At finishing this, the jealous fair one redoubled her tears with such violence, that it was in vain her woman strove to abate the flowing tide by all the reasonable arguments she could bring to her aid; and _Sylvia_, to increase it, read again the latter part of the ominous letter; which she wet with the tears that streamed from her bright eyes. ‘Yes, yes,’ (cried she, laying the letter down) ‘I know, _Octavio_, this is no prophecy of yours, but a known truth: alas, you know too well the fatal time is already come, when I shall find these changes in _Philander_!’ ‘Ah madam,’ replied _Antonet_, ‘how curious are you to search out torment for your own heart, and as much a lover as you are, how little do you understand the arts and politics of love! Alas, madam,’ continued she, ‘you yourself have armed my Lord _Octavio_ with these weapons that wound you: the last time he writ to my lord _Philander_, he found you possessed with a thousand fears and jealousies; of these he took advantage to attack his rival: for what man is there so dull, that would not assault his enemy in that part where the most considerable mischief may be done him? It is now _Octavio_’. interest, and his business, to render _Philander_ false, to give you all the umbrage that is possible of so powerful a rival, and to say any thing that may render him hateful to you, or at least to make him love you less.’ ‘Away,’ (replied _Sylvia_ with an uneasy smile) ‘how foolish are thy reasonings; for were it possible I could love _Philander_ less, is it to be imagined that should make way for _Octavio_ in my heart, or any after that dear deceiver?’ ‘No doubt of it,’ replied _Antonet_, ‘but that very effect it would have on your heart; for love in the soul of a witty person is like a skein of silk; to unwind it from the bottom, you must wind it on another, or it runs into confusion, and becomes of no use, and then of course, as one lessens the other increases, and what _Philander_ loses in love, _Octavio_, or some one industrious lover, will most certainly gain.’ ’.h,’ replied _Sylvia_, ‘you are a great philosopher in love.’ ‘I should, madam,’ cried _Antonet_, ‘had I but had a good memory, for I had a young churchman once in love with me, who has read many a philosophical lecture to me upon love; among the rest, he used to say the soul was all composed of love. I used to ask him then, if it were formed of so soft materials, how it came to pass that we were no oftener in love, or why so many were so long before they loved, and others who never loved at all?’ ‘No question but he answered you wisely,’ said _Sylvia_ carelessly, and sighing, with her thoughts but half attentive. ‘Marry, and so he did,’ cried _Antonet_, ‘at least I thought so then, because I loved a little. He said, love of itself was inactive, but it was informed by object; and then too that object must depend on fancy; (for souls, though all love, are not to love all.)