommon tenderness and fimplicity by Orlando. "If I'm foiled, there is but one shamed "that was never gracious: If killed, but

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"one dead that is willing to be fo: I fhall "do my friends no wrong, for I have "none to lament: The world no injury,

for in it I have nothing: Only in the "world I fill up a place which may be "better fupplied when I have made it "empty."

But, when ambition, avarice, or vanity are concerned, our forrow is acrimonious, and mixed with anger, If, by trusting to the integrity and beneficence of others, our fortune be diminished, or not augmented as we expected; or if we are not advanced and honoured agreeably to our defires, and the idea we had formed of our own defert, we conceive ourselves injured, Injury provokes refentment, and resentment moves us to retaliate. Accordingly, we retaliate : We inveigh against mankind: We accufe them of envy, perfidy, and injuftice. We fancy ourselves the apostles or champions of virtue, and go forth to combat and confound her opK 4


ponents. The celebrated Swift, poffeffing uncommon abilities, and actuated by ambition, flattered his imagination with hopes of preferment and distinguished honour; was disappointed, and wrote fatires on human nature. Many who declaim with folemn forrow and prolixity against the depravity and degeneracy of mankind, and overcharge the picture of human frailty with fhades of the gloomieft tincture, imagine themselves the elected heroes of true religion, while they are merely indulging a splenetic humour.

On comparing the forrow excited by repulfed and languishing affection, with that arising from the disappointment of felfish appetites, melancholy appears to be the temper produced by the one, misanthropy by the other. Both render us unfocial; but melancholy difpofes us to complain, misanthropy to inveigh. The one remonftrates and retires: The other abuses and retires, and ftill abuses. The



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one is foftened with regret: The other virulent and fierce with rancour. Melancholy is amiable and benevolent, and wishes mankind would reform: Mifanthropy is malignant, and breathes revenge. The one is an object of compaffion; the other of pity.

Though melancholy rules the mind of Jaques, he partakes of the leaven of human nature, and, moved by a sense of injury and disappointment,

Moft invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,

Inftigated by fentiments of felf-respect, if not of pride, he treats the condition of humanity, and the pursuits of mankind, as infignificant and uncertain. His invectives, therefore, are mingled with contempt, and expreffed with humour. At the fame time, he fhows evident fymptoms of a benevolent nature: He is interested in the improvement of mankind, and in



veighs, not entirely to indulge refentment, but with a defire to correct their depravity.

Duke. What! you look merrily!

Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the foreft,

A motley fool! A miferable world!

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bafk'd him in the fun,

And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good fet terms,—and yet a motley fool.
Good morrow, fool, quoth I:-No, fir, quoth he.
Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune:
And then he drew a dial from his poke;

And looking on it with lack-luftre eye,
Says, very wifely, It is ten a'clock;

Thus may we fee, quoth he, bow the world wags.
'Tis but an hour ago fince it was ninez
And after one bour more, 'twill be eleven;
And fo, from bour to bour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from bour to hour, we rot and rot.
And thereby bangs a tale.

O noble fool!

A worthy fool!-Motley's the only wear.
Duke. What fool is this?

Jaq. O worthy fool!-One that hath been
courtier ;

And fays, if ladies be but young, and fair,
They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,



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