One side gave
the story of the eagle bearing Jupiter to heaven, the other the fair
Hylas repelling the addresses of the lew'd naiad: in another part was
Apollo, angry at himself for killing his boy Hyacinth; and, to shew
his love, crown'd his harp with the flower that sprung from his blood.
In this gallery, as in a vision of living images, I cry'd out; and are
not the gods themselves secure from love? Jupiter in his seraglio
above, not finding one that can please his appetite, sins upon earth,
yet injures nobody: the nymph wou'd have stifl'd her passion for
Hylas, had she believ'd the lusty Hercules wou'd have been his rival:
Apollo turns Hyacinth into a flower: and every image enjoy'd its
wishes without a rival: but I have caress'd, as the dearest friend,
the greatest villain.
While I was thus talking to my self, there enter'd the gallery an old
man, with a face as pale as age had made his hair; and seem'd, I know
not how, to bring with him the air of a great soul; but viewing his
habit, I was easily confirm'd in my opinion, since fortune seldom
deals favourably with learned men. In short, he made up to me, and
addressing himself, told me he was a poet; and, as he hop'd, above the
common herd: if, added he, my merrit don't suffer by applause that's
promiscuously given, to the good and bad.
Why, therefore, interrupted I, are you so meanly clad? On this
account return'd he, because learning never made any man rich.
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