those garments whose loose negligence helped to betray me to my shameful ruin, wounding my breast, but want the resolution to wound it as I ought; which when I but propose, love stays the thought, raging and wild as it is, the conqueror checks it, with whispering only _Philander_ to my soul; the dear name calms me to an easiness, gives me the pen into my trembling hand, and I pursue my silent soft complaint: oh! shouldst thou see me thus, in all these sudden different changes of passion, thou wouldst say, _Philander_, I were mad indeed, madness itself can find no stranger motions: and I would calmly ask thee, for I am calm again, how comes it, my adorable _Philander_, that thou canst possess a maid with so much madness? Who art thyself a miracle of softness, all sweet and all serene, the most of angel in thy composition that ever mingled with humanity; the very words fall so gently from thy tongue,–are uttered with a voice so ravishingly soft, a tone so tender and so full of love, it would charm even frenzy, calm rude distraction, and wildness would become a silent listener; there’s such a sweet serenity in thy face, such innocence and softness in thy eyes, should desert savages but gaze on thee, sure they would forget their native forest wildness, and be inspired with easy gentleness: most certainly this god-like power thou hast. Why then? Oh tell me in the agony of my soul, why must those charms that bring tranquillity and peace to all, make me alone a wild, unseemly raver? Why has it contrary effects on me? Oh! all I act and say is perfect madness: yet this is the least unaccountable part of my most wretched story;–oh! I must never behold thy lovely face again, for if I should, sure I should blush my soul away; no, no, I must not, nor ever more believe thy dear deluding vows; never thy charming perjured oaths, after a violation like to this. Oh heaven, what have I done? Yet by heaven I swear, I dare not ask my soul, lest it inform me how I was to blame, unless that fatal minute would instruct me how to revenge my wrongs upon my heart,—-my fond betraying heart, despair and madness seize me, darkness and horror hide me from human sight, after an easiness like this;—-what to yield,–to yield my honour? Betray the secrets of my virgin wishes?–My new desires, my unknown shameful flame.–Hell and Death! Where got I so much confidence? Where learned I the hardened and unblushing folly? To wish was such a fault, as is a crime unpardonable to own; to shew desire is such a sin in virtue as must deserve reproach from all the world; but I, unlucky I, have not only betrayed all these, but with a transport void of sense and shame, I yield to thy arms—-I’ll not endure the thought—-by heaven! I cannot; there is something more than rage that animates that thought: some magic spell, that in the midst of all my sense of shame keeps me from true repentance; this angers me, and makes me know my honour but a phantom: now I could curse again my youth and love; but oh! When I have done, alas, _Philander_, I find myself as guilty as before; I cannot make one firm resolve against thee, or if I do, when I consider thee, they weigh not all one lovely hair of thine. It is all in vain, the charming cause remains, _Philander’s_ still as lovely as before; it is him I must remove from my fond eyes and heart, him I must banish from my touch, my smell, and every other sense; by heaven I cannot bear the mighty pressure, I cannot see his eyes, and touch his hands, smell the perfume every pore of his breathes forth, taste thy soft kisses, hear thy charming voice, but I am all on a flame: no, it is these I must exclaim on, not my youth, it is they debauch my soul, no natural propensity in me to yield, or to admit of such destructive fires. Fain I would put it off, but it will not do, I am the aggressor still; else why is not every living maid undone that does but touch or see thee? Tell me why? No, the fault is in me, and thou art innocent.–Were but my soul less delicate, were it less sensible of what it loves and likes in thee, I yet were dully happy; but oh, there is a nicety there so charmed, so apprehensive of thy beauties, as has betrayed me to unrest for ever:—-yet something I will do to tame this lewd betrayer of my right, and it shall plead no more in thy behalf; no more, no more disperse the joys which it conceives through every vein (cold and insensible by nature) to kindle new desires there.–No more shall fill me with unknown curiosity; no, I will in spite of all the perfumes that dwell about thee, in spite of all the arts thou hast of looking, of speaking, and of touching, I will, I say, assume my native temper, I will be calm, be cold and unconcerned, as I have been to all the World,–but to _Philander_.– The almighty power he has is unaccountable:–by yonder breaking day that opens in the east, opens to see my shame–I swear–by that great ruler of the day, the sun, by that Almighty Power that rules them both, I swear–I swear, _Philander_, charming lovely youth! Thou art the first e’er kindled soft desires about my soul, thou art the first that ever did inform me that there was such a sort of wish about me. I thought the vanity of being beloved made up the greatest part of the satisfaction; it was joy to see my lovers sigh about me, adore and praise me, and increase my pride by every look, by every word and action; and him I fancied best I favoured most, and he past for the happy fortune; him I have suffered too to kiss and press me, to tell me all his tale of love, and sigh, which I would listen to with pride and pleasure, permitted it, and smiled him kind returns; nay, by my life, then thought I loved him too, thought I could have been content to have passed my life at this gay rate, with this fond hoping lover, and thought no farther than of being great, having rich coaches, shewing equipage, to pass my hours in dressing, in going to the operas and the tower, make visits where I list, be seen at balls; and having still the vanity to think the men would gaze and languish where I came, and all the women envy me; I thought no farther on–but thou, _Philander_, hast made me take new measures, I now can think of nothing but of thee, I loathe the sound of love from any other voice, and conversation makes my soul impatient, and does not only dull me into melancholy, but perplexes me out of all humour, out of all patient sufferance, and I am never so well pleased when from _Philander_, as when I am retired, and curse my character and figure in the world, because it permits me not to prevent being visited; one thought of thee is worth the world’s enjoyment, I hate to dress, I hate to be agreeable to any eyes but thine; I hate the noise of equipage and crowds, and would be more content to live with thee in some lone shaded cottage, than be a queen, and hindered by that grandeur one moment’s conversation with _Philander_: may’st thou despise and loathe me, a curse the greatest that I can invent, if this be any thing but real honest truth. No, no, _Philander_, I find I never lov’d till now, I understood it not, nor knew what those sighs and pressings meant which others gave me; yet every speaking glance thy eyes put on, inform my soul what it is they plead and languish for: if you but touch my hand, my breath grows faint and short, my blood glows in my face, and runs with an unusual warmth through every vein, and tells my heart what it is _Philander_ ails, when he falls sighing on my bosom; oh then, I fear, I answer every look, and every sigh and touch, in the same silent but intelligible language, and understood, I fear, too well by thee: till now I never feared love as a criminal. Oh tell me not, mistaken foolish maids, true love is innocent, ye cold, ye dull, ye unconsidering lovers; though I have often heard it from the grave and wise, and preached myself that doctrine: I now renounce it all, it is false, by heaven! it is false, for now I love, and know it all a fiction; yes, and love so, as never any woman can equal me in love, my soul being all composed (as I have often said) of softer materials. Nor is it fancy sets my rates on beauty, there is an intrinsic value in thy charms, who surely none but I am able to understand, and to those that view thee not with my judging eyes, ugliness fancied would appear the same, and please as well. If all could love or judge like me, why does _Philander_ pass so unregarded by a thousand women, who never sighed for him? What makes _Myrtilla_, who possesses all, looks on thee, feels thy kisses, hears thee speak, and yet wants sense to know how blessed she is, it is want of judgement all; and how, and how can she that judges ill, love well?
Granting my passion equal to its object, you must allow it infinite, and more in me than any other woman, by how much more my soul is composed of tenderness; and yet I say I own, for I may own it, now heaven and you are witness of my shame, I own with all this love, with all this passion, so vast, so true, and so unchangeable, that I have wishes, new, unwonted wishes, at every thought of thee I find a strange disorder in my blood, that pants and burns in every vein, and makes me blush, and sigh, and grow impatient, ashamed and angry; but when I know it the effects of love, I am reconciled, and wish and sigh anew; for when I sit and gaze upon thy eyes, thy languishing, thy lovely dying eyes, play with thy soft white hand, and lay my glowing cheeks to thine—-Oh God! What language can express my transport! All that is tender, all that is soft desire, seizes every trembling limb, and it is with pain concealed.–Yes, yes, _Philander_, it is the fatal truth, since thou hast found it, I confess it too, and yet I love thee dearly; long, long it was that I essayed to hide the guilty flame, if love be guilt; for I confess I did dissemble a coldness which I was not mistress of: there lies a woman’s art, there all her boasted virtue, it is but well dissembling, and no more–but mine, alas, is gone, for ever fled; this, this feeble guard that should secure my honour, thou hast betrayed, and left it quite defenceless. Ah, what’s a woman’s honour when it is so poorly guarded! No wonder that you conquer with such ease, when we are only safe by the mean arts of base dissimulation, an ill as shameful as that to which we fall. Oh silly refuge! What foolish nonsense fond custom can persuade: Yet so it is; and she that breaks her laws, loses her fame, her honour and esteem. Oh heavens! How quickly lost it is! Give me, ye powers, my fame, and let me be a fool; let me retain my virtue and my honour, and be a dull insensible–But, oh! Where is it? I have lost it all; it is irrecoverably lost: yes, yes, ye charming perjured man, it is gone, and thou hast quite undone me.–
What though I lay extended on my bed, undressed, unapprehensive of my fate, my bosom loose and easy of access, my garments ready, thin and wantonly put on, as if they would with little force submit to the fond straying hand: what then, _Philander_, must you take the advantage? Must you be perjured because I was tempting? It is true, I let you in by stealth by night, whose silent darkness favoured your treachery; but oh, _Philander_, were not your vows as binding by a glimmering taper, as if the sun with all his awful light had been a looker on? I urged your vows as you pressed on,–but oh, I fear it was in such a way, so faintly and so feebly I upbraided you, as did but more advance your perjuries. Your strength increas’d, but mine alas declin’d;’till I quite fainted in your arms, left you triumphant lord of all: no more my faint denials do persuade, no more my trembling hands resist your force, unregarded lay the treasure which you toil’d for, betrayed and yielded to the lovely conqueror–but oh tormenting,—-when you saw the store, and found the prize no richer, with what contempt, (yes false, dear man) with what contempt you view’d the unvalu’d trophy: what, despised! Was all you call a heaven of joy and beauty exposed to view, and then neglected? Were all your prayers heard, your wishes granted, and your toils rewarded, the trembling victim ready for the sacrifice, and did you want devotion to perform it? And did you thus receive the expected blessing?—-Oh–by heaven I’ll never see thee more, and it will be charity to thee, for thou hast no excuse in store that can convince my opinion that I am hated, loathed,–I cannot bear that thought–or if I do, it shall only serve to fortify my fixed resolve never to see thee more.–And yet I long to hear thy false excuse, let it be quickly then; it is my disdain invites thee–to strengthen which, there needs no more than that you let me hear your poor defence.—-But it is a tedious time to that slow hour wherein I dare permit thee, but hope not to incline my soul to love: no, I am yet safe if I can stop but here, but here be wise, resolve and be myself.
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
As my page was coming with the enclosed, he met _Alexis_ at the gate with yours, and who would not depart without an answer to it;–to go or stay is the question. Ah, Philander! Why do you press a heart too ready to yield to love and you! Alas, I fear you guess too well my answer, and your own soul might save me the blushing trouble of a reply. I am plunged in, past hope of a retreat; and since my fate has pointed me out for ruin, I cannot fall more gloriously. Take then, _Philander_, to your dear arms, a maid that can no longer resist, who is disarmed of all defensive power: she yields, she yields, and does confess it too; and sure she must be more than mortal, that can hold out against thy charms and vows. Since I must be undone, and give all away; I’ll do it generously, and scorn all mean reserves: I will be brave in love, and lavish all; nor shall _Philander_ think I love him well, unless I do. Take, charming victor, then, what your own merits, and what love has given you; take, take, at last, the dear reward of all your sighs and tears, your vows and sufferings. But since, _Philander_, it is an age to night, and till the approach of those dear silent hours, thou knowest I dare not give thee admittance; I do conjure thee, go to _Cesario_, whom I find too pressing, not to believe the concerns great; and so jealous I am of thy dear safety, that every thing alarms my fears: oh! satisfy them then and go, it is early yet, and if you take horse immediately, you will be there by eight this morning; go, I conjure you; for though it is an unspeakable satisfaction to know you are so near me, yet I prefer your safety and honour to all considerations else. You may soon dispatch your affair, and render yourself time enough on the place appointed, which is where you last night waited, and it will be at least eight at night before it is possible to bring you to my arms. Come in your chariot, and do not heat yourself with riding; have a care of me and my life, in the preservation of all I love. Be sure you go, and do not, my _Philander_, out of a punctilio of love, neglect your dear safety—-go then, _Philander_, and all the gods of love preserve and attend thee on thy way, and bring thee safely back to
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
Oh thou most charming of thy sex! Thou lovely dear delight of my transported soul! thou everlasting treasure of my heart! What hast thou done? Given me an over-joy, that fails but very little of performing what grief’s excess had almost finished before: eternal blessings on thee, for a goodness so divine, oh, thou most excellent, and dearest of thy sex! I know not what to do, or what to say. I am not what I was, I do not speak, nor walk, nor think as I was wont to do; sure the excess of joy is far above dull sense, or formal thinking, it cannot stay for ceremonious method. I rave with pleasure, rage with the dear thought of coming ecstasy. Oh _Sylvia_, _Sylvia_, _Sylvia_! My soul, my vital blood, and without which I could as well subsist–oh, my adorable, my _Sylvia_! Methinks I press thee, kiss thee, hear thee sigh, behold thy eyes, and all the wondrous beauty of thy face; a solemn joy has spread itself through every vein, sensibly through every artery of my heart, and I can think of nothing but of _Sylvia_, the lovely _Sylvia_, the blooming flowing _Sylvta_! And shall I see thee? Shall I touch thy hands, and press thy dear, thy charming body in my arms, and taste a thousand joys, a thousand ravishments? Oh God! shall I? Oh _Sylvia_, say; but thou hast said enough to make me mad, and I, forgetful of thy safety and my own, shall bring thy wild adoring slave to _Bellfont_, and throw him at thy feet, to pay his humble gratitude for this great condescension, this vast bounty.
Ah, _Sylvia_! How shall I live till night? And you impose too cruelly upon me, in conjuring me to go to _Cesario_; alas! Does _Sylvia_ know to what she exposes her _Philander_? Whose joy is so transporting, great, that when he comes into the grave cabal, he must betray the story of his heart, and, in lieu of the mighty business there in hand, be raving still on _Sylvia_, telling his joy to all the amazed listeners, and answering questions that concern our great affair, with something of my love; all which will pass for madness, and undo me: no, give me leave to rave in silence, and unseen among the trees, they’ll humour my disease, answer my murmuring joy, and echoes flatter it, repeat thy name, repeat that _Sylvia_’s mine! and never hurt her fame; while the cabals, business and noisy town will add confusion to my present transport, and make me mad indeed: no, let me alone, thou sacred lovely creature, let me be calm and quiet here, and tell all the insensibles I meet in the woods what _Sylvia_ has this happy minute destined me: oh, let me record it on every bark, on every oak and beech, that all the world may wonder at my fortune, and bless the generous maid; let it grow up to ages that shall come, that they may know the story of our loves, and how a happy youth, they called _Philander_, was once so blest by heaven as to possess the charming, the adored and loved by all, the glorious _Sylvia_! a maid, the most divine that ever graced a story; and when the nymphs would look for an example of love and constancy, let them point out _Philander_ to their doubted swains, and cry, ‘Ah! love but as the young _Philander_ did, and then be fortunate, and then reap all your wishes:’ and when the shepherd would upbraid his nymph, let him but cry,–‘See here what _Sylvia_ did to save the young _Philander_;’ but oh! There never will be such another nymph as _Sylvia_; heaven formed but one to shew the world what angels are, and she was formed for me, yes she was–in whom I would not quit my glorious interest to reign a monarch here, or any boasted gilded thing above! Take all, take all, ye gods, and give me but this happy coming night! Oh, _Sylvia, Sylvia_! By all thy promised joys I am undone if any accident should ravish this night from me: this night! No not for a lease of years to all eternity would I throw thee away: oh! I am all flame, all joyful fire and softness; methinks it is heaven where-ever I look round me, air where I tread, and ravishing music when I speak, because it is all of _Sylvia_—-let me alone, oh let me cool a little, or I shall by an excess of joyful thought lose all my hoped for bliss. Remove a little from me; go, my _Sylvia_, you are so excessive sweet, so wondrous dazzling, you press my senses even to pain–away–let me take air–let me recover breath: oh let me lay me down beneath some cooling shade, near some refreshing crystal murmuring spring, and fan the gentle air about me. I suffocate, I faint with this close loving, I must allay my joy or be undone–I will read thy cruel letters, or I will think of some sad melancholy hour wherein thou hast dismissed me despairing from thy presence: or while you press me now to be gone with so much earnestness, you have some lover to receive and entertain; perhaps it is only for the vanity to hear him tell his nauseous passion to you, breathe on your lovely face, and daub your garments with his fulsome embrace; but oh, by heaven, I cannot think that thought! And thou hast sworn thou canst not suffer it–if I should find thee false–but it is impossible.–Oh! Should I find _Foscario_ visit thee, him whom thy parents favour, I should undo you all, by heaven I should–but thou hast sworn, what need _Philander_ more? Yes, _Sylvia_, thou hast sworn and called heaven’s vengeance down whenever thou gavest a look, or a dear smile in love to that pretending fop: yet from his mighty fortune there is danger in him–What makes that thought torment me now?–Be gone, for _Sylvia_ loves me, and will preserve my life—-
I am not able, my adorable charmer, to obey your commands in going from the sight of happy _Bellfont_; no, let the great wheel of the vast design roll on—-or for ever stand still, for I will not aid its motion to leave the mightier business of my love unfinished; no, let fortune and the duller fools toil on—-for I’ll not bate a minute of my joys with thee to save the world, much less so poor a parcel of it; and sure there is more solid pleasure even in these expecting hours I wait to snatch my bliss, than to be lord of all the universe without it: then let me wait, my _Sylvia_, in those melancholy shades that part _Bellfont_ from _Dorillus_’s farm; perhaps my _Sylvia_ may walk that way so unattended, that we might meet and lose ourselves for a few moments in those intricate retreats: ah _Sylvia_! I am dying with that thought—-oh heavens! What cruel destiny is mine? Whose fatal circumstances do not permit me to own my passion, and lay claim to _Sylvia_, to take her without control to shades and palaces, to live for ever with her, to gaze for ever on her, to eat, to loll, to rise, to play, to sleep, to act over all the pleasures and the joys of life with her–but it is in vain I rave, in vain employ myself in the fool’s barren business, wishing–this thought has made me sad as death: oh, _Sylvia_! I can never be truly happy–adieu, employ thyself in writing to me, and remember my life bears date but only with thy faith and love.
PHILANDER.
_Try, my adorable, what you can do to meet me in the wood this afternoon, for there I will live to-day._
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
Obstinate _Philander_, I conjure you by all your vows, by all your sacred love, by those dear hours this happy night designed in favour of you, to go without delay to _Cesario_; ’twill be unsafe to disobey a prince in his jealous circumstances. The fatigue of the journey cannot be great, and you well know the torment of my fears! Oh! I shall never be happy, or think you safe, till you have quitted this fatal interest: go, my _Philander_—-and remember whatever toils you take will be rewarded at night in the arms of
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
Whatever toils you take shall be rewarded in the arms of _Sylvia_—-by heaven, I am inspired to act wonders: yes, _Sylvia_, yes, my adorable maid, I am gone, I fly as swift as lightning, or the soft darts of love shot from thy charming eyes, and I can hardly stay to say—-adieu—-
* * * * *
_To_ the Lady—-
_Dear Child_,
Long foreseeing the misery whereto you must arrive, by this fatal correspondence with my unhappy lord, I have often, with tears and prayers, implored you to decline so dangerous a passion: I have never yet acquainted our parents with your misfortunes, but I fear I must at last make use of their authority for the prevention of your ruin. It is not my dearest child, that part of this unhappy story that relates to me, that grieves me, but purely that of thine.
Consider, oh young noble maid, the infamy of being a prostitute! And yet the act itself in this fatal amour is not the greatest sin, but the manner, which carries an unusual horror with it; for it is a brother too, my child, as well as a lover, one that has lain by thy unhappy sister’s side so many tender years, by whom he has a dear and lovely off-spring, by which he has more fixed himself to thee by relation and blood: consider this, oh fond heedless girl! And suffer not a momentary joy to rob thee of thy eternal fame, me of my eternal repose, and fix a brand upon our noble house, and so undo us all.—-Alas, consider, after an action so shameful, thou must obscure thyself in some remote corner of the world, where honesty and honour never are heard of: no, thou canst not shew thy face, but it will be pointed at for something monstrous; for a hundred ages may not produce a story so lewdly infamous and loose as thine. Perhaps (fond as you are) you imagine the sole joy of being beloved by him, will atone for those affronts and reproaches you will meet with in the censuring world: but, child, remember and believe me, there is no lasting faith in sin; he that has broke his vows with heaven and me, will be again perjured to heaven and thee, and all the world!—-He once thought me as lovely, lay at my feet, and sighed away his soul, and told such piteous stories of his sufferings, such sad, such mournful tales of his departed rest, his broken heart and everlasting love, that sure I thought it had been a sin not to have credited his charming perjuries; in such a way he swore, with such a grace he sighed, so artfully he moved, so tenderly he looked. Alas, dear child, then all he said was new, unusual with him, never told before, now it is a beaten road, it is learned by heart, and easily addressed to any fond believing woman, the tattered, worn out fragments of my trophies, the dregs of what I long since drained from off his fickle heart; then it was fine, then it was brisk and new, now palled and dull by being repeated often. Think, my child, what your victorious beauty merits, the victim of a heart unconquered by any but your eyes: alas, he has been my captive, my humble whining slave, disdain to put him on your fetters now; alas, he can say no new thing of his heart to thee, it is love at second hand, worn out, and all its gaudy lustre tarnished; besides, my child, if thou hadst no religion binding enough, no honour that could stay thy fatal course, yet nature should oblige thee, and give a check to the unreasonable enterprise. The griefs and dishonour of our noble parents, who have been eminent for virtue and piety, oh suffer them not to be regarded in this censuring world as the most unhappy of all the race of old nobility; thou art the darling child, the joy of all, the last hope left, the refuge of their sorrow, for they, alas, have had but unkind stars to influence their unadvised off-spring; no want of virtue in their education, but this last blow of fate must strike them dead; think, think of this, my child, and yet retire from ruin; haste, fly from destruction which pursues thee fast; haste, haste and save thy parents and a sister, or what is more dear, thy fame; mine has already received but too many desperate wounds, and all through my unkind lord’s growing passion for thee, which was most fatally founded on my ruin, and nothing but my ruin could advance it; and when, my sister, thou hast run thy race, made thyself loathed, undone and infamous as hell, despis’d, scorn’d and abandon’d by all, lampoon’d, perhaps diseas’d; this faithless man, this cause of all will leave thee too, grow weary of thee, nauseated by use; he may perhaps consider what sins, what evils, and what inconveniencies and shames thou’st brought him to, and will not be the last shall loathe and hate thee: for though youth fancy it have a mighty race to run of pleasing vice and vanity, the course will end, the goal will be arrived to at the last, where they will sighing stand, look back, and view the length of precious time they’ve fool’d away; when traversed over with honour and discretion, how glorious were the journey, and with what joy the wearied traveller lies down and basks beneath the shades that end the happy course.
Forgive, dear child, this advice, and pursue it; it is the effect of my pity, not anger; nor could the name of rival ever yet have power to banish that of sister from my soul—-farewell, remember me; pray heaven thou hast not this night made a forfeit of thy honour, and that this which comes from a tender bleeding heart may have the fortune to inspire thee with grace to avoid all temptations for the future, since they must end in sorrows which is the eternal prayer of,
_Dearest child,_
_Your affectionate Sister._
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
Ask me not, my dearest brother, the reason of this sudden change, ask me no more from whence proceeds this strange coldness, or why this alteration; it is enough my destiny has not decreed me for _Philander_: alas, I see my error, and looking round about me, find nothing but approaching horror and confusion in my pursuit of love: oh whither was I going, to what dark paths, to what everlasting shades had smiling love betray’d me, had I pursued him farther? But I at last have subdued his force, and the fond charmer shall no more renew his arts and flatteries; for I’m resolv’d as heaven, as fix’d as fate and death, and I conjure you trouble my repose no more; for if you do (regardless of my honour, which if you loved you would preserve) I will do a deed shall free me from your importunities, that shall amaze and cool your vicious flame. No more–remember you have a noble wife, companion of your vows, and I have honour, both which are worth preserving, and for which, though you want generous love, you will find neither that nor courage wanting in _Sylvia_.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
Yes, my adorable _Sylvia_, I will pursue you no farther; only for all my pains, for all my sufferings, for my tormenting sleepless nights, and thoughtful anxious days; for all my faithless hopes, my fears, my sighs, my prayers and my tears, for my unequalled and unbounded passion, and my unwearied pursuits in love, my never-dying flame, and lastly, for my death; I only beg, in recompense for all, this last favour from your pity; That you will deign to view the bleeding wound that pierced the truest heart that ever fell a sacrifice to love; you will find my body lying beneath that spreading oak, so sacred to _Philander_, since it was there he first took into his greedy ravished soul, the dear, the soft confession of thy passion, though now forgotten and neglected all–make what haste you can, you will find there stretched out the mangled carcase of the lost
PHILANDER.
_Ah_ Sylvia! _Was it for this that I was sent in such haste away this morning to_ Cesario_? Did I for this neglect the world, our great affair, and all that Prince’s interest, and fly back to_ Bellfont _on the wings of love? Where in lieu of receiving a dear blessing from thy hand, do I find—-never see me more–good heaven–but, with my life, all my complaints are ended; only it would be, some ease, even in death, to know what happy rival it is has armed thy cruel hand against_ Philander’s _heart_.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
Stay, I conjure thee, stay thy sacrilegious hand; for the least wound it gives the lord of all my wishes, I’ll double on my breast a thousand fold; stay then, by all thy vows, thy love, and all thy hopes, I swear thou hast this night a full recompense of all thy pains from yielding _Sylvia_; I do conjure thee stay—-for when the news arrives thou art no more, this poor, this lost, abandoned heart of mine shall fall a victim to thy cruelty: no, live, my _Philander_, I conjure thee, and receive all thou canst ask, and all that can be given by
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
Oh, my charming _Philander_! How very ill have you recompensed my last lost commands? Which were that you should live; and yet at the same moment, while you are reading of the dear obligation, and while my page was waiting your kind return, you desperately exposed your life to the mercy of this innocent rival, betraying unadvisedly at the same time my honour, and the secret of your love, and where to kill or to be killed, had been almost equally unhappy: it was well my page told me you disarmed him in this rencounter; yet you, he says, are wounded, some sacred drops of blood are fallen to the earth and lost, the least of which is precious enough to ransom captive queens: oh! Haste _Philander_, to my arms for cure, I die with fear there may be danger—-haste, and let me bathe, the dear, the wounded part in floods of tears, lay to my warm lips, and bind it with my torn hair: oh! _Philander_, I rave with my concern for thee, and am ready to break all laws of decency and duty, and fly without considering, to thy succour, but that I fear to injure thee much more by the discovery, which such an unadvised absence would make. Pray heaven the unlucky adventure reach not _Bellfont; Foscario_ has no reason to proclaim it, and thou art too generous to boast the conquest, and my page was the only witness, and he is as silent and as secret as the grave: but why, _Philander_, was he sent me back without reply? What meant that cruel silence—-say, my _Philander_, will you not obey me?—-Will you abandon me? Can that dear tongue be perjured? And can you this night disappoint your _Sylvia_? What have I done, oh obstinately cruel, irreconcileable—-what, for my first offence? A little poor resentment and no more? A little faint care of my gasping honour, could that displease so much? Besides I had a cause, which you shall see; a letter that would cool love’s hottest fires, and turn it to devotion; by heaven it was such a check—-such a surprise—-but you yourself shall judge, if after that I could say less, than bid eternally farewell to love–at least to thee–but I recanted soon; one sad dear word, one soft resenting line from thee, gained love the day again, and I despised the censures of the duller world: yes, yes, and I confessed you had overcome, and did this merit no reply? I asked the boy a thousand times what you said, how and in what manner you received it, chid him, and laid your silent fault on him, till he with tears convinced me, and said he found you hastening to the grove,–and when he gave you my commands—-you looked upon him with such a wild and fixed regard, surveying him all over while you were opening it—-as argued some unusual motion in you; then cried, ‘Be gone–I cannot answer flattery’—-Good heaven, what can you mean? But ‘ere he got to the farther end of the grove, where still you walked a solemn death-like pace, he saw _Foscario_ pass him unattended, and looking back saw your rencounter, saw all that happened between you, then ran to your assistance just as you parted; still you were roughly sullen, and neither took notice of his proffered service, nor that you needed it, although you bled apace; he offered you his aid to tie your wounds up—-but you replied–‘Be gone, and do not trouble me’—-Oh, could you imagine I could live with this neglect? Could you, my _Philander_? Oh what would you have me do! If nothing but my death or ruin can suffice for my atonement, I will sacrifice either with joy; yes, I’ll proclaim my passion aloud, proclaim it at _Bellfont_, own the dear criminal flame, fly to my Philander’s aid and be undone; for thus I cannot, no, I will not live, I rave, I languish, faint and die with pain; say that you live, oh, say but that you live, say you are coming to the meadow behind the garden-grove, in order to your approach to my arms: oh, swear that all your vows are true; oh, swear that you are _Sylvia’s_; and in return, I will swear that I am yours without reserve, whatever fate is destined for your
SYLVIA.
_I die with impatience, either to see or hear from you; I fear it is yet too soon for the first—-oh therefore save me with the last, or I shall rave, and wildly betray all by coming to_ Dorillus _his farm, or seeking you where-ever you cruelly have hid yourself from_
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
Ah, _Sylvia_, how have you in one day destroyed that repose I have been designing so many years! Oh, thou false—-but wondrous fair creature! Why did heaven ordain so much beauty, and so much perfidy, so much excellent wit, and so much cunning, (things inconsistent in any but in _Sylvia_) in one divine frame, but to undo mankind: yes, _Sylvia_, thou wert born to murder more believing men than the unhappy and undone _Philander_. Tell me, thou charming hypocrite, why hast thou thus deluded me? Why? oh, why was I made the miserable object of thy fatal vow-breach? What have I done, thou lovely, fickle maid, that thou shouldst be my murderer? And why dost thou call me from the grave with such dear soft commands as would awake the very quiet dead, to torture me anew, after my eyes (curse on their fatal sense) were too sure witnesses of thy infidelity? Oh, fickle maid, how much more kind it had been to have sent me down to earth, with plain heart-breaking truth, than a mean subtle falsehood, that has undone thy credit in my soul? Truth, though it were cruel, had been generous in thee; though thou wert perjured, false, forsworn—-thou shouldst not have added to it that yet baser sin of treachery: you might have been provoked to have killed your friend, but it were base to stab him unawares, defenceless and unwarned; smile in my face, and strike me to the heart; soothe me with all the tenderest marks of my passion—-nay, with an invitation too, that would have gained a credit in one that had been jilted over the world, flattered and ruined by all thy cozening sex, and all to send me vain and pleased away, only to gain a day to entertain another lover in. Oh, fantastic woman! destructive glorious thing, what needed this deceit? Hadst thou not with unwonted industry persuaded me to have hasted to _Cesario_, by heaven, I had dully lived the tedious day in traversing the flowery meads and silent groves, laid by some murmuring spring, had sigh’d away the often counted hours, and thought on _Sylvia_, till the blessed minute of my ravishing approach to her; had been a fond, believing and imposed on coxcomb, and never had dreamt the treachery, never seen the snake that basked beneath the gay, the smiling flowers; securely thou hadst cozened me, reaped the new joys, and made my rival sport at the expense of all my happiness: yes, yes, your hasty importunity first gave me jealousy, made me impatient with _Cesario_, and excuse myself to him by a hundred inventions; neglected all to hasten back, where all my joys, where all my killing fears and torments resided–but when I came—-how was I welcomed? With your confirming billet; yes, _Sylvia_, how! Let _Dorillus_ inform you, between whose arms I fell dead, shame on me, dead–and the first thought my soul conceived when it returned, was, not to die in jest. I answered your commands, and hastened to the grove, where—-by all that is sacred, by thyself I swear (a dearer oath than heaven and earth can furnish me with) I did resolve to die; but oh, how soon my soft, my silent passion turned to loud rage, rage easier to be borne, to dire despair, to fury and revenge; for there I saw, _Foscario_, my young, my fair, my rich and powerful rival, he hasted through the grove, all warm and glowing from the fair false one’s arms; the blushes which thy eyes had kindled were fresh upon his cheeks, his looks were sparkling with the new-blown fire, his heart so briskly burnt with a glad, peaceful smile dressed all his face, tricked like a bridegroom, while he perfum’d the air as he passed through it—-none but the man that loves and dotes like me is able to express my sense of rage: I quickly turned the sword from my own heart to send it to his elevated one, giving him only time to—-draw–that was the word, and I confess your spark was wondrous ready, brisk with success, vain with your new-given favours, he only cried–‘If _Sylvia_ be the quarrel–I am prepared—-‘ And he maintained your cause with admirable courage I confess, though chance or fortune luckily gave me his sword, which I would fain have rendered back, and that way would have died; but he refused to arm his hand anew against the man that had not took advantage of him, and thus we parted: then it was that malice supported me with life, and told me I should scorn to die for so perfidious and so ruinous a creature; but charming and bewitching still, it was then I borrowed so much calmness of my lessening anger to read the billet over, your page had brought me, which melted all the rough remaining part of rage away into tame languishment: ah, _Sylvia_! This heart of mine was never formed by nature to hold out long in stubborn sullenness; I am already on the excusing part, and fain would think thee innocent and just; deceive me prettily, I know thou canst soothe my fond heart, and ask how it could harbour a faithless thought of _Sylvia_–do–flatter me, protest a little, swear my rival saw thee not, say he was there by chance—-say any thing; or if thou sawest him, say with how cold a look he was received—-Oh, _Sylvia_, calm my soul, deceive it flatter it, and I shall still believe and love thee on—-yet shouldest thou tell me truth, that thou art false, by heaven I do adore thee so, I still should love thee on; should I have seen thee clasp him in thy arms, print kisses on his cheeks and lips, and more—-so fondly and so dotingly I love, I think I should forgive thee; for I swear by all the powers that pity frail mortality, there is no joy, no life, no heaven without thee! Be false! Be cruel, perjured, infamous, yet still I must adore thee; my soul was formed of nothing but of love, and all that love, and all that soul is _Sylvia_’s; but yet, since thou hast framed me an excuse, be kind and carry it on;—-to be deluded well, as thou canst do it, will be the same to innocence, as loving: I shall not find the cheat: I will come then—-and lay myself at thy feet, and seek there that repose, that dear content, which is not to be found in this vast world besides; though much of my heart’s joy thou hast abated; and fixed a sadness in my soul that will not easily vanish—-oh _Sylvia_, take care of me, for I am in thy power, my life, my fame, my soul are all in thy hands, be tender of the victims, and remember if any action of thy life should shew a fading love, that very moment I perceive the change, you shall find dead at your feet the abandoned
PHILANDER.
_Sad as death, I am going towards the meadow, in order to my approach towards_ Sylvia, _the world affording no repose to me, but when I am where the dear charmer is_.
* * * * *
_To_ Philander _in the Meadow_.
And can you be jealous of me, _Philander_? I mean so poorly jealous as to believe me capable of falsehood, of vow-breach, and what is worse, of loving any thing but the adorable _Philander_? I could not once believe so cruel a thought could have entered into the imaginations of a soul so entirely possessed with _Sylvia_, and so great a judge of love. Abandon me, reproach me, hate me, scorn me, whenever I harbour any thing in mind so destructive to my repose and thine. Can I _Philander_, give you a greater proof of my passion; of my faithful, never-dying passion, than being undone for you? Have I any other prospect in all this soft adventure, but shame, dishonour, reproach, eternal infamy and ever-lasting destruction, even of soul and body? I tremble with fear of future punishment; but oh, love will have no devotion (mixed with his ceremonies) to any other deity; and yet, alas, I might have loved another, and have been saved, or any maid but _Sylvia_ might have possessed without damnation. But it is a brother I pursue, it is a sister gives her honour up, and none but _Canace_, that ever I read in story, was ever found so wretched as to love a brother with so criminal a flame, and possibly I may meet her fate. I have a father too as great as _Aeolus_, as angry and revengeful where his honour is concerned; and you found, my dearest brother, how near you were last night to a discovery in the garden. I have some reason too to fear this night’s adventure, for as ill fate would have it (loaded with other thoughts) I told not _Melinda_ of your adventure last night with _Monsieur_ the Count, who meeting her early this morning, had like to have made a discovery, if he have not really so already; she strove to shun him, but he cried out–‘_Melinda_, you cannot fly me by light, as you did last night in the dark–‘She turned and begged his pardon, for neither coming nor designing to come, since she had resolved never to violate her vows to _Alexis_: ‘Not coming?’ cried he, ‘not returning again, you meant, _Melinda_; secure of my heart and my purse, you fled with both.’ _Melinda_, whose honour was now concerned, and not reminding your escape in her likeness, blushing, she sharply denied the fact, and with a disdain that had laid aside all respect, left him; nor can it be doubted, but he fancied (if she spoke truth) there was some other intrigue of love carried on at _Bellfont_. Judge, my charming _Philander_, if I have not reason to be fearful of thy safety, and my fame; and to be jealous that so wise a man as _Monsieur_ did not take that parly to be held with a spirit last night, or that it was an apparition he courted: but if there be no boldness like that of love, nor courage like that of a lover; sure there never was so great a heroine as _Sylvia_. Undaunted, I resolve to stand the shock of all, since it is impossible for me to leave _Philander_ any doubt or jealousy that I can dissipate, and heaven knows how far I was from any thought of seeing _Foscario_, when I urged _Philander_ to depart. I have to clear my innocence, sent thee the letter I received two hours after thy absence, which falling into my mother’s hands, whose favourite he is, he had permission to make his visit, which within an hour he did; but how received by me, be thou the judge, whenever it is thy fate to be obliged to entertain some woman to whom thy soul has an entire aversion. I forced a complaisance against my nature, endured his racking courtship with a fortitude that became the great heart that bears thy sacred image; as martyrs do, I suffered without murmuring, or the least sign of the pain I endured–it is below the dignity of my mighty passion to justify it farther, let it plead its own cause, it has a thousand ways to do it, and those all such as cannot be resisted, cannot be doubted, especially this last proof of sacrificing to your repose the never more to be doubted
SYLVIA.
_About an hour hence I shall expect you to advance._
* * * * *
_To_ the Lady—-
_Madam,_
‘Tis not always the divine graces wherewith heaven has adorned your resplendent beauties, that can maintain the innumerable conquests they gain, without a noble goodness; which may make you sensibly compassionate the poor and forlorn captives you have undone: but, most fair of your sex, it is I alone that have a destiny more cruel and severe, and find myself wounded from your very frowns, and secured a slave as well as made one; the very scorn from those triumphant stars, your eyes, have the same effects, as if they shined with the continual splendour of ravishing smiles; and I can no more shun their killing influence, than their all-saving aspects: and I shall expire contentedly, since I fall by so glorious a fate, if you will vouchsafe to pronounce my doom from that store-house of perfection, your mouth, from lips that open like the blushing rose, strow’d over with morning dew, and from a breath sweeter than holy incense; in order to which, I approach you, most excellent beauty, with this most humble petition, that you will deign to permit me to throw my unworthy self before the throne of your mercy, there to receive the sentence of my life or death; a happiness, though incomparably too great for so mean a vassal, yet with that reverence and awe I shall receive it, as I would the sentence of the gods, and which I will no more resist than I would the thunderbolts of _Jove_, or the revenge of angry _Juno_: for, madam, my immense passion knows no medium between life | and death, and as I never had the presumption to aspire to the glory of the first, I am not so abject as to fear I am wholly deprived of the glory of the last: I have too long lain convicted, extend your mercy, and put me now out of pain: you have often wrecked me to confess my promethean sin; spare the cruel vulture of despair, take him from my heart in pity, and either by killing words, or blasting lightning from those refulgent eyes, pronounce the death of,
_Madam,_
_Your admiring slave_,
FOSCARIO.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
_My Everlasting Charmer_,
I am convinc’d and pleas’d, my fears are vanish’d, and a heaven of solid joy is opened to my view, and I have nothing now in prospect but angel-brightness, glittering youth, dazzling beauty, charming sounds, and ravishing touches, and all around me ecstasies of pleasure, inconceivable transports without conclusion; _Mahomet_ never fancied such a heaven, not all his paradise promised such lasting felicity, or ever provided there the recompense of such a maid as _Sylvia_, such a bewitching form, such soft, such glorious eyes, where the soul speaks and dances, and betrays love’s secrets in every killing glance, a face, where every motion, every feature sweetly languishes, a neck all tempting–and her lovely breast inviting presses from the eager lips; such hands, such clasping arms, so white, so soft and slender! No, nor one of all his heavenly enjoyments, though promised years of fainting in one continued ecstasy, can make one moment’s joy with charming _Sylvia_. Oh, I am wrapt (with bare imagination) with a much vaster pleasure than any other dull appointment can dispense–oh, thou blessing sent from heaven to ease my toils of life! Thou sacred dear delight of my fond doting heart, oh, whither wilt thou lead me, to what vast heights of love? Into extremes as fatal and as dangerous as those excesses were that rendered me so cold in your opinion. Oh, _Sylvia, Sylvia_, have a care of me, manage my overjoyed soul, and all its eager passions, chide my fond heart, be angry if I faint upon thy bosom, and do not with thy tender voice recall me, a voice that kills out-right, and calls my fleeting soul out of its habitation: lay not such charming lips to my cold cheeks, but let me lie extended at thy feet untouched, unsighed upon, unpressed with kisses: oh, change those tender, trembling words of love into rough sounds and noises unconcerned, and when you see me dying, do not call my soul to mingle with thy sighs; yet shouldst thou abate one word, one look or tear, by heaven I should be mad; oh, never let me live to see declension in thy love! No, no, my charmer, I cannot bear the least supposed decay in those dear fondnesses of thine; and sure none ever became a maid so well, nor ever were received with adorations, like to mine!
Pardon, my adorable _Sylvia_, the rashness of my passion in this rencounter with _Foscario_; I am satisfied he is too unhappy in your disfavour to merit the being so in mine; but it was sufficient I then saw a joy in his face, a pleased gaiety in his ooks to make me think my rage reasonable, and my quarrel ust; by the style he writes, I dread his sense less than his person; but you, my lovely maid, have said enough to quit me of my fears for both—-the night comes on–I cannot call it envious, though it rob me of the light that should assist me to finish this, since it will more gloriously repay me in a happier place–come on then, thou blest retreat of lovers, I forgive by interruptions here, since thou wilt conduct to the arms of _Sylvia_,–the adoring
PHILANDER.
_If you have any commands for me, this weeder of the gardens, whom I met in going in thither, will bring it back; I wait in the meadow, and date this from the dear primrose-bank, where I have sat with_ Sylvia.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
_After the happy night._
‘Tis done, yes, _Philander_, it is done, and after that, what will not love and grief oblige me to own to you? Oh, by what insensible degrees a maid in love may arrive to say any thing to her lover without blushing! I have known the time, the blest innocent time, when but to think I loved _Philander_ would have covered my face with shame, and to have spoke it would have filled me with confusion–have made me tremble, blush, and bend my guilty eyes to earth, not daring to behold my charming conqueror, while I made that bashful confession–though now I am grown bold in love, yet I have known the time, when being at Court, and coming from the Presence, being offered some officious hand to lead me to my coach, I have shrunk back with my aversion to your sex, and have concealed my hands in my pockets to prevent their being touched;-a kiss would turn my stomach, and amorous looks (though they would make me vain) gave me a hate to him that sent them, and never any maid resolved so much as I to tread the paths of honour, and I had many precedents before me to make me careful: thus I was armed with resolution, pride and scorn, against all mankind; but alas, I made no defence against a brother, but innocently lay exposed to all his attacks of love, and never thought it criminal till it kindled a new desire about me, oh, that I should not die with shame to own it—-yet see (I say) how from one soft degree to another, I do not onlyconfess the shameful truth, but act it too; what with a brother–oh heavens! a crime so monstrous and so new—-but by all thy love, by those surprising joys so lately experienced—-I never will—-no, no, I never can—-repent it: oh incorrigible passion! oh harden’d love! At least I might have some remorse, some sighing after my poor departed honour; but why should I dissemble with the powers divine; that know the secrets of a soul doomed to eternal love? Yet I am mad, I rave and tear myself, traverse my guilty chamber in a disordered, but a soft confusion; and often opening the conscious curtains, survey the print where thou and I were last night laid, surveying it with a thousand tender sighs, and kiss and press thy dear forsaken side, imagine over all our solemn joys, every dear transport, all our ravishing repeated blisses; then almost fainting, languishing, cry–_Philander_, oh, my charming little god! Then lay me down in the dear place you pressed, still warm and fragrant with the sweet remains that thou hast left behind thee on the pillow. Oh, my soul’s joy! My dear, eternal pleasure! What softness hast thou added to my heart within a few hours! But oh, _Philander_–if (as I’ve oft been told) possession, which makes women fond and doting, should make thee cold and grow indifferent–if nauseated with repeated joy, and having made a full discovery of all that was but once imaginary, when fancy rendered every thing much finer than experience, oh, how were I undone! For me, by all the inhabitants of heaven I swear, by thy dear charming self, and by thy vows—-thou so transcendest all fancy, all dull imagination, all wondering ideas of what man was to me, that I believe thee more than human! Some charm divine dwells in thy touches; besides all these, thy charming look, thy love, the beauties that adorn thee, and thy wit, I swear there is a secret in nature that renders thee more dear, and fits thee to my soul; do not ask it me, let it suffice, it is so, and is not to be told; yes, by it I know thou art the man created for my soul, and he alone that has the power to touch it; my eyes and fancy might have been diverted, I might have favoured this above the other, preferred that face, that wit, or shape, or air—-but to concern my soul, to make that capable of something more than love, it was only necessary that _Philander_ should be formed, and formed just as he is; that shape, that face, that height, that dear proportion; I would not have a feature, not a look, not a hair altered, just as thou art, thou art an angel to me, and I, without considering what I am, what I might be, or ought, without considering the fatal circumstances of thy being married (a thought that shocks my soul whenever it enters) or whatever other thought that does concern my happiness or quiet, have fixed my soul to love and my _Philander_, to love thee with all thy disadvantages, and glory in my ruin; these are my firm resolves–these are my thoughts. But thou art gone, with all the trophies of my love and honour, gay with the spoils, which now perhaps are unregarded: the mystery is now revealed, the mighty secret is known, and now will be no wonder or surprise: But hear my vows: by all on which my life depends I swear—-if ever I perceive the least decay of love in thee, if ever thou breakest an oath, a vow, a word, if ever I see repentance in thy face, a coldness in thy eyes (which heaven divert) by that bright heaven I will die; you may believe me, since I had the courage and durst love thee, and after that durst sacrifice my fame, lose all to justify that love, will, when a change so fatal shall arrive, find courage too to die; yes, die _Philander_, assure thyself I will, and therefore have a care of
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
OH, where shall I find repose, where seek a silent quiet, but in my last retreat, the grave! I say not this, my dearest _Philander_, that I do or ever can repent my love, though the fatal source of all: for already we are betrayed, our race of joys, our course of stolen delight is ended ‘ere begun. I chid, alas, at morning’s dawn, I chid you to be gone, and yet, heaven knows, I grasped you fast, and rather would have died than parted with you; I saw the day come on, and cursed its busy light, and still you cried, one blessed minute more, before I part with all the joys of life! And hours were minutes then, and day grew old upon us unawares, it was all abroad, and had called up all the household spies to pry into the secrets of our loves, and thou, by some tale-bearing flatterer, were seen in passing through the garden; the news was carried to my father, and a mighty consult has been held in my mother’s apartment, who now refuses to see me; while I, possessed with love, and full of wonder at my new change, lulled with dear contemplation, (for I am altered much since yesterday, however thou hast charmed me) imagining none knew our theft of love, but only heaven and _Melinda_. But oh, alas, I had no sooner finished this enclosed, but my father entered my cabinet, but it was with such a look—-as soon informed me all was betrayed to him; a while he gazed on me with fierceness in his eyes, which so surprised and frighted me, that I, all pale and trembling, threw myself at his feet; he, seeing my disorder, took me up, and fixed so steadfast and so sad a look upon me, as would have broken any heart but mine, supported with _Philander_’s, image; I sighed and wept–and silently attended when the storm should fall, which turned into a shower so soft and piercing, I almost died to see it; at last delivering me a paper–‘Here,’ (cried he, with a sigh and trembling-interrupted voice) ‘read what I cannot tell thee. Oh, _Sylvia_,’ cried he, ‘–thou joy and hope of all my aged years, thou object of my dotage, how hast thou brought me to my grave with sorrow!’ So left me with the paper in my hand: speechless, unmov’d a while I stood, till he awaked me by new sighs and cries; for passing through my chamber, by chance, or by design, he cast his melancholy eyes towards my bed, and saw the dear disorder there, unusual–then cried–‘Oh, wretched _Sylvia_, thou art lost!’ And left me almost fainting. The letter, I soon found, was one you’d sent from _Dorillus_ his farm this morning, after you had parted from me, which has betrayed us all, but how it came into their hands I since have understood: for, as I said, you were seen passing through the garden, from thence (to be confirmed) they dogged you to the farm, and waiting there your motions, saw _Dorillus_ come forth with a letter in his hand, which though he soon concealed, yet not so soon but it was taken notice of, when hastening to _Bellfont_ the nearest way, they gave an account to _Monsieur_, my father, who going out to _Dorillus_, commanded him to deliver him the letter; his vassal durst not disobey, but yielded it with such dispute and reluctancy, as he durst maintain with a man so great and powerful; before _Dorillus_ returned you had taken horse, so that you are a stranger to our misfortune–What shall I do? Where shall I seek a refuge from the danger that threatens us? A sad and silent grief appears throughout _Bellfont_, and the face of all things is changed, yet none knows the unhappy cause but _Monsieur_ my father, and _Madam_ my mother, _Melinda_ and myself. _Melinda_ and my page are both dismissed from waiting on me, as supposed confidants of this dear secret, and strangers, creatures of _Madam_ the Countess, put about me. Oh _Philander_, what can I do? Thy advice, or I am lost: but how, alas, shall I either convey these to thee, or receive any thing from thee, unless some god of love, in pity of our miseries, should offer us his aid? I will try to corrupt my new boy, I see good nature, pity and generosity in his looks, he is well born too, and may be honest.
Thus far, _Philander_, I had writ when supper was brought me, for yet my parents have not deigned to let me come into their presence; those that serve me tell me _Myrtilla_ is this afternoon arrived at _Bellfont_; all is mighty close carried in the Countess’s apartment. I tremble with the thought of what will be the result of the great consultation: I have been tempting of the boy, but I perceive they have strictly charged him not to obey me; he says, against his will he shall betray me, for they will have him searched; but he has promised me to see one of the weeders, who working in the garden, into which my window opens, may from thence receive what I shall let down; if it be true, I shall get this fatal knowledge to you, that you may not only prepare for the worst, but contrive to set at liberty
_The unfortunate_ SYLVIA.
_My heart is ready to break, and my eyes are drowned in tears: oh_ Philander, _how much unlike the last will this fatal night prove! Farewell, and think of_ Sylvia.
* * * * *
_This was writ in the cover to both the foregoing letters to_ Philander.
Philander, all that I dreaded, all that I feared is fallen upon me: I have been arraigned, and convicted, three judges, severe as the three infernal ones, sat in condemnation on me, a father, a mother, and a sister; the fact, alas, was too clearly proved, and too many circumstantial truths appeared against me, for me to plead not guilty. But, oh heavens! Had you seen the tears, and heard the prayers, threats, reproaches and upbraidings–these from an injured sister, those my heartbroken parents; a tender mother here, a railing and reviling sister there–an angry father, and a guilty conscience–thou wouldst have wondered at my fortitude, my courage, and my resolution, and all from love! For surely I had died, had not thy love, thy powerful love supported me; through all the accidents of life and fate, that can and will support me; in the midst of all their clamours and their railings I had from that a secret and soft repose within, that whispered me, _Philander_ loves me still; discarded and renounced by my fond parents; love still replies, _Philander_ still will own thee; thrown from thy mother’s and thy sister’s arms, _Philander_’s still are open to receive thee: and though I rave and almost die to see them grieve, to think that I am the fatal cause who makes so sad confusion in our family; (for, oh, ’tis piteous to behold my sister’s sighs and tears, my mother’s sad despair, my father’s raging and his weeping, by melancholy turns;) yet even these deplorable objects, that would move the most obdurate, stubborn heart to pity and repentance, render not mine relenting; and yet I am wondrous pitiful by nature, and I can weep and faint to see the sad effects of my loose, wanton love, yet cannot find repentance for the dear charming sin; and yet, should’st thou behold my mother’s languishment, no bitter words proceeding from her lips, no tears fall from her downcast eyes, but silent and sad as death she sits, and will not view the light; should’st thou, I say, behold it, thou would’st, if not repent, yet grieve that thou hadst loved me: sure love has quite confounded nature in me, I could not else behold this fatal ruin without revenging it upon my stubborn heart; a thousand times a day I make new vows against the god of love, but it is too late, and I am as often perjured—-oh, should the gods revenge the broken vows of lovers, what love-sick man, what maid betrayed like me, but would be damned a thousand times? For every little love-quarrel, every kind resentment makes us swear to love no more; and every smile, and every flattering softness from the dear injurer, makes us perjured: let all the force of virtue, honour, interest join with my suffering parents to persuade me to cease to love _Philander_, yet let him but appear, let him but look on me with those dear charming eyes, let him but sigh, or press me to his fragrant cheek, fold me–and cry–‘Ah, _Sylvia_, can you quit me?–nay, you must not, you shall not, nay, I know you cannot, remember you are mine–There is such eloquence in those dear words, when uttered with a voice so tender and so passionate, that I believe them irresistible–alas, I find them so–and easily break all the feebler vows I make against thee; yes, I must be undone, perjured, forsworn, incorrigible, unnatural, disobedient, and any thing, rather than not _Philander_’s–Turn then, my soul, from these domestic, melancholy objects, and look abroad, look forward for a while on charming prospects; look on _Philander_, the dear, the young, the amorous _Philander_, whose very looks infuse a tender joy throughout the soul, and chase all cares, all sorrows and anxious thoughts from thence, whose wanton play is softer I than that of young-fledged angels, and when he looks, and sighs, and speaks, and touches, he is a very god: where art thou, oh miracle of youth, thou charming dear undoer! Now thou hast gained the glory of the conquest, thou slightest the rifled captive: what, not a line? Two tedious days are past, and no kind power relieves me with a word, or any tidings of _Philander_–and yet thou mayest have sent–but I shall never see it, till they raise up fresh witnesses against me–I cannot think thee wavering or forgetful; for if I did, surely thou knowest my heart so well, thou canst not think it would live to think another thought. Confirm my kind belief, and send to me—-
There is a gate well known to thee through which thou passest to _Bellfont_, it is in the road about half a league from hence, an old man opens it, his daughter weeds in the garden, and will convey this to thee as I have ordered her; by the same messenger thou mayest return thine, and early as she comes I’ll let her down a string, by which way unperceived I shall receive them from her: I will say no more, nor instruct you how you shall preserve your
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
_That which was left in her hands by_ Monsieur, _her father, in her cabinet._
_My adorable_ Sylvia,
I can no more describe to thee the torment with which I part from _Bellfont_, than I can that heaven of joy I was raised to last night by the transporting effects of thy wondrous love; both are to excess, and both killing, but in different kinds. Oh, _Sylvia_, by all my unspeakable raptures in thy arms, by all thy charms of beauty, too numerous and too ravishing for fancy to imagine–I swear—-by this last night, by this dear new discovery, thou hast increased my love to that vast height, it has undone my peace–all my repose is gone–this dear, dear night has ruined me, it has confirmed me now I must have _Sylvia_, and cannot live without her, no not a day, an hour—-to save the world, unless I had the entire possession of my lovely maid: ah, _Sylvia_, I am not that indifferent dull lover that can be raised by one beauty to an appetite, and satisfy it with another; I cannot carry the dear flame you kindle to quench it in the embraces of _Myrtilla_; no, by the eternal powers, he that pretends to love, and loves at that coarse rate, needs fear no danger from that passion, he never was born to love, or die for love; _Sylvia_, _Myrtilla_ and a thousand more were all the same to such a dull insensible; no, _Sylvia_, when you find I can return back to the once left matrimonial bed, despise me, scorn me: swear (as then thou justly may’st) I love not _Sylvia_: let the hot brute drudge on (he who is fired by nature, not by love, whom any body’s kisses can inspire) and ease the necessary heats of youth; love is a nobler fire, which nothing can allay but the dear she that raised it; no, no, my purer stream shall never run back to the fountain, whence it is parted, nay it cannot, it were as possible to love again, where one has ceased to love, as carry the desire and wishes back; by heaven, to me there is nothing so unnatural; no, _Sylvia_, it is you I must possess, you have completed my undoing now, and I must die unless you give me all—-but oh, I am going from thee—-when are we like to meet—-oh, how shall I support my absent hours! Thought will destroy me, for it will be all on thee, and those at such a distance will be insupportable.—-What shall I do without thee? If after all the toils of dull insipid life I could return and lay me down by thee, _Herculean_ labours would be soft and easy—-the harsh fatigues of war, the dangerous hurries of affairs of State, the business and the noise of life, I could support with pleasure, with wondrous satisfaction, could treat _Myrtilla_ too with that respect, that generous care, as would become a husband. I could be easy every where, and every one should be at ease with me; now I shall go and find no _Sylvia_ there, but sigh and wander like an unknown thing, on some strange foreign shore; I shall grow peevish as a new wean’d child, no toys, no bauble of the gaudy world will please my wayward fancy: I shall be out of humour, rail at every thing, in anger shall demand, and sullenly reply to every question asked and answered, and when I think to ease my soul by a retreat, a thousand soft desires, a thousand wishes wreck me, pain me to raving, till beating the senseless floor with my feet—-I cried aloud–‘My _Sylvia_!’–thus, thus, my charming dear, the poor _Philander_ is employed when banished from his heaven! If thus it used to be when only that bright outside was adored, judge now my pain, now thou hast made known a thousand graces more–oh, pity me—-for it is not in thy power to guess what I shall now endure in absence of thee; for thou hast charmed my soul to an excess too mighty for a patient suffering: alas, I die already—-
I am yet at _Dorillus_ his farm, lingering on from one swift minute to the other, and have not power to go; a thousand looks all languishing I’ve cast from eyes all drowned in tears towards _Bellfont_, have sighed a thousand wishes to my angel, from a sad breaking heart–love will not let me go–and honour calls me–alas, I must away; when shall we meet again? Ah, when my _Sylvia_?–Oh charming maid–thou’lt see me shortly dead, for thus I cannot live; thou must be mine, or I must be no more–I must away–farewell–may all the softest joys of heaven attend thee–adieu–fail not to send a hundred times a day, if possible; I’ve ordered _Alexis_ to do nothing but wait for all that comes, and post away with what thou sendest to me—-again adieu, think on me—-and till thou callest me to thee, imagine nothing upon earth so wretched as _Sylvia_’s own
PHILANDER.
_Know, my angel, that passing through the garden this morning, I met_ Erasto—-_I fear he saw me near enough to know me, and will give an account of it; let me know what happens—-adieu half dead, just taking horse to go from_ Sylvia.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
_Written in a leaf of a table-book_.
I have only time to say, on Thursday I am destined a sacrifice to _Foscario_, which day finishes the life of
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To SYLVIA_.
_From_ Dorillus _his farm_.
Raving and mad at the news your billet brought me, I (without considering the effects that would follow) am arrived at _Bellfont_; I have yet so much patience about me, to suffer myself to be concealed at _Dorillus_ his cottage; but if I see thee not to-night, or find no hopes of it—-by heaven I’ll set Bellfont all in a flame but I will have my _Sylvia_; be sure I’ll do it–What? To be married–Sylvia to be married–and given from _Philander_–Oh, never think it, forsworn fair creature–What? Give _Foscario_ that dear charming body? Shall he be grasped in those dear naked arms? Taste all thy kisses, press thy snowy breasts, command thy joys, and rifle all thy heaven? Furies and hell environ me if he do—-Oh, Sylvia, faithless, perjured, charming _Sylvia_–and canst thou suffer it–Hear my vows, oh fickle angel–hear me, thou faithless ravisher! That fatal moment that the daring priest offers to join your hands, and give thee from me, I will sacrifice your lover; by heaven I will, before the altar, stab him at your feet; the holy place, nor the numbers that attend ye, nor all your prayers nor tears, shall save his heart; look to it, and be not false—-yet I’ll trust not thy faith; no, she that can think but falsely, and she that can so easily be perjured—-for, but to suffer it is such a sin–such an undoing sin–that thou art surely damned! And yet, by heaven, that is not all the ruin shall attend thee; no, lovely mischief, no—-you shall not escape till the damnation day; for I will rack thee, torture thee and plague thee, those few hours I have to live, (if spiteful fate prevent my just revenge upon _Foscario_) and when I am dead–as I shall quickly be killed by thy cruelty–know, thou fair murderer, I will haunt thy sight, be ever with thee, and surround thy bed, and fright thee from the ravisher; fright all thy loose delights, and check thy joys—-Oh, I am mad!—-I cannot think that thought, no, thou shalt never advance so far in wickedness, I will save thee, if I can—-Oh, my adorable, why dost thou torture me? How hast thou sworn so often and so loud that heaven I am sure has heard thee, and will punish thee? How didst thou swear that happy blessed night, in which I saw thee last, clasped in my arms, weeping with eager love, with melting softness on my bosom—-remember how thou swor’st—-oh, that dear night,–let me recover strength–and then I will tell thee more–I must repeat the story of that night, which thou perhaps (oh faithless!) hast forgot–that glorious night, when all the heavens were gay, and every favouring power looked down and smiled upon our thefts of love, that gloomy night, the first of all my joys, the blessedest of my life–trembling and fainting I approach your chamber, and while you met and grasped me at the door, taking my trembling body in your arms-remember how I fainted at your feet, and what dear arts you used to call me back to life–remember how you kissed and pressed my face–Remember what dear charming words you spoke–and when I did recover, how I asked you with a feeble doubtful voice–‘Ah, _Sylvia_, will you still continue thus, thus wondrous soft and fond? Will you be ever mine, and ever true?’–What did you then reply, when kneeling on the carpet where I lay, what _Sylvia_, did you vow? How invoke heaven? How call its vengeance down if ever you loved another man again, if ever you touched or smiled on any other, if ever you suffered words or acts of love but from _Philander_? Both heaven and hell thou didst awaken with thy oaths, one was an angry listener to what it knew thou’dst break, the other laughed to know thou would’st be perjured, while only I, poor I, was all the while a silent fond believer; your vows stopped all my language, as your kisses did my lips, you swore and kissed, and vowed and clasped my neck–Oh charming flatterer! Oh artful, dear beguiler! Thus into life, and peace, and fond security, you charmed my willing soul! It was then, my _Sylvia_, (certain of your heart, and that it never could be given away to any other) I pressed my eager joys, but with such tender caution–such fear and fondness, such an awful passion, as overcame your faint resistance; my reasons and my arguments were strong, for you were mine by love, by sacred vows, and who could lay a better claim to _Sylvia_? How oft I cried–‘Why this resistance, _Sylvia_? My charming dear, whose are you? Not _Philander_’s? And shall _Philander_ not command his own—-you must—-ah cruel—-‘ then a soft struggle followed, with half-breathed words, with sighs and trembling hearts, and now and then–‘Ah cruel and unreasonable’–was softly said on both sides; thus strove, thus argued–till both lay panting in each other’s arms, not with the toil, but rapture; I need not say what followed after this–what tender showers of strange endearing mixtures ‘twixt joy and shame, ‘twixt love and new surprise, and ever when I dried your eyes with kisses, unable to repeat any other language than–‘Oh my _Sylvia_! Oh my charming angel!’ While sighs of joy, and close grasping thee–spoke all the rest–while every tender word, and every sigh was echoed back by thee; you pressed me–and you vowed you loved me more than ever yet you did; then swore anew, and in my bosom, hid your charming blushing face, then with excess of love would call on heaven, ‘Be witness, oh ye powers’ (a thousand times ye cried) ‘if ever maid e’er loved like _Sylvia_–punish me strangely, oh eternal powers, if ever I leave _Philander_, if ever I cease to love him; no force, no art, not interest, honour, wealth, convenience, duty, or what other necessary cause–shall ever be of force to make me leave thee—-‘ Thus hast thou sworn, oh charming, faithless flatterer, thus betwixt each ravishing minute thou would’st swear–and I as fast believed–and loved thee more—-Hast thou forgot it all, oh fickle charmer, hast thou? Hast thou forgot between each awful ceremony of love, how you cried out ‘Farewell the world and mortal cares, give me _Philander_, heaven, I ask no more’–Hast thou forgot all this? Did all the live-long night hear any other sound but those our mutual vows, of invocations, broken sighs, and soft and trembling whispers? Say, had we any other business for the tender hours? Oh, all ye host of heaven, ye stars that shone, and all ye powers the faithless lovely maid has sworn by, be witness how she is perjur’d; revenge it all, ye injured powers, revenge it, since by it she has undone the faithfullest youth, and broke the tenderest heart–that ever fell a sacrifice to love; and all ye little weeping gods of love, revenge your murdered victim–your
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
_In the leaves of a table-book_.
On, my _Philander_, how dearly welcome, and how needless were thy kind reproaches! Which I will not endeavour to convince by argument, but such a deed as shall at once secure thy fears now and for the future. I have not a minute to write in; place, my dear _Philander_, your chariot in St _Vincent’s_ Wood, and since I am not able to fix the hour of my flight, let it wait there my coming; it is but a little mile from _Bellfont_, _Dorillus_ is suspected there, remove thyself to the high-way-gate cottage–there I’ll call on thee—-’twas lucky, that thy fears, or love, or jealousy brought thee so near me, since I’d resolv’d before upon my flight. Parents and honour, interest and fame, farewell–I leave you all to follow my _Philander_–Haste the chariot to the thickest part of the wood, for I am impatient to be gone, and shall take the first opportunity to fly to my _Philander_—-Oh, love me, love me, love me!
_Under pretence of reaching the jessamine which shades my window, I unperceived let down and receive what letters you send by the honest weeder; by her send your sense of my flight, or rather your direction, for it is resolved already._
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
_My lovely Angel_,
So careful I will be of this dear mighty secret, that I will only say, _Sylvia_ shall be obeyed; no more—-nay, I’ll not dare to think of it, lest in my rapture I should name my joy aloud, and busy winds should bear it to some officious listener, and undo me; no more, no more, my _Sylvia_, extremes of joy (as grief) are ever dumb: let it suffice, this blessing which you proffer I had designed to ask, as soon as you’d convinced me of your faith; yes, _Sylvia_, I had asked it though it was a bounty too great for any mortal to conceive heaven should bestow upon him; but if it do, that very moment I’ll resign the world, and barter all for love and charming _Sylvia_. Haste, haste, my life; my arms, my bosom and my soul are open to receive the lovely fugitive; haste, for this moment I am going to plant myself where you directed. _Adieu_.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
_After her flight_.
Ah, _Philander_, how have you undone a harmless poor unfortunate? Alas, where are you? Why would you thus abandon me? Is this the soul, the bosom, these the arms that should receive me? I’ll not upbraid thee with my love, or charge thee with my undoing; it was all my own, and were it yet to do, I should again be ruined for _Philander_, and never find repentance, no not for a thought, a word or deed of love, to the dear false forsworn; but I can die, yes, hopeless, friendless–left by all, even by _Philander_–all but resolution has abandoned me, and that can lay me down, whenever I please, in safe repose and peace: but oh, thou art not false, or if thou be’st, oh, let me hear it from thy mouth, see thy repented love, that I may know there is no such thing on earth, as faith, as honesty, as love or truth; however, be thou true, or be thou false, be bold and let me know it, for thus to doubt is torture worse than death. What accident, thou dear, dear man, has happened to prevent thee from pursuing my directions, and staying for me at the gate? Where have I missed thee, thou joy of my soul? By what dire mistake have I lost thee? And where, oh, where art thou, my charming lover? I sought thee every where, but like the languishing abandoned mistress in the _Canticles_ I sought thee, but I found thee not, no bed of roses would discover thee: I saw no print of thy dear shape, nor heard no amorous sigh that could direct me–I asked the wood and springs, complained and called on thee through all the groves, but they confessed thee not; nothing but echoes answered me, and when I cried _’Philander’_–cried– _’Philander’_; thus searched I till the coming night, and my increasing fears made me resolve for flight, which soon we did, and soon arrived at _Paris_, but whither then to go, heaven knows, I could not tell, for I was almost naked, friendless and forlorn; at last, consulting _Brilliard_ what to do, after a thousand revolutions, he concluded to trust me with a sister he had, who was married to a _Guidon_ of the _Guard de Corps_; he changed my name, and made me pass for a fortune he had stolen; but oh, no welcomes, nor my safe retreat were sufficient to repose me all the ensuing night, for I had no news of _Philander_, no, not a dream informed me; a thousand fears and jealousies have kept me waking, and _Brilliard_, who has been all night in pursuit of thee, is now returned successless and distracted as thy _Sylvia_, for duty and generosity have almost the same effects in him, with love and tenderness and jealousy in me; and since _Paris_ affords no news of thee, (which sure it would if thou wert in it, for oh, the sun might hide himself with as much ease as great _Philander_) he is resolved to search St _Vincent_’s Wood, and all the adjacent cottages and groves; he thinks that you, not knowing of my escape, may yet be waiting thereabouts; since quitting the chariot for fear of being seen, you might be so far advanced into the wood, as not to find the way back to the thicket where the chariot waited: it is thus he feeds my hope, and flatters my poor heart, that fain would think thee true–or if thou be’st not–but cursed be all such thoughts, and far from _Sylvia_’s soul; no, no, thou art not false, it cannot be, thou art a god, and art unchangeable: I know, by some mistake, thou art attending me, as wild and impatient as I; perhaps you thinkest me false, and thinkest I have not courage to pursue my love, and fly; and, thou perhaps art waiting for the hour wherein thou thinkest I will give myself away to _Foscario_: oh cruel and unkind! To think I loved so lightly, to think I would attend that fatal hour; no, _Philander_, no faithless, dear enchanter: last night, the eve to my intended wedding-day, having reposed my soul by my resolves for flight, and only waiting the lucky minute for escape, I set a willing hand to every thing that was preparing for the ceremony of the ensuing morning; with that pretence I got me early to my chamber, tried on a thousand dresses, and asked a thousand questions, all impertinent, which would do best, which looked most gay and rich, then dressed my gown with jewels, decked my apartment up, and left nothing undone that might secure ’em both of my being pleased, and of my stay; nay, and to give the less suspicion, I undressed myself even to my under-petticoat and night-gown; I would not take a jewel, not a pistole, but left my women finishing my work, and carelessly and thus undressed, walked towards the garden, and while every one was busy in their office, getting myself out of sight, posted over the meadow to the wood as swift as _Daphne_ from the god of day, till I arrived most luckily where I found the chariot waiting; attended by _Brilliard_; of whom, when I (all fainting and breathless with my swift flight) demanded his lord, he lifted me into the chariot, and cried, ‘a little farther, _Madam_, you will find him; for he, for fear of making a discovery, took yonder shaded path’–towards which we went, but no dear vision of my love appeared–And thus, my charming lover, you have my kind adventure; send me some tidings back that you are found, that you are well, and lastly that you are mine, or this, that should have been my wedding-day, will see itself that of the death of
SYLVIA.
Paris, _Thursday, from my bed, for want of clothes, or rather news from_ Philander.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
My life, my _Sylvia_, my eternal joy, art thou then safe! And art thou reserved for _Philander_? Am I so blest by heaven, by love, and my dear charming maid? Then let me die in peace, since I have lived to see all that my soul desires in _Sylvia_’s being mine; perplex not thy soft heart with fears or jealousies, nor think so basely, so poorly of my love, to need more oaths or vows; yet to confirm thee, I would swear my breath away; but oh, it needs not here;—-take then no care, my lovely dear, turn not thy charming eyes or thoughts on afflicting objects; oh think not on what thou hast abandoned, but what thou art arrived to; look forward on the joys of love and youth, for I will dedicate all my remaining life to render thine serene and glad; and yet, my _Sylvia_, thou art so dear to me, so wondrous precious to my soul, that in my extravagance of love, I fear I shall grow a troublesome and wearying coxcomb, shall dread every look thou givest away from me–a smile will make me rave, a sigh or touch make me commit a murder on the happy slave, or my own jealous heart, but all the world besides is _Sylvia_’s, all but another lover; but I rave and run too fast away; ages must pass a tedious term of years before I can be jealous, or conceive thou can’st be weary of _Philander_–I will be so fond, so doting, and so playing, thou shalt not have an idle minute to throw away a look in, or a thought on any other; no, no, I have thee now, and will maintain my right by dint and force of love–oh, I am wild to see thee–but, _Sylvia_, I am wounded–do not be frighted though, for it is not much or dangerous, but very troublesome, since it permits me not to fly to _Sylvia_, but she must come to me in order to it. _Brilliard_ has a bill on my goldsmith in _Paris_ for a thousand pistoles to buy thee something to put on; any thing that is ready, and he will conduct thee to me, for I shall rave myself into a fever if I see thee not to-day–I cannot live without thee now, for thou art my life, my everlasting charmer: I have ordered _Brilliard_ to get a chariot and some unknown livery for thee, and I think the continuance of passing for what he has already rendered thee will do very well, till I have taken farther care of thy dear safety, which will be as soon as I am able to rise; for most unfortunately, my dear _Sylvia_, quitting the chariot in the thicket for fear of being seen with it, and walking down a shaded path that suited with the melancholy and fears of unsuccess in thy adventure; I went so far, as ere I could return to the place where I left the chariot it was gone–it seems with thee; I know not how you missed me–but possessed myself with a thousand false fears, sometimes that in thy flight thou mightest be pursued and overtaken, seized in the chariot and returned back to _Bellfont_; or that the chariot was found seized on upon suspicion, though the coachman and _Brilliard_ were disguised past knowledge—-or if thou wert gone, alas I knew not whither; but that was a thought my doubts and fears would not suffer me to ease my soul with; no, I (as jealous lovers do) imagined the most tormenting things for my own repose. I imagined the chariot taken, or at least so discovered as to be forced away without thee: I imagined that thou wert false—-heaven forgive me, false, my _Sylvia_, and hadst changed thy mind; mad with this thought (which I fancied most reasonable, and fixt it in my soul) I raved about the wood, making a thousand vows to be revenged on all; in order to it I left the thicket, and betook myself to the high road of the wood, where I laid me down among the fern, close hid, with sword ready, waiting for the happy bridegroom, who I knew (it being the wedding eve) would that way pass that evening; pleased with revenge, which now had got even the place of love, I waited there not above a little hour but heard the trampling of a horse, and looking up with mighty joy, I found it _Foscario_’s; alone he was, and unattended, for he’d outstripped his equipage, and with a lover’s haste, and full of joy, was making towards _Bellfont_; but I (now fired with rage) leaped from my cover, cried, ‘Stay, _Foscario_, ere you arrive to _Sylvia_, we must adjust an odd account between us’—-at which he stopping, as nimbly alighted;–in fine, we fought, and many wounds were given and received on both sides, till his people coming up, parted us, just as we were fainting with loss of blood in each other’s arms; his coach and chariot were amongst his equipage; into the first his servants lifted him, when he cried out with a feeble voice, to have me, who now lay bleeding on the ground, put into the chariot, and to be safely conveyed where-ever I commanded, and so in haste they drove him towards _Bellfont_, and me, who was resolved not to stir far from it, to a village within a mile of it; from whence I sent to _Paris_ for a surgeon, and dismissed the chariot, ordering, in the hearing of the coachman, a litter to be brought me immediately, to convey me that night to _Paris_; but the surgeon coming, found it not safe for me to be removed, and I am now willing to live, since _Sylvia_ is mine; haste to me then, my lovely maid, and fear not being discovered, for I have given order here in the _cabaret_ where I am, if any inquiry is made after me, to say, I went last night to _Paris_. Haste, my love, haste to my arms, as feeble as they are, they’ll grasp thee a dear welcome: I will say no more, nor prescribe rules to thy love, that can inform thee best what thou must do to save the life of thy most passionate adorer,
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
I have sent _Brilliard_ to see if the coast be clear, that we may come with safety; he brings you, instead of _Sylvia_, a young cavalier that will be altogether as welcome to _Philander_, and who impatiently waits his return at a little cottage at the end of the village.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
_From the_ Bastille.
I know my _Sylvia_ expected me at home with her at dinner to-day, and wonders how I could live so long as since morning without the eternal joy of my soul; but know, my _Sylvia_, that a trivial misfortune is now fallen upon me, which in the midst of all our heaven of joys, our softest hours of life, has so often changed thy smiles into fears and sighings, and ruffled thy calm soul with cares: nor let it now seem strange or afflicting, since every day for these three months we have been alarmed with new fears that have made thee uneasy even in _Philander_’s arms; we knew some time or other the storm would fall on us, though we had for three happy months sheltered ourselves from its threatening rage; but love, I hope, has armed us both; for me–let me be deprived of all joys, (but those my charmer can dispense) all the false world’s respect, the dull esteem of fools and formal coxcombs, the grave advice of the censorious wise, the kind opinion of ill-judging women, no matter, so my _Sylvia_ remain but mine.
I am, my _Sylvia_, arrested at the suit of _Monsieur_ the Count, your father, for a rape on my lovely maid: I desire, my soul, you will immediately take coach and go to the Prince _Cesario_, and he will bail me out. I fear not a fair trial; and, _Sylvia_, thefts of mutual love were never counted felony; I may die for love, my _Sylvia_, but not for loving–go, haste, my _Sylvia_, that I may be no longer detained from the solid pleasure and business of my soul–haste, my loved dear–haste and relieve
PHILANDER.
_Come not to me, lest there should be an order to detain my dear_.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
I am not at all surprised, my _Philander_, at the accident that has befallen thee, because so long expected, and love has so well fortified my heart, that I support our misfortunes with a courage worthy of her that loves and is beloved by the glorious _Philander_; I am armed for the worst that can befall me, and that is my being rendered a public shame, who have been so in the private whispers of all the Court for near these happy three months, in which I have had the wondrous satisfaction of being retired from the world with the charming _Philander_; my father too knew it long since, at least he could not hinder himself from guessing it, though his fond indulgence suffered his justice and his anger to sleep, and possibly had still slept, had not _Myrtilla_’s spite and rage (I should say just resentment, but I cannot) roused up his drowsy vengeance: I know she has plied him with her softening eloquence, her prayers and tears, to win him to consent to make a public business of it; but I am entered, love has armed my soul, and I’ll pursue my fortune with that height of fortitude as shall surprise the world; yes, _Philander_, since I have lost my honour, fame and friends, my interest and my parents, and all for mightier love, I’ll stop at nothing now; if there be any hazards more to run, I will thank the spiteful Fates that bring them on, and will even tire them out with my unwearied passion. Love on, _Philander_, if thou darest, like me; let ’em pursue me with their hate and vengeance, let prisons, poverty and tortures seize me, it shall not take one grain of love away from my resolved heart, nor make me shed a tear of penitence for loving thee; no, _Philander_, since I know what a ravishing pleasure it is to live thine, I will never quit the glory of dying also thy
SYLVIA.
Cesario, _my dear, is coming to be your bail; with_ Monsieur _the Count of—-I die to see you after your suffering for_ Sylvia.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
BELIEVE me, charming _Sylvia_, I live not those hours I am absent from thee, thou art my life, my soul, and my eternal felicity; while you believe this truth, my _Sylvia_, you will not entertain a thousand fears, if I but stay a moment beyond my appointed hour; especially when _Philander_, who is not able to support the thought that any thing should afflict his lovely baby, takes care from hour to hour to satisfy her tender doubting heart. My dearest, I am gone into the city to my advocate’s, my trial with _Monsieur_ the Count, your father, coming on to-morrow, and it will be at least two tedious hours ere I can bring my adorable her
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
I was called on, my dearest child, at my advocate’s by _Cesario_; there is some great business this evening debated in the cabal, which is at _Monsieur—-_ in the city; _Cesario_ tells me there is a very diligent search made by _Monsieur_ the Count, your father, for my _Sylvia_; I die if you are taken, lest the fright should hurt thee; if possible, I would have thee remove this evening from those lodgings, lest the people, who are of the royal party, should be induced through malice or gain to discover thee; I dare not come myself to wait on thee, lest my being seen should betray thee, but I have sent _Brilliard_ (whose zeal for thee shall be rewarded) to conduct thee to a little house in the _Faubourg St Germain_, where lives a pretty woman, and mistress to _Chevalier Tomaso_, called _Belinda_, a woman of wit, and discreet enough to understand what ought to be paid to a maid of the quality and character of _Sylvia_; she already knows the stories of our loves; thither I’ll come to thee, and bring _Cesario_ to supper, as soon as the cabal breaks up. Oh, my _Sylvia_, I shall one day recompense all thy goodness, all thy bravery, thy love and thy suffering for thy eternal lover and slave,
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
So hasty I was to obey _Philander_’s commands, that by the unwearied care and industry of the faithful _Brilliard_, I went before three o’clock disguised away to the place whither you ordered us, and was well received by the very pretty young woman of the house, who has sense and breeding as well as beauty: but oh, _Philander_, this flight pleases me not; alas, what have I done? my fault is only love, and that sure I should boast, as the most divine passion of the soul; no, no, _Philander_, it is not my love’s the criminal, no, not the placing it on _Philander_ the crime, but it is thy most unhappy circumstances, thy being married, and that was no crime to heaven till man made laws, and can laws reach to damnation? If so, curse on the fatal hour that thou wert married, curse on the priest that joined ye, and curst be all that did contribute to the undoing ceremony—-except _Philander_’s tongue, that answered yes–oh, heavens! Was there but one dear man of all your whole creation that could charm the soul of _Sylvia_! And could ye–oh, ye wise all-seeing powers that knew my soul, could ye give him away? How had my innocence offended ye? Our hearts you did create for mutual love, how came the dire mistake?
Another would have pleased the indifferent _Myrtilla_’s soul as well, but mine was fitted for no other man; only _Philander_, the adored _Philander_, with that dear form, that shape, that charming face, that hair, those lovely speaking eyes, that wounding softness in his tender voice, had power to conquer _Sylvia_; and can this be a sin? Oh, heavens, can it? Must laws, which man contrived for mere conveniency, have power to alter the divine decrees at our creation?–Perhaps they argue to-morrow at the bar, that _Myrtilla_ was ordained by heaven for _Philander_; no, no, he mistook the sister, it was pretty near he came, but by a fatal error was mistaken; his hasty youth made him too negligently stop before his time at the wrong woman, he should have gazed a little farther on–and then it had been _Sylvia_’s lot—-It is fine divinity they teach, that cry marriages are made in heaven–folly and madness grown into grave custom; should an unheedy youth in heat of blood take up with the first convenient she that offers, though he be an heir to some grave politician, great and rich, and she the outcast of the common stews, coupled in height of wine, and sudden lust, which once allayed, and that the sober morning wakes him to see his error, he quits with shame the jilt, and owns no more the folly; shall this be called a heavenly conjunction? Were I in height of youth, as now I am, forced by my parents, obliged by interest and honour, to marry the old, deformed, diseased, decrepit Count _Anthonio_, whose person, qualities and principles I loathe, and rather than suffer him to consummate his nuptials, suppose I should (as sure I should) kill myself, it were blasphemy to lay this fatal marriage to heaven’s charge—-curse on your nonsense, ye imposing gownmen, curse on your holy cant; you may as well call rapes and murders, treason and robbery, the acts of heaven; because heaven suffers them to be committed. Is it heaven’s pleasure therefore, heaven’s decree? A trick, a wise device of priests, no more—-to make the nauseated, tired-out pair drag on the careful business of life, drudge for the dull-got family with greater satisfaction, because they are taught to think marriage was made in heaven; a mighty comfort that, when all the joys of life are lost by it: were it not nobler far that honour kept him just, and that good nature made him reasonable provision? Daily experience proves to us, no couple live with less content, less ease, than those who cry heaven joins? Who is it loves less than those that marry? And where love is not, there is hate and loathing at best, disgust, disquiet, noise and repentance: no, _Philander_, that’s a heavenly match when two souls touched with equal passion meet, (which is but rarely seen)–when willing vows, with serious considerations, are weighed and made, when a true view is taken of the soul, when no base interest makes the hasty bargain, when no conveniency or design, or drudge, or slave, shall find it necessary, when equal judgements meet that can esteem the blessings they possess, and distinguish the good of either’s love, and set a value on each other’s merits, and where both understand to take and pay; who find the beauty of each other’s minds and rate them as they ought; whom not a formal ceremony binds, (with which I’ve nought to do, but dully give a cold consenting affirmative) but well considered vows from soft inclining hearts, uttered with love, with joy, with dear delight, when heaven is called to witness; she is thy wife, _Philander_ he is my husband; this is the match, this heaven designs and means; how then, oh how came I to miss _Philander_? Or he his
SYLVIA.
_Since I writ this, which I designed not an invective against marriage, when I began, but to inform thee of my being where you directed; but since I write this, I say, the house where I am is broken open with warrants and officers for me, but being all undressed and ill, the officer has taken my word for my appearance to-morrow, it seems they saw me when I went from my lodgings, and pursued me; haste to me, for I shall need your counsel_.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
My eternal joy, my affliction is inexpressible at the news you send me of your being surprised; I am not able to wait on thee yet–not being suffered to leave the cabal, I only borrow this minute to tell thee the sense of my advocate in this case; which was, if thou should be taken, there was no way, no law to save thee from being ravished from my arms, but that of marrying thee to some body whom I can trust; this we have often discoursed, and thou hast often vowed thou’lt do any thing rather than kill me with a separation; resolve then, oh thou charmer of my soul, to do a deed, that though the name would fright thee, only can preserve both thee and me; it is–and though it have no other terror in it than the name, I faint to speak it–to marry, _Sylvia_; yes, thou must marry; though thou art mine as fast as heaven can make us, yet thou must marry; I have pitched upon the property, it is _Brilliard_, him I can only trust in this affair; it is but joining hands–no more, my _Sylvia_,–_Brilliard_ is a gentleman, though a _cadet_, and may be supposed to pretend to so great a happiness, and whose only crime is want of fortune; he is handsome too, well made, well bred, and so much real esteem he has for me, and I have so obliged him, that I am confident he will pretend no farther than to the honour of owning thee in Court; I’ll time him from it, nay, he dares not do it, I will trust him with my life–but oh, _Sylvia_ is more–think of it, and this night we will perform it, there being no other way to keep _Sylvia_ eternally
PHILANDER’s.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
Now, my adorable _Sylvia_, you have truly need of all that heroic bravery of mind I ever thought thee mistress of; for _Sylvia_, coming from thee this morning, and riding full speed for _Paris_, I was met, stopped, and seized for high-treason by the King’s messengers, and possibly may fall a sacrifice to the anger of an incensed monarch. My _Sylvia_, bear this last shock of fate with a courage worthy thy great and glorious soul; ’tis but a little separation, _Sylvia_, and we shall one day meet again; by heaven, I find no other sting in death but parting with my _Sylvia_, and every parting would have been the same; I might have died by thy disdain, thou might’st have grown weary of thy _Philander_, have loved another, and have broke thy vows, and tortured me to death these crueller ways: but fate is kinder to me, and I go blest with my _Sylvia_’s, love, for which heaven may do much, for her dear sake, to recompense her faith, a maid so innocent and true to sacred love; expect the best, my lovely dear, the worst has this comfort in it, that I shall die my charming _Sylvia_’s
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
_To_ PHILANDER.
I’LL, only say, thou dear supporter of my soul, that if _Philander_ dies, he shall not go to heaven without his _Sylvia_–by heaven and earth I swear it, I cannot live without thee, nor shall thou die without thy
SYLVIA.
* * * * *
_To_ SYLVIA.
SEE, see my adorable angel, what care the powers above take of divine innocence, true love and beauty; oh, see what they have done for their darling _Sylvia_; could they do less?
Know, my dear maid, that after being examined before the King, I was found guilty enough to be committed to the _Bastille_, (from whence, if I had gone, I had never returned, but to my death;) but the messenger, into whose hands I was committed, refusing other guards, being alone with me in my own coach, I resolved to kill, if I could no other way oblige him to favour my escape; I tried with gold before I shewed my dagger, and that prevailed, a way less criminal, and I have taken sanctuary in a small cottage near the sea-shore, where I wait for _Sylvia_; and though my life depend upon my flight, nay, more, the life of _Sylvia_, I cannot go without her; dress yourself then, my dearest, in your boy’s clothes, and haste with _Brilliant_, whither this seaman will conduct thee, whom I have hired to set us on some shore of safety; bring what news you can learn of _Cesario_; I would not have him die poorly after all his mighty hopes, nor be conducted to a scaffold with shouts of joys, by that uncertain beast the rabble, who used to stop his chariot-wheels with fickle adorations whenever he looked abroad–by heaven, I pity him; but _Sylvia_’s presence will chase away all thoughts, but those of love, from
PHILANDER.
_I need not bid thee haste._
_The End of the first Part._
Love-Letters Between a Nobleman and His Sister
Part II.
At the end of the first part of these letters, we left _Philander_ impatiently waiting on the sea-shore for the approach of the lovely _Sylvia_; who accordingly came to him dressed like a youth, to secure herself from a discovery. They stayed not long to caress each other, but he taking the welcome maid in his arms, with a transported joy bore her to a small vessel, that lay ready near the beach; where, with only _Brilliard_ and two men servants, they put to sea, and passed into _Holland_, landing at the nearest port; where, after having refreshed themselves for two or three days, they passed forwards towards the _Brill_, _Sylvia_ still remaining under that amiable disguise: but in their passage from town to town, which is sometimes by coach, and other times by boat, they chanced one day to encounter a young _Hollander_ of a more than ordinary gallantry for that country, so degenerate from good manners, and almost common civility, and so far short of all the good qualities that made themselves appear in this young nobleman. He was very handsome, well made, well dressed, and very well attended; and whom we will call _Octavio_, and who, young as he was, was one of the _States_ of _Holland_; he spoke admirable good _French_, and had a vivacity and quickness of wit unusual with the natives of that part of the world, and almost above all the rest of his sex: _Philander_ and _Sylvia_ having already agreed for the cabin of the vessel that was to carry them to the next stage, _Octavio_ came too late to have any place there but amongst the common crowd; which the master of the vessel, who knew him, was much troubled at, and addressed himself as civilly as he could to _Philander_, to beg permission for one stranger of quality to dispose of himself in the cabin for that day: _Philander_ being well enough pleased, so to make an acquaintance with some of power of that country, readily consented; and _Octavio_ entered with an address so graceful and obliging, that at first sight he inclined _Philander_’s, heart to a friendship with him; and on the other side the lovely person of _Philander_, the quality that appeared in his face and mien, obliged _Octavio_ to become no less his admirer. But when he saluted _Sylvia_, who appeared to him a youth of quality, he was extremely charmed with her pretty gaiety, and an unusual air and life in her address and motion; he felt a secret joy and pleasure play about his soul, he knew not why, and was almost angry, that he felt such an emotion for a youth, though the most lovely that he ever saw. After the first compliments, they fell into discourse of a thousand indifferent things, and if he were pleased at first sight with the two lovers, he was wholly charmed by their conversation, especially that of the amiable youth; who well enough pleased with the young stranger, or else hitherto having met nothing so accomplished in her short travels; and indeed despairing to meet any such; she put on all her gaiety and charms of wit, and made as absolute a conquest as it was possible for her supposed sex to do over a man, who was a great admirer of the other; and surely the lovely maid never appeared so charming and desirable as that day; they dined together in the cabin; and after dinner reposed on little mattresses by each other’s side, where every motion, every limb, as carelessly she lay, discovered a thousand graces, and more and more enflamed the now beginning lover; she could not move, nor smile, nor speak, nor order any charm about her, but had some peculiar grace that began to make him uneasy; and from a thousand little modesties, both in her blushes and motions, he had a secret hope she was not what she seemed, but of that sex whereof she discovered so many softnesses and beauties; though to what advantage that hope would amount to his repose, was yet a disquiet he had not considered nor felt: nor could he by any fondness between them, or indiscretion of love, conceive how the lovely strangers were allied; he only hoped, and had no thoughts of fear, or any thing that could check his new beginning flame. While thus they passed the afternoon, they asked a thousand questions, of lovers, of the country and manners, and their security and civility to strangers; to all which _Octavio_ answered as a man, who would recommend the place and persons purely to oblige their stay; for now self-interest makes him say all things in favour of it; and of his own friendship, offers them all the service of a man in power, and who could make an interest in those that had more than himself; much he protested, much he offered, and yet no more than he designed to make good on all occasions, which they received with an acknowledgement that plainly discovered a generosity and quality above the common rate of men; so that finding in each other occasions for love and friendship, they mutually professed it, and nobly entertained it. _Octavio_ told his name and quality, left nothing unsaid that might confirm the lovers of his sincerity. This begot a confidence in _Philander_, who in return told him so much of his circumstances, as sufficed to let him know he was a person so unfortunate to have occasioned the displeasure of his king against him, and that he could not continue with any repose in that kingdom, whose monarch thought him no longer fit for those honours he had before received: _Octavio_ renewed his protestations of serving him with his interest and fortune, which the other receiving with all the gallant modesty of an unfortunate man, they came ashore, where _Octavio_’s coaches and equipage waiting his coming to conduct him to his house, he offered his new friends the best of them to carry them to their lodging, which he had often pressed might be his own palace; but that being refused as too great an honour, he would himself see them placed in some one, which he thought might be most suitable to their quality; they excused the trouble, but he pressed too eagerly to be denied, and he conducted them to a merchant’s house not far from his own, so love had contrived for the better management of this new affair of his heart, which he resolved to pursue, be the fair object of what sex soever: but after having well enough recommended them to the care of the merchant, he thought it justice to leave them to their rest, though with abundance of reluctancy; so took his leave of both the lovely strangers, and went to his own home. And after a hasty supper got himself up to bed: not to sleep; for now he had other business: love took him now to task, and asked his heart a thousand questions. Then it was he found the idea of that fair unknown had absolute possession there: nor was he at all displeased to find he was a captive; his youth and quality promise his hopes a thousand advantages above all other men: but when he reflected on the beauty of Philander, on his charming youth and conversation, and every grace that adorns a conqueror, he grew inflamed, disordered, restless, angry, and out of love with his own attractions; considered every beauty of his own person, and found them, or at least thought them infinitely short of those of his now fancied rival; yet it was a rival that he could not hate, nor did his passion abate one thought of his friendship for Philander, but rather more increased it, insomuch that he once resolved it should surmount his love if possible, at least he left it on the upper-hand, till time should make a better discovery. When tired with thought we’ll suppose him asleep, and see how our lovers fared; who being lodged all on one stair-case (that is, Philander, Sylvia, and Brilliard) it was not hard for the lover to steal into the longing arms of the expecting _Sylvia_; no fatigues of tedious journeys, and little voyages, had abated her fondness, or his vigour; the night was like the first, all joy! All transport! _Brilliard_ lay so near as to be a witness to all their sighs of love, and little soft murmurs, who now began from a servant to be permitted