"Captive in Cytherea's bower,
To Beauty and her train;"
to-morrow engaged in some dark intrigue, whose intricacy was its chief charm: and still, whether as lover or politician, diverted from his first aim by some other object.
"Thus, on the sands of Afric's burning plains,
Though deeply made, no long impress remains.
The slightest leaf can leave its figure there,
The strongest form is scattered by the air."
What the Duke of Wharton wanted was passion—passion, which alone gives intensity to the purpose, and constancy to the pursuit. He knew no feeling stronger than excitement, and looked for nothing beyond amusement. His friends could not rely upon him, but his foes could; they might be sure that his resentment would, like all his undertakings, only go half way.
On the other side was Lord Hervey, a slight, fair, young man, dressed—oh ye gods!—invention enough for an epic must have gone to complete that toilette! It involved
