lamed, rather than by the beauty and
merit of its objects, that its own taste embellishes and heightens them;
that it is itself the game it pursues, and that it follows eagerly
when it runs after that upon which itself is eager. It is made up of
contraries. It is imperious and obedient, sincere and false, piteous
and cruel, timid and bold. It has different desires according to the
diversity of temperaments, which turn and fix it sometimes upon riches,
sometimes on pleasures. It changes according to our age, our fortunes,
and our hopes; it is quite indifferent whether it has many or one,
because it can split itself into many portions, and unite in one as
it pleases. It is inconstant, and besides the changes which arise
from strange causes it has an infinity born of itself, and of its own
substance. It is inconstant through inconstancy, of lightness, love,
novelty, lassitude and distaste. It is capricious, and one sees it
sometimes work with intense eagerness and with incredible labour to
obtain things of little use to it which are even hurtful, but which it
pursues because it wishes for them. It is silly, and often throws its
whole application on the utmost frivolities. It finds all its pleasure
in the dullest matters, and places its pride in the most contemptible.
It is seen in all states of life, and in all conditions; it lives
everywhere and upon everything; it subsists on nothing; it accommodates
itself either to things or to the want of them; it goes over to
those who are at war with it, enters into their designs, and, this is
wonderful, it, with them, hates even itself; it conspires for its own
loss, it works towards its own ruin--in fact, caring only to exist, and
providing that it may be, it will be its own enemy! We must therefore
not be surprised if it is sometimes united to the rudest austerity, and
if it enters so boldly into partnership to destroy her, because when it
is rooted out in one place it re-establishes itself in another. When it
fancies that it abandons its pleasure it merely changes or suspends its
enjoyment. When even it is conquered in its full flight, we find that
it triumphs in its own defeat. Here then is the picture of self-love
whereof the whole of our life is but one long agitation. The sea is its
living image; and in the flux and reflux of its continuous waves there
is a faithful expression of the stormy succession of its thoughts and of
its eternal motion. (Edition of 1665, No. 1.)

II.-