And hear how Artemidorus, not the oneirologist, but the great philosopher at the Court of the Emperor Sferamond, describes the appearances which he had observed in dissecting some of those unfortunate persons, who had died of love. “_Quant à mon regard_,” says he, “_j'en ay veu faire anatomie de quelques uns qui estoient morts de cette maladie, qui avoient leurs entrailles toutes retirées, leur pauvre cœur tout bruslé, leur foye toute enfumé, leurs poulmons tout rostis, les ventricules de leurs cerveaux tous endommagez; et je croy que leur pauvre ame etoit cuite et arse à petite feu, pour la vehemence et excessif chaleur et ardeur inextinguible qu'ils enduroient lors que la fievre d'amour les avoit surprins._”[4] [Footnote 4: AMADIS DE GAULE. Liv. 23.] But the most awful description of its dangerous operation upon persons of his own class is given by the Prince of the French Poets, not undeservedly so called in his own times. Describing the effect of love upon himself when he is in the presence of his mistress, Ronsard says, _Tant s'en faut que je sois alors maistre de moy, Que je ni'rois les Dieux, et trahirois mon Roy, Je vendrois mon pay, je meurtrirois mon pere; Telle rage me tient après que j'ay tasté A longs traits amoureux de la poison amère Qui sort de ces beaux yeux dont je suis enchanté._ Mercy on us! neither Petrarch, nor poor Abel Shufflebottom himself was so far gone as this! In a diseased heart it loses its nature, and combining with the morbid affection which it finds produces a new disease. When it gets into an empty heart, it works there like quicksilver in an apple dumpling, while the astonished cook ignorant of the roguery which has been played her, thinks that there is not Death, but the Devil in the pot. In a full heart, which is tantamount to saying a virtuous one, (for in every other, conscience keeps a void place for itself, and the hollow is always felt;) it is sedative, sanative, and preservative: a drop of the true elixir, no mithridate so effectual against the infection of vice. How then did this passion act upon Leonard and Margaret? In a manner which you will not find described in any of Mr. Thomas Moore's poems; and which Lord Byron is as incapable of understanding, or even believing in another, as he is of feeling it in himself. CHAPTER LXXVII. MORE CONCERNING LOVE AND THE DREAM OF LIFE. Happy the bonds that hold ye; Sure they be sweeter far than liberty. There is no blessedness but in such bondage; Happy that happy chain; such links are heavenly. BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.