Love, such as the glowing pen of genius has traced, exists not on
earth, or only resides in those exalted, fervid imaginations that
have sketched such dangerous pictures. Dangerous, because they not
only afford a plausible excuse to the voluptuary, who disguises
sheer sensuality under a sentimental veil; but as they spread
affectation, and take from the dignity of virtue. Virtue, as the
very word imports, should have an appearance of seriousness, if not
austerity; and to endeavour to trick her out in the garb of
pleasure, because the epithet has been used as another name for
beauty, is to exalt her on a quicksand; a most insidious attempt to
hasten her fall by apparent respect. Virtue, and pleasure are not,
in fact, so nearly allied in this life as some eloquent writers
have laboured to prove. Pleasure prepares the fading wreath, and
mixes the intoxicating cup; but the fruit which virtue gives, is
the recompence of toil: and, gradually seen as it ripens, only
affords calm satisfaction; nay, appearing to be the result of the
natural tendency of things, it is scarcely observed. Bread, the
common food of life, seldom thought of as a blessing, supports the
constitution, and preserves health; still feasts delight the heart
of man, though disease and even death lurk in the cup or dainty
that elevates the spirits or tickles the palate. The lively heated
imagination in the same style, draws the picture of love, as it
draws every other picture, with those glowing colours, which the
daring hand will steal from the rainbow that is directed by a mind,
condemned, in a world like this, to prove its noble origin, by
panting after unattainable perfection; ever pursuing what it
acknowledges to be a fleeting dream.
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