WE MAY BID GOOD-BY TO PRUDENCE.”

“Love can hope where reason would despair,” says Lyttleton.  “O love, the beautiful, the brief!” exclaims Schiller.  “Love at two-and-twenty is a terribly intoxicating draught,” says Ruffini.  “At lovers’ perjuries they say Jove laughs,” smiles Shakspeare.  “Where love and wisdom drink out of the same cup, in this everyday world, it is the exception,” said Madame Neckar.  “The poets, the moralists, the painters, in all their descriptions, allegories, and pictures,” says Addison, “have represented love as a soft torment, a bitter sweet, a pleasing pain, or an agreeable distress.”  “O how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an April day!

ADIEU, VALOR!  RUST, RAPIER!

be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth!” says Shakspeare.  “I do much wonder,” says the King of Thought, again, “that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his favor to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, became the argument of his own scorn, by falling in love.”

“LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP EXCLUDE EACH OTHER,”

says DuCoeur.  “Love begins by love, and the strongest friendship could only give birth to a feeble love.”  “Love, which is only an episode in the life of man,” says Madame DeStael, “is the entire history of woman’s life.”  “Love is a spaniel,” says Colton, “that prefers even punishment from one hand to caresses from another.”  “A man loved by a beautiful and virtuous woman, carries a talisman that renders him invulnerable,” says Madame Dudevant; “everyone feels that such a one’s life has a higher value than that of others.”  “There are no little events with love,” says Balzac; “it places in the same scales the fall of an empire and the dropping of a woman’s glove.”  “There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” says Moore.  “Where there is love in the heart,” says Beecher, “there are rainbows in the eyes, which cover every black cloud with gorgeous hues.”  “The greatest happiness of life,” says Victor Hugo, “is the conviction that we are loved for ourselves—­say,

RATHER IN SPITE OF OURSELVES.”

“Love makes its record in deeper colors,” says Longfellow, “as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.”  “The heart of a young woman in love is a golden sanctuary,” says Paulin Limayrac, “which often enshrines an idol of clay.”  This thought, the reader can see is a close neighbor of the Boston poet’s idea of the “base wooden god,” spoken of a while back.  “We forgive more faults in love than in friendship,” says Henry Home; “expostulations betwixt friends end generally ill, but well betwixt lovers.”