and talents admiration, beauty a transient desire; but 'tis sensibility
alone which can inspire love.

Yet the tender, the sensible Emily Montague--no, my dear, 'tis
impossible: she may fancy she loves him, but it is not in nature;
unless she extremely mistakes his character. His _approbation_ of
her, for he cannot feel a livelier sentiment, may at present, when with
her, raise him a little above his natural vegetative state, but after
marriage he will certainly sink into it again.

If I have the least judgment in men, he will be a cold, civil,
inattentive husband; a tasteless, insipid, silent companion; a
tranquil, frozen, unimpassion'd lover; his insensibility will secure
her from rivals, his vanity will give her all the drapery of happiness;
her friends will congratulate her choice; she will be the envy of her
own sex: without giving positive offence, he will every moment wound,
because he is a stranger to, all the fine feelings of a heart like
hers; she will seek in vain the friend, the lover, she expected; yet,
scarce knowing of what to complain, she will accuse herself of caprice,
and be astonish'd to find herself wretched with _the best husband in
the world_.

I tremble for her happiness; I know how few of my own sex are to be
found who have the lively sensibility of yours, and of those few how
many wear out their hearts by a life of gallantry and dissipation, and
bring only apathy and disgust into marriage. I know few men capable of
making her happy; but this Sir George--my Lucy, I have not patience.

Did I tell you all the men here are in love with your friend Bell
Fermor? The women all hate her, which is an unequivocal proof that she