These sentiments are certainly not what occur to the mind in the first movements of the passion. In the same manner as in resentment, the first movements of grief are always directed upon its object. Yet with relation to the hidden and severe distemper that seized Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Quintus Curtius describes the first emotions of the army as directed upon themselves, lamenting that they were left without a leader far from home, and had scarce any hopes of returning in safety. Their King’s distress, which must naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place according to that author. In the _Aminta_ of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover’s death, which she believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of a beloved object, turns her thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break. Ohime, ben son di sasso, Poi che questa novella non m’uccide. _Act 4. sc. 2._ In the tragedy of _Jane Shore_, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroying her rival, has the following reflection: Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship, Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms; How does thy rancour poison all our softness, And turn our gentle natures into bitterness? See where she comes! Once my heart’s dearest blessing, Now my chang’d eyes are blasted with her beauty, Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. _Act 3. sc. 1._ These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it has the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the man who feels it any sentiment to its own prejudice. Reflections like the foregoing, occur not to him readily till the passion have spent its vigor. A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions. The mind in this case vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in sentiments which partake of the same vibration. This I give as a third observation: _Queen._ ‘Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye’ve angels faces, but Heav’n knows your hearts. What shall become of me now! wretched lady! I am the most unhappy woman living. Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? [_To her women._ Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope! no kindred weep for me! Almost, no grave allow’d me. _Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 1._ _Othello._ Oh devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears, Each drop she falls, would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight. _Desdemona._ I will not stay t’offend you. [_going._ _Lodovico._ Truly, an obedient lady: I do beseech your Lordship, call her back. _Oth._ Mistress---- _Des._ My Lord. _Oth._ What would you with her, Sir? _Lod._ Who, I, my Lord?