When _Tully_ was bereft of his dear daughter _Tullia_, at first he laid it to his heart, --he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it. --O my _Tullia!_ my daughter! my child! --still, still, still, --'twas O my _Tullia!_--my _Tullia!_ Methinks I see my _Tullia_, I hear my _Tullia_, I talk with my _Tullia_. --But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion--nobody upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made me.

When Tully was bereft of his dear daughter Tullia, at first he took it to heart, grieving, 'O my Tullia! my child! Methinks I see her, I hear her, I talk with my Tullia.'
But when he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and realise how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion - 'nobody can conceive,' says the great orator, 'how happy and joyful it made me.'
