are usual for persons who admire one another, and are contemptible to the rest of the world.  These two lovers seemed as much made for each other as Adam and Eve, and all pronounced it a match of Nature’s own making; but the night before the nuptials (so universally approved), the younger sister, envious of the good fortune even of her sister, who had been present at most of their interviews, and had an equal taste for the charms of a fop (as there are a set of women made for that order of men); the younger, I say, unable to see so rich a prize pass by her, discovered to Sir Taffety, that a coquette air, much tongue, and three suits, was all the portion of his mistress.  His love vanished that moment, himself and equipage the next morning.  It is uncertain where the lover has been ever since engaged; but certain it is, he has not appeared in his character as a follower of love and fortune till he arrived at Epsom, where there is at present a young lady of youth, beauty, and fortune, who has alarmed[453] all the vain and the impertinent to infest that quarter.  At the head of this assembly, Sir Taffety shines in the brightest manner, with all the accomplishments which usually ensnare the heart of woman; with this particular merit (which often is of great service), that he is laughed at for her sake.  The friends of the fair one are in much pain for the sufferings she goes through from the perseverance of this hero; but they may be much more so from the danger of his succeeding, toward which they give him a helping hand, if they dissuade her with bitterness; for there is a fantastical generosity in the sex, to approve creatures of the least merit imaginable, when they see the imperfections of their admirers are become the marks of derision for their sakes; and there is nothing so frequent, as that he who was contemptible to a woman in her own judgment, has won her by being too violently opposed by others.

Grecian Coffee-house, July 27.

In the several capacities I bear, of astrologer, civilian, and physician, I have with great application studied the public emolument:  to this end serve all my lucubrations, speculations, and whatever other labours I undertake, whether nocturnal or diurnal.  On this motive am I induced to publish a never-failing medicine for the spleen:  my experience in this distemper came from a very remarkable cure on my ever worthy friend Tom Spindle,[454] who, through excessive gaiety, had exhausted that natural stock of wit and spirits he had long been blessed with:  he was sunk and flattened to the lowest degree imaginable, sitting whole hours over the “Book of Martyrs,” and “Pilgrim’s Progress”; his other contemplations never rising higher than the colour of his urine, or regularity of his pulse.  In this condition I found him, accompanied by the learned Dr. Drachm, and a good old nurse.  Drachm had prescribed magazines of herbs, and mines of steel.  I soon discovered the malady, and descanted on the nature