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beloved counterpart that the surging, love-filled blood sought the single opening in order to mix the loving blood with the beloved one. To say it in a few words, Paulina did not want to live because Seneca was to die. This, my dear Epictetus, was certainly (as you claim) no humiliation of her husband, but a mirror of all faithful loving hearts.
But be that as it may. You, otherwise in other pieces a clever philosopher, have given cause through this description of yours to different, indeed in my opinion, underage pens that cannot be punished, to stain this high lineage with an unnatural style of writing. For what could be more unreasonable than to count this so dearly praised creature among the unreasonable animals. Since we have a thousand examples of our own kind, who call themselves humans, that are, as it were, in