Complete. From the Tatler—No. 72.

	Quicquid agunt homines———
	———nostri est farrago libelli.
	—Juv. Sat. I. 85, 86.

	“Whate’er men do, or say, or think, or dream,
	Our motley paper seizes for its theme.”

I HAVE taken upon me no very easy task in turning all my thoughts on panegyric, when most of the advices I receive tend to the quite contrary purpose; and I have few notices but such as regard follies and vices. But the properest way for me to treat is to keep in general upon the passions and affections of men, with as little regard to particulars as the nature of the thing will admit. However, I think there is something so passionate in the circumstances of the lovers mentioned in the following letter, that I am willing to go out of my way to obey what is commanded in it:—

	Sir:—                    LONDON, September 17th.
	Your design of entertaining the town with the characters of the ancient heroes, as persons shall send an account to Mr. Morphew, encourages me and others to beg of you that, in the meantime, if it is not contrary to the method you have proposed, you would give us one paper upon the subject of the death of Pætus and his wife, when Nero sent him an order to kill himself; his wife, setting him the example, died with these words: “Pætus, it is not painful.” You must know the story, and your observations upon it will oblige, sir,
	Your most humble servant.

    When the worst man that ever lived in the world had the highest station in it, human life was the object of his diversion; and he sent orders frequently, out of mere wantonness, to take off such and such, without so much as being angry with them. Nay frequently, his tyranny was so humorous, that he put men to death because he could not but approve of them. It came one day to his ear that a certain married couple, Pætus and Arria, lived in a more happy tranquillity and mutual love than any other persons who were then in being. He listened with great attention to the account of their manner of spending their time together, of the constant pleasure they were to each other in all their words and actions; and found, by exact information, that they were so treasonable as to be much more happy than his imperial Majesty himself. Upon which he writ Pætus the following billet:—

	Pætus, you are hereby desired to despatch yourself. I have heard a very good character of you; and therefore leave it to yourself whether you will die by dagger, sword, or poison. If you outlive this order above an hour, I have given directions to put you to death by torture.
	NERO.

    This familiar epistle was delivered to his wife Arria, who opened it.

  One must have a soul very well turned for love, pity, and indignation, to comprehend the tumult this unhappy lady was thrown into upon this occasion. The passion of love is no more to be understood by some tempers than a problem in a science by an ignorant man; but he that knows what affection is will have, upon considering the condition of Arria, ten thousand thoughts flowing upon him, which the tongue was not formed to express; but the charming statue is now before my eyes, and Arria, in her unutterable sorrow, has more beauty than ever appeared in youth, in mirth, or in triumph. These are the great and noble incidents which speak the dignity of our nature, in our sufferings and distresses. Behold, her tender affection for her husband sinks her features into a countenance which appears more helpless than that of an infant; but again, her indignation shows in her visage and her bosom a resentment as strong as that of the bravest man. Long she stood in this agony of alternate rage and love; but at last composed herself for her dissolution, rather than survive her beloved Pætus. When he came into her presence, he found her with the tyrant’s letter in one hand and a dagger in the other. Upon his approach to her, she gave him the order: and at the same time stabbing herself, “Pætus,” says she, “it is not painful,” and expired. Pætus immediately followed her example. The passion of these memorable lovers was such, that it illuded the rigor of their fortune, and baffled the force of a blow, which neither felt, because each received it for the sake of the other. The woman’s part in this story is by much the more heroic, and has occasioned one of the best epigrams transmitted to us from antiquity.”

	“Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Pæto
	Quem de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis;
	Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci, non dolet, inquit
	Sed quod tu facies hoc mihi, Pæte, dolet.
	—Mart. Epig. I. 14.

	“When the chaste Arria reached the reeking sword,
	Drawn from her bosom, to her honor’d lord,
	Trust me, she said, for this I do not grieve,
	I die by that which Psetus must receive.”