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Rh a red, blooming thistle. Perhaps it was the Goddess of Caprice, that strange muse who was present at the birth of Rosalind, Beatrice, Titania, Viola, and all the rest, however they may be called, of the dear charming children of the Shakespearean comedy, and kissed their brows. She, indeed, kissed all the freaks and fancies, dainty dreams and droll devices into their young heads, whence they passed to their hearts. As among the men so with the women in Shakespeare's comedies, passion is entirely devoid of that terrible earnestness, quite without the fatalistic necessity with which it reveals itself in the tragedies. Cupid, indeed, is there blind, and carries a quiver with arrows. But these arrows are far more gaily-feathered than deadly-tipped, and the little god often squints roguishly at us over his blind. Even the flames give far more light than heat, but they are always true flames, and in the tragedies of Shakespeare, as well as in his comedies, love always bears the character of truth. Yes, truth is the token of Shakespearean love, no matter what the form may be in which it appears, be it called. Miranda, or Juliet, or Cleopatra.

While I mention these names rather by accident than with intention, it occurs to me that they really represent the three most deeply significant types of love. Miranda is the representative of a love which, without previous influences of any