Where, O Eliza Wharton, where is that fund of sense and sentiment which
once animated your engaging form? Where that strength of mind, that
independence of soul, that alacrity and sprightliness of deportment,
which formerly raised you superior to every adverse occurrence? Why have
you resigned these valuable endowments, and suffered yourself to become
the sport of contending passions?
You have now emerged from that mist of fanciful folly which in a measure
obscured the brilliance of your youthful days.
True, you figured among the first-rate coquettes, while your friends,
who knew your accomplishments, lamented the misapplication of them; but
now they rejoice at the returning empire of reason.
True, you have erred; misled by the gayety of your disposition, and that
volatility and inconsideration which were incident to your years; but
you have seen and nobly confessed your errors. Why do you talk of
slighted love? True, Mr. Boyer, supposing you disregarded him,
transferred his affections to another object; but have you not your
admirers still among men of real merit? Are you not esteemed and
caressed by numbers who know you capable of shining in a distinguished
sphere of life? Turn then, my friend, from the gloomy prospect which
your disturbed imagination has brought into view. Let reason and
religion erect their throne in your breast; obey their dictates, and be
happy.
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