as an humble companion; since he had had the honour of being married to _Sylvia_, though yet he durst not lift his eyes or thoughts that way; yet it might be perceived he was melancholy and sullen whenever he saw their dalliances; nor could he know the joys his lord nightly stole, without an impatience, which, if but minded or known, perhaps had cost him his life. He began, from the thoughts she was his wife, to fancy fine enjoyment, to fancy authority which he durst not assume, and often wished his lord would grow cold, as possessing lovers do, that then he might advance his hope, when he should even abandon or slight her: he could not see her kissed without blushing with resentment; but if he has assisted to undress him for her bed, he was ready to die with anger, and would grow sick, and leave the office to himself: he could not see her naked charms, her arms stretched out to receive a lover, with impatient joy, without madness; to see her clasp him fast, when he threw himself into her soft, white bosom, and smother him with kisses: no, he could not bear it now, and almost lost his respect when he beheld it, and grew saucy unperceived. And it was in vain that he looked back upon the reward he had to stand for that necessary cypher a husband. In vain he considered the reasons why, and the occasion wherefore; he now seeks precedents of usurped dominion, and thinks she is his wife, and has forgot that he is her creature, and _Philander_’s vassal. These thoughts disturbed him all the night, and a certain jealousy, or rather curiosity to listen to every motion of the lovers, while they were employed after a different manner.
Next day it was debated what was best to be done, as to their conduct in that place; or whether _Sylvia_ should yet own her sex or not; but she, pleased with the cavalier in herself, begged she might live under that disguise, which indeed gave her a thousand charms to those which nature had already bestowed on her sex; and Philander was well enough pleased she should continue in that agreeable dress, which did not only add to her beauty, but gave her a thousand little privileges, which otherwise would have been denied to women, though in a country of much freedom. Every day she appeared in the Tour, she failed not to make a conquest on some unguarded heart of the fair sex: not was it long ere she received _billets-doux_ from many of the most accomplished who could speak and write _French_. This gave them a pleasure in the midst of her unlucky exile, and she failed not to boast her conquests to Octavio, who every day gave all his hours to love, under the disguise of friendship, and every day received new wounds, both from her conversation and beauty, and every day confirmed him more in his first belief, that she was a woman; and that confirmed his love. But still he took care to hide his passion with a gallantry, that was natural to him, and to very few besides; and he managed his eyes, which were always full of love, so equally to both, that when he was soft and fond it appeared more his natural humour, than from any particular cause. And that you may believe that all the arts of gallantry, and graces of good management were more peculiarly his than another’s, his race was illustrious, being descended from that of the Princes of _Orange_, and great birth will shine through, and shew itself in spite of education and obscurity: but _Octavio_ had all those additions that render a man truly great and brave; and this is the character of him that was next undone by our unfortunate and fatal beauty. At this rate for some time they lived thus disguised under feigned names, _Octavio_ omitting nothing that might oblige them in the highest degree, and hardly any thing was talked of but the new and beautiful strangers, whose conquests in all places over the ladies are well worthy, both for their rarity and comedy, to be related entirely by themselves in a novel. _Octavio_ saw every day with abundance of pleasure the little revenges of love, on those women’s hearts who had made before little conquests over him, and strove by all the gay presents he made a young _Fillmond_ (for so they called _Sylvia_,) to make him appear unresistible to the ladies; and while _Sylvia_ gave them new wounds, _Octavio_ failed not to receive them too among the crowd, till at last he became a confirmed slave, to the lovely unknown; and that which was yet more strange, she captivated the men no less than the women, who often gave her _serenades_ under her window, with songs fitted to the courtship of a boy, all which added to their diversion: but fortune had smiled long enough, and now grew weary of obliging, she was resolved to undeceive both sexes, and let them see the errors of their love; for _Sylvia_ fell into a fever so violent, that _Philander_ no longer hoped for her recovery, insomuch that she was obliged to own her sex, and take women servants out of decency. This made the first discovery of who and what they were, and for which every body languished under a secret grief. But _Octavio_, who now was not only confirmed she was a woman, but that she was neither wife to _Philander_, nor could in almost all possibility ever be so; that she was his mistress, gave him hope that she might one day as well be conquered by him; and he found her youth, her beauty, and her quality, merited all his pains of lavish courtship. And now there remains no more than the fear of her dying to oblige him immediately to a discovery of his passion, too violent now by his new hope to be longer concealed, but decency forbids he should now pursue the dear design; he waited and made vows for her recovery; visited her, and found _Philander_ the most deplorable object that despair and love could render him, who lay eternally weeping on her bed, and no counsel or persuasion could remove him thence; but if by chance they made him sensible it was for her repose, he would depart to ease his mind by new torments, he would rave and tear his delicate hair, sigh and weep upon _Octavio_’s bosom, and a thousand times begin to unfold the story, already known to the generous rival; despair, and hopes of pity from him, made him utter all: and one day, when by the advice of the physician he was forced to quit the chamber to give her rest, he carried _Octavio_ to his own, and told him from the beginning, all the story of his love with the charming _Sylvia_, and with it all the story of his fate: _Octavio_ sighing (though glad of the opportunity) told him his affairs were already but too well known, and that he feared his safety from that discovery, since the States had obliged themselves to harbour no declared enemy to the _French_ King. At this news our young unfortunate shewed a resentment that was so moving, that even _Octavio_, who felt a secret joy at the thoughts of his departure, could no longer refrain from pity and tenderness, even to a wish that he were less unhappy, and never to part from _Sylvia_: but love soon grew again triumphant in his heart, and all he could say was, that he would afford him the aids of all his power in this encounter; which, with the acknowledgements of a lover, whose life depended on it, he received, and parted with him, who went to learn what was decreed in Council concerning him. While _Philander_ returned to _Sylvia_, the most dejected lover that ever fate produced, when he had not sighed away above an hour, but received a billet by _Octavio_’s page from his lord; he went to his own apartment to read it, fearing it might contain something too sad for him to be able to hold his temper at the reading of, and which would infallibly have disturbed the repose of _Sylvia_, who shared in every cruel thought of _Philander_’s: when he was alone he opened it, and read this.
OCTAVIO _to_ PHILANDER.
_My Lord_,
I had rather die than be the ungrateful messenger of news, which I am sensible will prove too fatal to you, and which will be best expressed in fewest words: it is decreed that you must retire from the United Provinces in four and twenty hours, if you will save a life that is dear to me and _Sylvia_, there being no other security against your being rendered up to the King of _France_. Support it well, and hope all things from the assistance of your
OCTAVIO.
_From the Council, Wednesday_.
_Philander_ having finished the reading of this, remained a while wholly without life or motion, when coming to himself, he sighed and cried,–‘Why–farewell trifling life–if of the two extremes one must be chosen, rather than I’ll abandon _Sylvia_, I’ll stay and be delivered up a victim to incensed _France_–It is but a life–at best I never valued thee–and now I scorn to preserve thee at the price of _Sylvia_’s tears!’ Then taking a hasty turn or two about his chamber, he pausing cried,–‘But by my stay I ruin both _Sylvia_ and myself, her life depends on mine; and it is impossible hers can be preserved when mine is in danger: by retiring I shall shortly again be blessed with her sight in a more safe security, by staying I resign myself poorly to be made a public scorn to _France_, and the cruel murderer of _Sylvia_.’ Now, it was after an hundred turns and pauses, intermixed with sighs and ravings, that he resolved for both their safeties to retire; and having a while longer debated within himself how, and where, and a little time ruminated on his hard pursuing fate, grown to a calm of grief, (less easy to be borne than rage) he hastes to _Sylvia_, whom he found something more cheerful than before, but dares not acquaint her with the commands he had to depart—-But silently he views her, while tears of love and grief glide unperceivably from his fine eyes, his soul grows tenderer at every look, and pity and compassion joining to his love and his despair, set him on the wreck of life; and now believing it less pain to die than to leave _Sylvia_, resolves to disobey, and dare the worst that shall befall him; he had some glimmering hope, as lovers have, that some kind chance will prevent his going, or being delivered up; he trusts much to the friendship of _Octavio_, whose power joined with that of his uncle, (who was one of the _States_ also, and whom he had an ascendant over, as his nephew and his heir) might serve him; he therefore ventures to move him to compassion by this following letter.
PHILANDER _to_ OCTAVIO.
I know, my lord, that the exercise of virtue and justice is so innate to your soul, and fixed to the very principle of a generous commonwealth’s man, that where those are in competition, it is neither birth, wealth, or glorious merit, that can render the unfortunate condemned by you, worthy of your pity or pardon: your very sons and fathers fall before your justice, and it is crime enough to offend (though innocently) the least of your wholesome laws, to fall under the extremity of their rigour. I am not ignorant neither how flourishing this necessary tyranny, this lawful oppression renders your State; how safe and glorious, how secure from enemies at home, (those worst of foes) and how feared by those abroad: pursue then, sir, your justifiable method, and still be high and mighty, retain your ancient Roman virtue, and still be great as _Rome_ herself in her height of glorious commonwealths; rule your stubborn natives by her excellent examples, and let the height of your ambition be only to be as severely just, as rigidly good as you please; but like her too, be pitiful to strangers, and dispense a noble charity to the distressed, compassionate a poor wandering young man, who flies to you for refuge, lost to his native home, lost to his fame, his fortune, and his friends; and has only left him the knowledge of his innocence to support him from falling on his own sword, to end an unfortunate life, pursued every where, and safe no where; a life whose only refuge is _Octavio_’s goodness; nor is it barely to preserve this life that I have recourse to that only as my sanctuary, and like an humble slave implore your pity: oh, _Octavio_, pity my youth, and intercede for my stay yet a little longer: yourself makes one of the illustrious number of the grave, the wise and mighty Council, your uncle and relations make up another considerable part of it, and you are too dear to all, to find a refusal of your just and compassionate application. Oh! What fault have I committed against you, that I should not find a safety here; as well as those charged with the same crime with me, though of less quality? Many I have encountered here of our unlucky party, who find a safety among you: is my birth a crime? Or does the greatness of that augment my guilt? Have I broken any of your laws, committed any outrage? Do they suspect me for a spy to _France_! Or do I hold any correspondence with that ungrateful nation? Does my religion, principle, or opinion differ from yours? Can I design the subversion of your glorious State? Can I plot, cabal, or mutiny alone? Oh charge me with some offence, or yourselves of injustice. Say, why am I denied my length of earth amongst you, if I die? Or why to breathe the open air, if I live, since I shall neither oppress the one, nor infect the other? But on the contrary am ready with my sword, my youth and blood to serve you, and bring my little aids on all occasions to yours: and should be proud of the glory to die for you in battle, who would deliver me up a sacrifice to _France_. Oh! where, _Octavio_, is the glory or virtue of this _punctilio_? For it is no other: there are no laws that bind you to it, no obligatory article of Nations, but an unnecessary compliment made a _nemine contradicente_ of your senate, that argues nothing but ill nature, and cannot redound to any one’s advantage; an ill nature that’s levelled at me alone; for many I found here, and many shall leave under the same circumstances with me; it is only me whom you have marked out the victim to atone for all: well then, my lord, if nothing can move you to a safety for this unfortunate, at least be so merciful to suspend your cruelty a little, yet a little, and possibly I shall render you the body of _Philander_, though dead, to send into _France_, as the trophy of your fidelity to that Crown: oh yet a little stay your cruel sentence, till my lovely sister, who pursued my hard fortunes, declare my fate by her life or death: oh, my lord, if ever the soft passion of love have touched your soul, if you have felt the unresistible force of young charms about your heart, if ever you have known a pain and pleasure from fair eyes, or the transporting joys of beauty, pity a youth undone by love and ambition, those powerful conquerors of the young—-pity, oh pity a youth that dies, and will ere long no more complain upon your rigours. Yes, my lord, he dies without the force of a terrifying sentence, without the grim reproaches of an angry judge, without the soon consulted arbitrary—-guilty of a severe and hasty jury, without the ceremony of the scaffold, axe, and hangman, and the clamours of inconsidering crowds; all which melancholy ceremonies render death so terrible, which else would fall like gentle slumbers upon the eye-lids, and which in field I would encounter with that joy I would the sacred thing I love! But oh, I fear my fate is in the lovely _Sylvia_, and in her dying eyes you may read it, in her languishing face you will see how near it is approached. Ah, will you not suffer me to attend it there? By her dear side I shall fall as calmly as flowers from their stalks, without regret or pain: will you, by forcing me to die from her, run me to a madness? To wild distraction? Oh think it sufficient that I die here before half my race of youth be run, before the light be half burnt out, that might have conducted me to a world of glory! Alas, she dies=-the lovely _Sylvia_ dies; she is sighing out a soul to which mine is so entirely fixed, that they must go upward together; yes, yes, she breathes it sick into my bosom, and kindly gives mine its disease of death: let us at least then die in silence quietly; and if it please heaven to restore the languished charmer, I will resign myself up to all your rigorous honour; only let me bear my treasure with me, while we wander over the world to seek us out a safety in some part of it, where pity and compassion is no crime, where men have tender hearts, and have heard of the god of love; where politics are not all the business of the powerful, but where civility and good nature reign.
Perhaps, my lord, you will wonder I plead no weightier argument for my stay than love, or the griefs and tears of a languishing maid: but, oh! they are such tears as every drop would ransom lives, and nothing that proceeds from her charming eyes can be valued at a less rate! In pity to her, to me, and your amorous youths, let me bear her hence: for should she look abroad as her own sex, should she appear in her natural and proper beauty, alas they were undone. Reproach not (my lord) the weakness of this confession, and which I make with more glory than could I boast myself lord of all the universe: if it appear a fault to the more grave and wise, I hope my youth will plead something for my excuse. Oh say, at least, it was pity that love had the ascendant over _Philander_’s soul, say it was his destiny, but say withal, that it put no stop to his advance to glory; rather it set an edge upon his sword, and gave wings to his ambition!–Yes, try me in your Councils, prove me in your camps, place me in any hazard–but give me love! And leave me to wait the life or death of _Sylvia_, and then dispose as you please, my lord, of your unfortunate
PHILANDER.
* * * * *
OCTAVIO _to_ PHILANDER.
_My Lord_,
I am much concerned, that a request so reasonable as you have made, will be of so little force with these arbitrary tyrants of State; and though you have addressed and appealed to me as one of that grave and rigid number, (though without one grain of their formalities, and I hope age, which renders us less gallant, and more envious of the joys and liberties of youth, will never reduce me to so dull and thoughtless a Member of State) yet I have so small and single a portion of their power, that I am ashamed of my incapacity of serving you in this great affair. I bear the honour and the name, it is true, of glorious sway; but I can boast but of the worst and most impotent part of it, the title only; but the busy, absolute, mischievous politician finds no room in my soul, my humour, or constitution; and plodding restless power I have made so little the business of my gayer and more careless youth, that I have even lost my right of rule, my share of empire amongst them. That little power (whose unregarded loss I never bemoaned till it rendered me incapable of serving _Philander_) I have stretched to the utmost bound for your stay; insomuch that I have received many reproaches from the wiser coxcombs, have made my youth’s little debauches hinted on, and judgements made of you (disadvantageous) from my friendship to you; a friendship, which, my lord, at first sight of you found a being in my soul, and which your wit, your goodness, your greatness, and your misfortunes have improved to all the degrees of it: though I am infinitely unhappy that it proves of no use to you here, and that the greatest testimony I can now render of it, is to warn you of your approaching danger, and hasten your departure, for there is no safety in your stay. I just now heard what was decreed against you in Council, which no pleading, nor eloquence of friendship had force enough to evade. Alas, I had but one single voice in the number, which I sullenly and singly gave, and which unregarded passed. Go then, my lord, haste to some place where good breeding and humanity reigns: go and preserve _Sylvia_, in providing for your own safety; and believe me, till she be in a condition to pursue your fortunes, I will take such care that nothing shall be wanting to her recovery here, in order to her following after you. I am, alas, but too sensible of all the pains you must endure by such a separation; for I am neither insensible, nor incapable of love, or any of its violent effects: go then, my lord, and preserve the lovely maid in your flight, since your stay and danger will serve but to hasten on her death: go and be satisfied she shall find a protection suitable to her sex, her innocence, her beauty, and her quality; and that wherever you fix your stay, she shall be resigned to your arms by, my lord, your eternal friend and humble servant,
OCTAVIO.
_Lest in this sudden remove you should want money, I have sent you several Bills of Exchange to what place soever you arrive, and what you want more (make no scruple to use me as a friend and) command._
After this letter finding no hopes, but on the contrary a dire necessity of departing, he told _Brilliard_ his misfortune, and asked his counsel in this extremity of affairs. _Brilliard_, (who of a servant was become a rival) you may believe, gave him such advice as might remove him from the object he adored. But after a great deal of dissembled trouble, the better to hide his joy, he gave his advice for his going, with all the arguments that appeared reasonable enough to _Philander_; and at every period urged, that his life being dear to _Sylvia_, and on which hers so immediately depended, he ought no longer to debate, but hasten his flight: to all which counsel our amorous hero, with a soul ready to make its way through his trembling body, gave a sighing unwilling assent. It was now no longer a dispute, but was concluded he must go; but how was the only question. How should he take his farewell? How he should bid adieu, and leave the dear object of his soul in an estate so hazardous? He formed a thousand sad ideas to torment himself with fancying he should never see her more, that he should hear that she was dead, though now she appeared on this side the grave, and had all the signs of a declining disease. He fancied absence might make her cold, and abate her passion to him; that her powerful beauty might attract adorers, and she being but a woman, and no part angel but her form,’twas not expected she should want her sex’s frailties. Now he could consider how he had won her, how by importunity and opportunity she had at last yielded to him, and therefore might to some new gamester, when he was not by to keep her heart in continual play: then it was that all the despair of jealous love, the throbs and piercing of a violent passion seized his timorous and tender heart, he fancied her already in some new lover’s arms, and ran over all these soft enjoyments he had with her; and fancied with tormenting thought, that so another would possess her; till racked with tortures, he almost fainted on the repose on which he was set: but _Brilliard_ roused and endeavoured to convince him, told him he hoped his fear was needless, and that he would take all the watchful care imaginable of her conduct, be a spy upon her virtue, and from time to time give him notice of all that should pass! Bid him consider her quality, and that she was no common mistress whom hire could lead astray; and that if from the violence of her passion, or her most severe fate, she had yielded to the most charming of men, he ought as little to imagine she could be again a lover, as that she could find an object of equal beauty with that of _Philander_. In fine, he soothed and flattered him into so much ease, that he resolves to take his leave for a day or two, under pretence of meeting and consulting with some of the rebel party; and that he would return again to her by that time it might be imagined her fever might be abated, and _Sylvia_ in a condition to receive the news of his being gone for a longer time, and to know all his affairs. While _Brilliard_ prepared all things necessary for his departure, _Philander_ went to _Sylvia_; from whom, having been absent two tedious hours, she caught him in her arms with a transport of joy, reproached him with want of love, for being absent so long: but still the more she spoke soft sighing words of love, the more his soul was seized with melancholy, his sighs redoubled, and he could not refrain from letting fall some tears upon her bosom—-which _Sylvia_ perceiving, with a look and a trembling in her voice, that spoke her fears, she cried, ‘Oh _Philander_! These are unusual marks of your tenderness; oh tell me, tell me quickly what they mean.’ He answered with a sigh, and she went on–‘It is so, I am undone, it is your lost vows, your broken faith you weep; yes, _Philander_, you find the flower of my beauty faded, and what you loved before, you pity now, and these be the effects of it.’ Then sighing, as if his soul had been departing on her neck, he cried, ‘By heaven, by all the powers of love, thou art the same dear charmer that thou wert;’ then pressing her body to his bosom, he sighed anew as if his heart were breaking–‘I know’ (says she) ‘_Philander_, there is some hidden cause that gives these sighs their way, and that dear face a paleness. Oh tell me all; for she that could abandon all for thee, can dare the worst of fate: if thou must quit me—-oh _Philander_, if it must be so, I need not stay the lingering death of a feeble fever; I know a way more noble and more sudden.’ Pleased at her resolution, which almost destroyed his jealousy and fears, a thousand times he kissed her, mixing his grateful words and thanks with sighs; and finding her fair hands (which he put often to his mouth) to increase their fires, and her pulse to be more high and quick, fearing to relapse her into her (abating) fever, he forced a smile, and told her, he had no griefs, but what she made him feel, no torments but her sickness, nor sighs but for her pain, and left nothing unsaid that might confirm her he was still more and more her slave; and concealing his design in favour of her health, he ceased not vowing and protesting, till he had settled her in all the tranquillity of a recovering beauty. And as since her first illness he had never departed from her bed, so now this night he strove to appear in her arms with all that usual gaiety of love that her condition would permit, or his circumstances could feign, and leaving her asleep at day-break (with a force upon his soul that cannot be conceived but by parting lovers) he stole from her arms, and retiring to his chamber, he soon got himself ready for his flight, and departed. We will leave _Sylvia_’s ravings to be expressed by none but herself, and tell you that after about fourteen days’ absence, _Octavio_ received this letter from _Philander_.
PHILANDER _to_ OCTAVIO.
Being safely arrived at _Cologne_, and by a very pretty and lucky adventure lodged in the house of the best quality in the town, I find myself much more at ease than I thought it possible to be without _Sylvia_, from whom I am nevertheless impatient to hear; I hope absence appears not so great a bugbear to her as it was imagined: for I know not what effects it would have on me to hear her griefs exceeded a few sighs and tears: those my kind absence has taught me to allow and bear without much pain, but should her love transport her to extremes of rage and despair, I fear I should quit my safety here, and give her the last proof of my love and my compassion, throw myself at her feet, and expose my life to preserve hers. Honour would oblige me to it. I conjure you, my dear _Octavio_, by all the friendship you have vowed me, (and which I no longer doubt) let me speedily know how she bears my absence, for on that knowledge depends a great deal of the satisfaction of my life; carry her this enclosed which I have writ her, and soften my silent departure, which possibly may appear rude and unkind, plead my pardon, and give her the story of my necessity of offending, which none can so well relate as yourself; and from a mouth so eloquent to a maid so full of love, will soon reconcile me to her heart. With her letter I send you a bill to pay her 2000 patacons, which I have paid _Vander Hanskin_ here, as his letter will inform you, as also those bills I received of you at my departure, having been supplied by an _English_ merchant here, who gave me credit. It will be an age, till I hear from you, and receive the news of the health of _Sylvia_, than which two blessings nothing will be more welcome to, generous _Octavio_, your
PHILANDER.
_Direct your letters for me to your merchant_ Vander Hanskin.
* * * * *
PHILANDER _to_ SYLVIA.
There is no way left to gain my _Sylvia_’s pardon for leaving her, and leaving her in such circumstances, but to tell her it was to preserve a life which I believed entirely dear to her; but that unhappy crime is too severely punished by the cruelties of my absence: believe me, lovely _Sylvia_, I have felt all your pains, I have burnt with your fever, and sighed with your oppressions; say, has my pain abated yours? Tell me, and hasten my health by the assurance of your recovery, or I have fled in vain from those dear arms to save my life, of which I know not what account to give you, till I receive from you the knowledge of your perfect health, the true state of mine. I can only say I sigh, and have a sort of a being in _Cologne_, where I have some more assurance of protection than I could hope I from those interested brutes, who sent me from you; yet brutish as they are, I know thou art safe from their clownish outrages. For were they senseless as their fellow-monsters of the sea, they durst not profane so pure an excellence as thine; the sullen boars would jouder out a welcome to thee, and gape, I and wonder at thy awful beauty, though they want the tender sense to know to what use it was made. Or if I doubted their humanity, I cannot the friendship of _Octavio_, since he has given me too good a proof of it, to leave me any fear that he has not in my absence pursued those generous sentiments for _Sylvia_, which he vowed to _Philander_, and of which this first proof must be his relating the necessity of my absence, to set me well with my adorable maid, who, better than I, can inform her; and that I rather chose to quit you only for a short space, than reduce myself to the necessity of losing you eternally. Let the satisfaction this ought to give you retrieve your health and beauty, and put you into a condition of restoring to me all my joys; that by pursuing the dictates of your love, you may again bring the greatest happiness on earth to the arms of your
PHILANDER.
POSTSCRIPT.
_My affairs here are yet so unsettled, that I can take no order for your coming to me; but as soon as I know where I can fix with safety, I shall make it my business and my happiness: adieu. Trust_ Octavio_, with your letters only._
This letter _Octavio_ would not carry himself to her, who had omitted no day, scarce an hour, wherein he saw not or sent not to the charming _Sylvia_; but he found in that which _Philander_ had writ to him an air of coldness altogether unusual with that passionate lover, and infinitely short in point of tenderness to those he had formerly seen of his, and from what he had heard him speak; so that he no longer doubted (and the rather because he hoped it) but that _Philander_ found an abatement of that heat, which was wont to inspire at a more amorous rate: this appearing declension he could not conceal from _Sylvia_, at least to let her know he took notice of it; for he knew her love was too quick-sighted and sensible to pass it unregarded; but he with reason thought, that when she should find others observe the little slight she had put on her, her pride (which is natural to women in such cases) would decline and lessen her love for his rival. He therefore sent his page with the letters enclosed in this from himself.
OCTAVIO _to_ SYLVIA.
_Madam_,
From a little necessary debauch I made last night with the Prince, I am forced to employ my page in those duties I ought to have performed myself: he brings you, madam, a letter from _Philander_, as mine, which I have also sent you, informs me; I should else have doubted it; it is, I think, his character, and all he says of _Octavio_ confesses the friend, but where he speaks of _Sylvia_ sure he disguises the lover: I wonder the mask should be put on now to me, to whom before he so frankly discovered the secrets of his amorous heart. It is a mystery I would fain persuade myself he finds absolutely necessary to his interest, and I hope you will make the same favourable constructions of it, and not impute the lessened zeal wherewith he treats the charming _Sylvia_ to any possible change or coldness, since I am but too fatally sensible, that no man can arrive at the glory of being beloved by you, that had ever power to shorten one link of that dear chain that holds him, and you need but survey that adorable face, to confirm your tranquillity; set a just value on your charms, and you need no arguments to secure your everlasting empire, or to establish it in what heart you please. This fatal truth I learned from your fair eyes, ere they discovered to me your sex, and you may as soon change to what I then believed you, as I from adoring what I now find you: if all then, madam, that do but look on you become your slaves, and languish for you, love on, even without hope, and die, what must _Philander_ pay you, who has the mighty blessing of your love, your vows, and all that renders the hours of amorous youth, sacred, glad, and triumphant? But you know the conquering power of your charms too well to need either this daring confession, or a defence of _Philander_’s virtue from, madam, your obedient slave,
OCTAVIO.
_Sylvia_ had no sooner read this with blushes, and a thousand fears, and trembling of what was to follow in _Philander_’s letters both to _Octavio_ and to herself, but with an indignation agreeable to her haughty soul, she cried–‘How–slighted! And must _Octavio_ see it too! By heaven, if I should find it true, he shall not dare to think it.’ Then with a generous rage she broke open _Philander_’s, letter; and which she soon perceived did but too well prove the truth of _Octavio_’s suspicion, and her own fears. She repeated it again and again, and still she found more cause of grief and anger; love occasioned the first, and pride the last; and, to a soul perfectly haughty, as was that of _Sylvia_, it was hard to guess which had the ascendant: she considered _Octavio_ to all the advantages that thought could conceive in one, who was not a lover of him; she knew he merited a heart, though she had none to give him; she found him charming without having a tenderness for him; she found him young and amorous without desire towards him; she found him great, rich, powerful and generous without designing on him; and though she knew her soul free from all passion, but that for _Philander_, nevertheless she blushed and was angry, that he had thoughts no more advantageous to the power of those charms, which she wish’d might appear to him above her sex, it being natural to women to desire conquests, though they hate the conquered; to glory in the triumph, though they despise the slave: and she believed, while _Octavio_ had so poor a sense of her beauty as to believe it could be forsaken, he would adore it less: and first, to satisfy her pride, she left the softer business of her heart to the next tormenting hour, and sent him this careless answer by his page, believing, if she valued his opinion; and therefore dissembled her thoughts, as women in those cases ever do, who when most angry seem the most galliard, especially when they have need of the friendship of those they flatter.
SYLVIA _to_ OCTAVIO.
Is it indeed, _Octavio_, that you believe _Philander_ cold, or would you make that a pretext to the declaration of your own passion? We _French_ ladies are not so nicely tied up to the formalities of virtue, but we can hear love at both ears: and if we receive not the addresses of both, at least we are perhaps vain enough not to be displeased to find we make new conquests. But you have made your attack with so ill conduct, that I shall find force enough without more aids to repulse you. Alas, my lord, did you believe my heart was left unguarded when _Philander_ departed? No, the careful charming lover left a thousand little gods to defend it, of no less power than himself; young deities, who laugh at all your little arts and treacheries, and scorn to resign their empire to any feeble _Cupids_ you can draw up against them: your thick foggy air breeds love too dull and heavy for noble flights, nor can I stoop to them. The _Flemish_ boy wants arrows keen enough for hearts like mine, and is a bungler in his art, too lazy and remiss, rather a heavy _Bacchus_ than a _Cupid_, a bottle sends him to his bed of moss, where he sleeps hard, and never dreams of _Venus_.
How poorly have you paid yourself, my lord, (by this pursuit of your discovered love) for all the little friendship you have rendered me! How well you have explained, you can be no more a lover than a friend, if one may judge the first by the last! Had you been thus obstinate in your passion before _Philander_ went, or you had believed me abandoned, I should perhaps have thought that you had loved indeed, because I should have seen you durst, and should have believed it true, because it ran some hazards for me, the resolution of it would have reconciled me then to the temerity of it, and the greatest demonstration you could have given of it, would have been the danger you would have ran and contemned, and the preference of your passion above any other consideration. This, my lord, had been generous and like a lover; but poorly thus to set upon a single woman in the disguise of a friend, in the dark silent melancholy hour of absence from _Philander_, then to surprise me, then to bid me deliver! to pad for hearts! It is not like _Octavio_, _Octavio_ that _Philander_ made his friend, and for whose dear sake, my lord, I will no farther reproach you, but from a goodness, which, I hope, you will merit, I will forgive an offence, which your ill-timing has rendered almost inexcusable, and expect you will for the future consider better how you ought to treat
SYLVIA.
As soon as she had dismissed the page, she hasted to her business of love, and again read over _Philander_’s, letter, and finding still new occasion for fear, she had recourse to pen and paper for a relief of that heart which no other way could find; and after having wiped the tears from her eyes, she writ this following letter.
SYLVIA _to_ PHILANDER.
Yes, _Philander_, I have received your letter, and but I found my name there, should have hoped it was not meant for _Sylvia_! Oh! It is all cold–short–short and cold as a dead winter’s day. It chilled my blood, it shivered every vein. Where, oh where hast thou lavished out all those soft words so natural to thy soul, with which thou usedst to charm; so tuned to the dear music of thy voice? What is become of all the tender things, which, as I used to read, made little nimble pantings in my heart, my blushes rise, and tremblings in my blood, adding new fire to the poor burning victim! Oh where are all thy pretty flatteries of love, that made me fond and vain, and set a value on this trifling beauty? Hast thou forgot thy wondrous art of loving? Thy pretty cunnings, and thy soft deceivings? Hast thou forgot them all? Or hast thou forgot indeed to love at all? Has thy industrious passion gathered all the sweets, and left the rifled flower to hang its withered head, and die in I shades neglected? For who will prize it now, now when all its I perfumes are fled? Oh my _Philander_, oh my charming fugitive! Was it not enough you left me, like false _Theseus_, on the shore, on the forsaken shore, departed from my fond, my clasping arms; where I believed you safe, secure and pleased, when sleep and night, that favoured you and ruined me, had rendered them incapable of their dear loss! Oh was it not enough, that when I found them empty and abandoned, and the place cold where you had lain, and my poor trembling bosom unpossessed of that dear load it bore, that I almost expired with my first fears? Oh, if _Philander_ loved, he would have thought that cruelty enough, without the sad addition of a growing coldness: I awaked, I missed thee, and I called aloud, ‘_Philander_! my _Philander_!’ But no Philander heard; then drew the close-drawn curtains, and with a hasty and busy view surveyed the chamber over; but oh! In vain I viewed, and called yet louder, but none appeared to my assistance but _Antonet_ and _Brilliard_, to torture me with dull excuses, urging a thousand feigned and frivolous reasons to satisfy my fears: but I, who loved, who doted even to madness, by nature soft, and timorous as a dove, and fearful as a criminal escaped, that dreads each little noise, fancied their eyes and guilty looks confessed the treasons of their hearts and tongues, while they, more kind than true, strove to convince my killing doubts, protested that you would return by night, and feigned a likely story to deceive. Thus between hope and fear I languished out a day; oh heavens! A tedious day without _Philander_: who would have thought that such a dismal day should not, with the end of its reign, have finished that of my life! But then _Octavio_ came to visit me, and who till then I never wished to see, but now I was impatient for his coming, who by degrees told me that you were gone–I never asked him where, or how, or why; that you were gone was enough to possess me of all I feared, your being apprehended and sent into _France_, your delivering yourself up, your abandoning me; all, all I had an easy faith for, without consulting more than that thou wert gone–that very word yet strikes a terror to my soul, disables my trembling hand, and I must wait for reinforcements from some kinder thoughts. But, oh! From whence should they arrive? From what dear present felicity, or prospect of a future, though never so distant, and all those past ones serve but to increase my pain; they favour me no more, they charm and please no more, and only present themselves to my memory to complete the number of my sighs and tears, and make me wish that they had never been, though even with _Philander_? Oh! say, thou monarch of my panting soul, how hast thou treated _Sylvia_, to make her wish that she had never known a tender joy with thee? Is it possible she should repent her loving thee, and thou shouldst give her cause! Say, dear false charmer, is it? But oh, there is no lasting faith in sin!—-Ah–What have I done? How dreadful is the scene of my first debauch, and how glorious that never to be regained prospect of my virgin innocence, where I sat enthroned in awful virtue, crowned with shining honour, and adorned with unsullied reputation, till thou, O tyrant _Love_, with a charming usurpation invaded all my glories; and which I resigned with greater pride and joy than a young monarch puts them on. Oh! Why then do I repent? As if the vast, the dear expense of pleasures past were not enough to recompense for all the pains of love to come? But why, oh why do I treat thee as a lover lost already? Thou art not, canst not; no, I will not believe it, till thou thyself confess it: nor shall the omission of a tender word or two make me believe thou hast forgot thy vows. Alas, it may be I mistake thy cares, thy hard fatigues of life, thy present ill circumstances (and all the melancholy effects of thine and my misfortunes) for coldness and declining love. Alas, I had forgot my poor my dear _Philander_ is now obliged to contrive for life as well as love, thou perhaps (fearing the worst) are preparing eloquence for a council table; and in thy busy and guilty imaginations haranguing it to the grave judges, defending thy innocence, or evading thy guilt: feeing advocates, excepting juries, and confronting witnesses, when thou shouldst be giving satisfaction to my fainting love-sick heart: sometimes in thy labouring fancy the horror of a dreadful sentence for an ignominious death, strikes upon thy tender soul with a force that frights the little god from thence, and I am persuaded there are some moments of this melancholy nature, wherein your _Sylvia_ is even quite forgotten, and this too she can think just and reasonable, without reproaching thy heart with a declining passion, especially when I am not by to call thy fondness up, and divert thy more tormenting hours: but oh, for those soft minutes thou hast designed for love, and hast dedicated to _Sylvia, Philander_ should dismiss the dull formalities of rigid business, the pressing cares of dangers, and have given a loose to softness. Could my _Philander_ imagine this short and unloving letter sufficient to atone for such an absence? And has _Philander_ then forgotten the pain with which I languished, when but absent from him an hour? How then can he imagine I can live, when distant from him so many leagues, and so many days? While all the scanty comfort I have for life is, that one day we might meet again; but where, or when, or how-thou hast not love enough so much as to divine; but poorly leavest me to be satisfied by _Octavio_, committing the business of thy heart, the once great importance of thy soul, the most necessary devoirs of thy life, to be supplied by another. Oh _Philander_, I have known a blessed time in our reign of love, when thou wouldst have thought even all thy own power of too little force to satisfy the doubting soul of _Sylvia_: tell me, _Philander_, hast thou forgot that time? I dare not think thou hast, and yet (O God) I find an alteration, but heaven divert the omen: yet something whispers to my soul, I am undone! Oh, where art thou, my _Philander_? Where is thy heart? And what has it been doing since it begun my fate? How can it justify thy coldness, and thou this cruel absence, without accounting with me for every parting hour? My charming dear was wont to find me business for all my lonely absent ones; and writ the softest letters–loading the paper with fond vows and wishes, which ere I had read over another would arrive, to keep eternal warmth about my soul; nor wert thou ever wearied more with writing, than I with reading, or with sighing after thee; but now–oh! There is some mystery in it I dare not understand. Be kind at least and satisfy my fears, for it is a wondrous pain to live in doubt; if thou still lovest me, swear it over anew! And curse me if I do not credit thee. But if thou art declining–or shouldst be sent a shameful victim into _France_–oh thou deceiving charmer, yet be just, and let me know my doom: by heaven this last will find a welcome to me, for it will end the torment of my doubts and fears of losing thee another way, and I shall have the joy to die with thee, die beloved, and die
Thy SYLVIA.
Having read over this letter, she feared she had said too much of her doubts and apprehensions of a change in him; for now she flies to all the little stratagems and artifices of lovers, she begins to consider the worst, and to make the best of that; but quite abandoned she could not believe herself, without flying into all the rage that disappointed woman could be possessed with. She calls _Brilliard_, shews him his lord’s letters, and told him, (while he read) her doubts and fears; he being thus instructed by herself in the way how to deceive her on, like fortune-tellers, who gather people’s fortune from themselves, and then return it back for their own divinity; tells her he saw indeed a change! Glad to improve her fear, and feigns a sorrow almost equal to hers: ‘It is evident,’ says he, ‘it is evident, that he is the most ungrateful of his sex! Pardon, madam,’ (continued he, bowing) ‘if my zeal for the most charming creature on earth, make me forget my duty to the best of masters and friends.’ ‘Ah, _Brilliard_,’ cried she, with an air of languishment that more enflamed him, ‘have a care, lest that mistaken zeal for me should make you profane virtue, which has not, but on this occasion, shewed that it wanted angels for its guard. Oh, _Brilliard_, if he be false–if the dear man be perjured, take, take, kind heaven, the life you have preserved but for a greater proof of your revenge’—-and at that word she sunk into his arms, which he hastily extended as she was falling, both to save her from harm, and to give himself the pleasure of grasping the loveliest body in the world to his bosom, on which her fair face declined, cold, dead, and pale; but so transporting was the pleasure of that dear burden, that he forgot to call for, or to use any aid to bring her back to life, but trembling with his love and eager passion, he took a thousand joys, he kissed a thousand times her lukewarm lips, sucked her short sighs, and ravished all the sweets, her bosom (which was but guarded with a loose night-gown) yielded his impatient touches. Oh heaven, who can express the pleasures he received, because no other way he ever could arrive to so much daring? It was all beyond his hope; loose were her robes, insensible the maid, and love had made him insolent, he roved, he kissed, he gazed, without control, forgetting all respect of persons, or of place, and quite despairing by fair means to win her, resolves to take this lucky opportunity; the door he knew was fast, for the counsel she had to ask him admitted of no lookers-on, so that at his entrance she had secured the pass for him herself, and being near her bed, when she fell into his arms, at this last daring thought he lifts her thither, and lays her gently down, and while he did so, in one minute ran over all the killing joys he had been witness to, which she had given _Philander_; on which he never paus’d, but urged by a _Cupid_ altogether malicious and wicked, he resolves his cowardly conquest, when some kinder god awakened _Sylvia_, and brought _Octavio_ to the chamber door; who having been used to a freedom, which was permitted to none but himself, with _Antonet_ her woman, waiting for admittance, after having knocked twice softly, _Brittiard_ heard it, and redoubled his disorder, which from that of love, grew to that of surprise; he knew not what to do, whether to refuse answering, or to re-establish the reviving sense of _Sylvia_; in this moment of perplexing thought he failed not however to set his hair in order, and adjust him, though there were no need of it, and stepping to the door (after having raised _Sylvia_, leaning her head on her hand on the bed-side,) he gave admittance to _Octavio_; but, oh heaven, how was he surprised when he saw it was _Octavio_? His heart with more force than before redoubled its beats, that one might easily perceive every stroke by the motion of his cravat; he blushed, which, to a complexion perfectly fair, as that of _Brilliard_ (who wants no beauty, either in face or person) was the more discoverable, add to this his trembling, and you may easily imagine what a figure he represented himself to _Octavio_; who almost as much surprised as himself to find the goddess of his vows and devotions with a young _Endymion_ alone, a door shut to, her gown loose, which (from the late fit she was in, and _Brilliard_’s rape upon her bosom) was still open, and discovered a world of unguarded beauty, which she knew not was in view, with some other disorders of her headcloths, gave him in a moment a thousand false apprehensions: _Antonet_ was no less surprised; so that all had their part of amazement but the innocent _Sylvia_, whose eyes were beautified with a melancholy calm, which almost set the generous lover at ease, and took away his new fears; however, he could not choose but ask _Brilliard_ what the matter was with him, he looked so out of countenance, and trembled so? He told him how _Sylvia_ had been, and what extreme frights she had possessed him with, and told him the occasion, which the lovely _Sylvia_ with her eyes and sighs assented to, and _Brilliard_ departed; how well pleased you may imagine, or with what gusto he left her to be with the lovely _Octavio_, whom he perceived too well was a lover in the disguise of a friend. But there are in love those wonderful lovers who can quench the fire one beauty kindles with some other object, and as much in love as _Brilliard_ was, he found _Antonet_ an antidote that dispelled the grosser part of it; for she was in love with our amorous friend, and courted him with that passion those of that country do almost all handsome strangers; and one convenient principle of the religion of that country is, to think it no sin to be kind while they are single women, though otherwise (when wives) they are just enough, nor does a woman that manages her affairs thus discreetly meet with any reproach; of this humour was our _Antonet_, who pursued her lover out, half jealous there might be some amorous intrigue between her lady and him, which she sought in vain by all the feeble arts of her country’s sex to get from him; while on the other side he believing she might be of use in the farther discovery he desired to make between _Octavio_ and _Sylvia_, not only told her she herself was the object of his wishes, but gave her substantial proofs on it, and told her his design, after having her honour for security that she would be secret, the best pledge a man can take of a woman: after she had promised to betray all things to him, she departed to her affairs, and he to giving his lord an account of _Sylvia_, as he desired, in a letter which came to him with that of _Sylvia_; and which was thus:
PHILANDER _to_ BRILLIARD.
I doubt not but you will wonder that all this time you have not heard of me, nor indeed can well excuse it, since I have been in a place whence with ease I could have sent every post; but a new affair of gallantry has engaged my thoughtful hours, not that I find any passion here that has abated one sigh for _Sylvia_; but a man’s hours are very dull, when undiverted by an intrigue of some kind or other, especially to a heart young and gay as mine is, and which would not, if possible, bend under the fatigues of more serious thought and business; I should not tell you this, but that I would have you say all the dilatory excuses that possibly you can to hinder _Sylvia_’s coming to me, while I remain in this town, where I design to make my abode but a short time, and had not stayed at all, but for this stop to my journey, and I scorn to be vanquished without taking my revenge; it is a sally of youth, no more–a flash, that blazes for a while, and will go out without enjoyment. I need not bid you keep this knowledge to yourself, for I have had too good a confirmation of your faith and friendship to doubt you now, and believe you have too much respect for _Sylvia_ to occasion her any disquiet. I long to know how she takes my absence, send me at large of all that passes, and give your letters to _Octavio_, for none else shall know where I am, or how to send to me: be careful of _Sylvia_, and observe her with diligence, for possibly I should not be extravagantly afflicted to find she was inclined to love me less for her own ease and mine, since love is troublesome when the height of it carries it to jealousies, little quarrels, and eternal discontents; all which beginning lovers prize, and pride themselves on every distrust of the fond mistress, since it is not only a demonstration of love in them, but of power and charms in us that occasion it. But when we no longer find the mistress so desirable, as our first wishes form her, we value less their opinion of our persons, and only endeavour to render it agreeable to new beauties, and adorn it for new conquests; but you, _Brilliard_, have been a lover, and understand already this philosophy. I need say no more then to a man who knows so well my soul, but to tell him I am his constant friend.
PHILANDER.
This came as _Brilliard_’s soul could wish, and had he sent him word he had been chosen King of _Poland_, he could not have received the news with so great joy, and so perfect a welcome. How to manage this to his best advantage was the business he was next to consult, after returning an answer; now he fancied himself sure of the lovely prize, in spite of all other oppositions: ‘For’ (says he, in reasoning the case) ‘if she can by degrees arrive to a coldness to _Philander_, and consider him no longer as a lover, she may perhaps consider me as a husband; or should she receive _Octavio_’s addresses, when once I have found her feeble, I will make her pay me for keeping of every secret.’ So either way he entertained a hope, though never so distant from reason and probability; but all things seem possible to longing lovers, who can on the least hope resolve to out-wait even eternity (if possible) in expectation of a promised blessing; and now with more than usual care he resolved to dress, and set out all his youth and beauty to the best advantage; and being a gentleman well born, he wanted no arts of dressing, nor any advantage of shape or mien, to make it appear well: pleased with this hope, his art was now how to make his advances without appearing to have designed doing so. And first to act the hypocrite with his lord was his business; for he considered rightly, if he should not represent _Sylvia_’s sorrows to the life, and appear to make him sensible of them, he should not be after credited if he related any thing to her disadvantage; for to be the greater enemy, you ought to seem to be the greatest friend. This was the policy of his heart, who in all things was inspired with fanatical notions. In order to this, being alone in his chamber, after the defeat he had in that of _Sylvia_’s, he writ this letter.
BRILLIARD _to_ PHILANDER.
_My Lord,_
You have done me the honour to make me your confidant in an affair that does not a little surprise me; since I believed, after _Sylvia_, no mortal beauty could have touched your heart, and nothing but your own excuses could have sufficed to have made it reasonable; and I only wish, that when the fatal news shall arrive to _Sylvia_’s ear (as for me it never shall) that she may think it as pardonable as I do; but I doubt it will add abundance of grief to what she is already possessed of, if but such a fear should enter in her tender thoughts. But since it is not my business, my lord, to advise or counsel, but to obey, I leave you to all the success of happy love, and will only give you an account how affairs stand here, since your departure.
That morning you left the _Brill_, and _Sylvia_ in bed, I must disturb your more serene thoughts with telling you, that her first surprise and griefs at the news of your departure were most deplorable, where raging madness and the softer passion of love, complaints of grief, and anger, sighs, tears and cries were so mixed together, and by turns so violently seized her, that all about her wept and pitied her: it was sad, it was wondrous sad, my lord, to see it: nor could we hope her life, or that she would preserve it if she could; for by many ways she attempted to have released herself from pain by a violent death, and those that strove to preserve that, could not hope she would ever have returned to sense again: sometimes a wild extravagant raving would require all our aid, and then again she would talk and rail so tenderly—-and express her resentment in the kindest softest words that ever madness uttered, and all of her _Philander_, till she has set us all a weeping round her; sometimes she’d sit as calm and still as death, and we have perceived she lived only by sighs and silent tears that fell into her bosom; then on a sudden wildly gaze upon us with eyes that even then had wondrous charms, and frantically survey us all, then cry aloud, ‘Where is my Lord _Philander_!—-Oh, bring me my _Philander_, _Brilliard_: Oh, _Antonet_, where have you hid the treasure of my soul?’ Then, weeping floods of tears, would sink all fainting in our arms. Anon with trembling words and sighs she’d cry—-‘But oh, my dear _Philander_ is no more, you have surrendered him to _France_—-Yes, yes, you have given him up, and he must die, publicly die, be led a sad victim through the joyful crowd–reproached, and fall ingloriously—-‘ Then rave again, and tear her lovely hair, and act such wildness,–so moving and so sad, as even infected the pitying beholders, and all we could do, was gently to persuade her grief, and soothe her raving fits; but so we swore, so heartily we vowed that you were safe, that with the aid of _Octavio_, who came that day to visit her, we made her capable of hearing a little reason from us. _Octavio_ kneeled, and begged she would but calmly hear him speak, he pawned his soul, his honour, and his life, _Philander_ was as safe from any injury, either from _France_, or any other enemy, as he, as she, or heaven itself. In fine, my lord, he vowed, he swore, and pleaded, till she with patience heard him tell his story, and the necessity of your absence; this brought her temper back, and dried her eyes, then sighing, answered him—-that if for your safety you were fled, she would forgive your cruelty and your absence, and endeavour to be herself again: but then she would a thousand times conjure him not to deceive her faith, by all the friendship that he bore _Philander_, not to possess her with false hopes; then would he swear anew; and as he swore, she would behold him with such charming sadness in her eyes that he almost forgot what he would say, to gaze upon her, and to pass his pity. But, if with all his power of beauty and of rhetoric he left her calm, he was no sooner gone, but she returned to all the tempests of despairing love, to all the unbelief of faithless passion, would neither sleep, nor eat, nor suffer day to enter; but all was sad and gloomy as the vault that held the _Ephesian_ matron, nor suffered she any to approach her but her page, and Count _Octavio_, and he in the midst of all was well received: not that I think, my lord, she feigned any part of that close retirement to entertain him with any freedom, that did not become a woman of perfect love and honour; though I must own, my lord, I believe it impossible for him to behold the lovely _Sylvia_, without having a passion for her. What restraint his friendship to you may put upon his heart or tongue I know not, but I conclude him a lover, though without success; what effects that may have upon the heart of _Sylvia_, only time can render an account of: and whose conduct I shall the more particularly observe from a curiosity natural to me, to see if it may be possible for _Sylvia_ to love again, after the adorable _Philander_, which levity in one so perfect would cure me of the disease of love, while I lived amongst the fickle sex: but since no such thought can yet get possession of my belief, I humbly beg your lordship will entertain no jealousy, that may be so fatal to your repose, and to that of _Sylvia_; doubt not but my fears proceed perfectly from the zeal I have for your lordship, for whose honour and tranquillity none shall venture so far as, my lord, your lordship’s most humble and obedient servant,
BRILLIARD.
POSTSCRIPT.
_My lord, the groom shall set forward with your coach horses tomorrow morning, according to your order_.
Having writ this, he read it over; not to see whether it were witty or eloquent, or writ up to the sense of so good a judge as _Philander_, but to see whether he had cast it for his purpose; for there his masterpiece was to be shewn; and having read it, he doubted whether the relation of _Sylvia_’s griefs were not too moving, and whether they might not serve to revive his fading love, which were intended only as a demonstration of his own pity and compassion, that from thence the deceived lover might with the more ease entertain a belief in what he hinted of her levity, when he was to make that out, as he now had but touched upon it, for he would not have it thought the business of malice to _Sylvia_, but duty and respect to _Philander_: that thought reconciled him to the first part without alteration; and he fancied he had said enough in the latter, to give any man of love and sense a jealousy which might inspire a young lover in pursuit of a new mistress, with a revenge that might wholly turn to his advantage; for now every ray gave him light enough to conduct him to hope, and he believed nothing too difficult for his love, nor what his invention could not conquer: he fancied himself a very _Machiavel_ already, and almost promised himself the charming _Sylvia_. With these thoughts he seals up his letters, and hastes to _Sylvia_’s chamber for her farther commands, having in his politic transports forgotten he had left _Octavio_ with her. _Octavio_, who no sooner had seen _Brilliard_ quit the chamber all trembling and disordered, after having given him entrance, but the next step was to the feet of the new recovered languishing beauty, who not knowing any thing of the freedom the daring husband lover had taken, was not at all surprised to hear _Octavio_ cry (kneeling before her) ‘Ah madam, I no longer wonder you use _Octavio_ with such rigour;’ then sighing declined his melancholy eyes, where love and jealousy made themselves too apparent; while she believing he had only reproached her want of ceremony at his entrance, checking herself, she started from the bed, and taking him by the hand to raise him, she cried, ‘Rise, my lord, and pardon the omission of that respect which was not wanting but with even life itself.’ _Octavio_ answered, ‘Yes, madam, but you took care, not to make the world absolutely unhappy in your eternal loss, and therefore made choice of such a time to die in, when you were sure of a skilful person at hand to bring you back to life’–‘My lord—-‘ said she (with an innocent wonder in her eyes, and an ignorance that did not apprehend him) ‘I mean, _Brilliard_,’ said he, ‘whom I found sufficiently disordered to make me believe he took no little pains to restore you to the world again.’ This he spoke with such an air, as easily made her imagine he was a lover to the degree of jealousy, and therefore (beholding him with a look that told him her disdain before she spoke) she replied hastily, ‘My lord, if _Brilliard_ have expressed, by any disorder or concern, his kind sense of my sufferings, I am more obliged to him for it, than I am to you for your opinion of my virtue; and I shall hereafter know how to set a value both on the one and the other, since what he wants in quality and ability to serve me, he sufficiently makes good with his respect and duty.’ At that she would have quitted him, but he (still kneeling) held her train of her gown, and besought her, with all the eloquence of moving and petitioning love, that she would pardon the effect of a passion that could not run into less extravagancy at a sight so new and strange, as that she should in a morning, with only her night-gown thrown loosely about her lovely body, and which left a thousand charms to view, alone receive a man into her chamber, and make fast the door upon them, which when (from his importunity) it was opened he found her all ruffled, and almost fainting on her bed, and a young blushing youth start from her arms, with trembling limbs, and a heart that beat time to the tune of active love, faltering in his speech, as if scarce yet he had recruited the sense he had so happily lost in the amorous encounter: with that, surveying of herself, as she stood, in a great glass, which she could not hinder herself from doing, she found indeed her night-linen, her gown, and the bosom of her shift in such disorder, as, if at least she had yet any doubt remaining that _Brilliard_ had not treated her well, she however found cause enough to excuse _Octavio_’s opinion: weighing all the circumstances together, and adjusting her linen and gown with blushes that almost appeared criminal, she turned to _Octavio_, who still held her, and still begged her pardon, assuring him, upon her honour, her love to _Philander_, and her friendship for him, that she was perfectly innocent, and that _Brilliard_, though he should have quality and all other advantages which he wanted to render him acceptable, yet there was in nature something which compelled her to a sort of coldness and disgust to his person; for she had so much the more abhorrence to him as he was a husband, but that was a secret to _Octavio_; but she continued speaking–and cried, ‘No, could I be brought to yield to any but _Philander_, I own I find charms enough in _Octavio_ to make a conquest; but since the possession of that dear man is all I ask of heaven, I charge my soul with a crime, when I but hear love from any other, therefore I conjure you, if you have any satisfaction in my conversation, never to speak of love more to me, for if you do, honour will oblige me to make vows against seeing you: all the freedoms of friendship I will allow, give you the liberties of a brother, admit you alone by night, or any way but that of love; but that is a reserve of my soul which is only for _Philander_, and the only one that ever shall be kept from _Octavio_.’ She ended speaking, and raised him with a smile; and he with a sigh told her, she must command: then she fell to telling him how she had sent for _Brilliard_, and all the discourse that passed; with the reason of her falling into a swoon, in which she continued a moment or two; and while she told it she blushed with a secret fear, that in that trance some freedoms might be taken which she durst not confess: but while she spoke, our still more passionate lover devoured her with his eyes, fixed his very soul upon her charms of speaking and looking, and was a thousand times (urged by transporting passion) ready to break all her dictates, and vow himself her eternal slave; but he feared the result, and therefore kept himself within the bounds of seeming friendship; so that after a thousand things she said of _Philander_, he took his leave to go to dinner; but as he was going out he saw _Brilliard_ enter, who, as I said, had forgot he left _Octavio_ with her; but in a moment recollecting himself, he blushed at the apprehension, that they might make his disorder the subject of their discourse; so what with that, and the sight of the dear object of his late disappointed pleasures, he had much ado to assume an assurance to approach; but _Octavio_ passed out, and gave him a little release. _Sylvia_’s confusion was almost equal to his, for she looked on him as a ravisher; but how to find that truth which she was very curious to know, she called up all the arts of women to instruct her in; by threats she knew it was in vain, therefore she assumed an artifice, which indeed was almost a stranger to her heart, that of jilting him out of a secret which she knew he wanted generosity to give handsomely; and meeting him with a smile, which she forced, she cried, ‘How now, _Brilliard_, are you so faint-hearted a soldier, you cannot see a lady die without being terrified?’ ‘Rather, madam,’ (replied he blushing anew) ‘so soft-hearted, I cannot see the loveliest person in the world fainting in my arms, without being disordered with grief and fear, beyond the power of many days to resettle again.’ At which she approached him, who stood near the door, and shutting it, she took him by the hand, and smiling, cried, ‘And had you no other business for your heart but grief and fear, when a fair lady throws herself into your arms? It ought to have had some kinder effect on a person of _Brilliard_’s youth and complexion.’ And while she spoke this she held him by the wrist, and found on the sudden his pulse to beat more high, and his heart to heave his bosom with sighs, which now he no longer took care to hide, but with a transported joy, he cried, ‘Oh madam, do not urge me to a confession that must undo me, without making it criminal by my discovery of it; you know I am your slave—-‘ when she with a pretty wondering smile, cried–‘What, a lover too, and yet so dull!’ ‘Oh charming _Sylvia_,’ (says he, and falling on his knees) ‘give my profound respect a kinder name:’ to which she answered,–‘You that know your sentiments may best instruct me by what name to call them, and you _Brilliard_ may do it without fear—-You saw I did not struggle in your arms, nor strove I to defend the kisses which you gave—-‘ ‘Oh heavens,’ cried he, transported with what she said, ‘is it possible that you could know of my presumption, and favour it too? I will no longer then curse those unlucky stars that sent _Octavio_ just in the blessed minute to snatch me from my heaven, the lovely victim lay ready for the sacrifice, all prepared to offer; my hands, my eyes, my lips were tired with pleasure, but yet they were not satisfied; oh there was joy beyond those ravishments, of which one kind minute more had made me absolute lord:’ ‘Yes, and the next,’ said she, ‘had sent this to your heart’—-snatching a penknife that lay on her toilet, where she had been writing, which she offered so near to his bosom, that he believed himself already pierced, so sensibly killing her words, her motion, and her look; he started from her, and she threw away the knife, and walked a turn or two about the chamber, while he stood immovable, with his eyes fixed on the earth, and his thoughts on nothing but a wild confusion, which he vowed afterwards he could give no account of. But as she turned she beheld him with some compassion, and remembering how he had it in his power to expose her in a strange country, and own her for a wife, she believed it necessary to hide her resentments; and cried, ‘_Brilliard_, for the friendship your lord has for you I forgive you; but have a care you never raise your thoughts to a presumption of that nature more: do not hope I will ever fall below _Philander_’s love; go and repent your crime—-and expect all things else from my favour—-‘ At this he left her with a bow that had some malice in it, and she returned into her dressing-room.–After dinner _Octavio_ writes her this letter, which his page brought.
OCTAVIO _to_ SYLVIA.
_Madam_,
‘Tis true, that in obedience to your commands, I begged your pardon for the confession I made you of my passion: but since you could not but see the contradiction of my tongue in my eyes, and hear it but too well confirmed by my sighs, why will you confine me to the formalities of a silent languishment, unless to increase my flame with my pain?
You conjure me to see you often, and at the same time forbid me speaking my passion, and this bold intruder comes to tell you now, it is impossible to obey the first, without disobliging the last; and since the crime of adoring you exceeds my disobedience in not waiting on you, be pleased at least to pardon that fault, which my profound respect to the lovely _Sylvia_ makes me commit; for it is impossible to see you, and not give you an occasion of reproaching me: if I could make a truce with my eyes, and, like a mortified capuchin, look always downwards, not daring to behold the glorious temptations of your beauty, yet you wound a thousand ways besides; your touches inflame me, and your voice has music in it, that strikes upon my soul with ravishing tenderness; your wit is unresistible and piercing; your very sorrows and complaints have charms that make me soft without the aid of love: but pity joined with passion raises a flame too mighty for my conduct! And I in transports every way confess it: yes, yes, upbraid me, call me traitor and ungrateful, tell me my friendship is false; but, _Sylvia_, yet be just, and say my love was true, say only he had seen the charming _Sylvia_; and who is he that after that would not excuse the rest in one so absolutely born to be undone by love, as is her destined slave,
OCTAVIO.
POSTSCRIPT.
_Madam, among some rarities I this morning saw, I found these trifles_ Florio _brings you, which because uncommon I presume to send you._
_Sylvia_, notwithstanding the seeming severity of her commands, was well enough pleased to be disobeyed; and women never pardon any fault more willingly than one of this nature, where the crime gives so infallible a demonstration of their power and beauty; nor can any of their sex be angry in their hearts for being thought desirable; and it was not with pain that she saw him obstinate in his passion, as you may believe by her answering his letters, nor ought any lover to despair when he receives denial under his mistress’s own hand, which she sent in this to _Octavio_.
SYLVIA _to_ OCTAVIO.
You but ill judge of my wit, or humour, _Octavio_, when you send me such a present, and such a billet, if you believe I either receive the one, or the other, as you designed: in obedience to me you will no more tell me of your love, and yet at the same time you are breaking your word from one end of the paper to the other. Out of respect to me you will see me no more, and yet are bribing me with presents, believing you have found out the surest way to a woman’s heart. I must needs confess, _Octavio_, there is great eloquence in a pair of bracelets of five thousand crowns: it is an argument to prove your passion, that has more prevailing reason in it, than either _Seneca_ or _Tully_ could have urged; nor can a lover write or speak in any language so significant, and very well to be understood, as in that silent one of presenting. The malicious world has a long time agreed to reproach poor women with cruel, unkind, insensible, and dull; when indeed it is those men that are in fault who want the right way of addressing, the true and secret arts of moving, that sovereign remedy against disdain. It is you alone, my lord, like a young _Columbus_, that have found the direct, unpractised way to that little and so much desired world, the favour of the fair; nor could love himself have pointed his arrows with any thing more successful for his conquest of hearts: but mine, my lord, like _Scaeva_’s shield, is already so full of arrows, shot from _Philander_’s eyes, it has no room for any other darts: take back your presents then, my lord, and when you make them next be sure you first consider the receiver: for know, _Octavio_, maids of my quality ought to find themselves secure from addresses of this nature, unless they first invite. You ought to have seen advances in my freedoms, consenting in my eyes, or (that usual vanity of my sex) a thousand little trifling arts of affectation to furnish out a conquest, a forward complaisance to every gaudy coxcomb, to fill my train with amorous cringing captives, this might have justified your pretensions; but on the contrary, my eyes and thoughts, which never strayed from the dear man I love, were always bent to earth when gazed upon by you; and when I did but fear you looked with love, I entertained you with _Philander_’s, praise, his wondrous beauty, and his wondrous love, and left nothing untold that might confirm you how much impossible it was, I ever should love again, that I might leave you no room for hope; and since my story has been so unfortunate to alarm the whole world with a conduct so fatal, I made no scruple of telling you with what joy and pride I was undone; if this encourage you, if _Octavio_ have sentiments so meanly poor of me, to think, because I yielded to _Philander_, his hopes should be advanced, I banish him for ever from my sight, and after that disdain the little service he can render the never to be altered
SYLVIA.
This letter she sent him back by his page, but not the bracelets, which were indeed very fine, and very considerable: at the same time she threatened him with banishment, she so absolutely expected to be disobeyed in all things of that kind, that she dressed herself that day to advantage, which since her arrival she had never done in her own habits: what with her illness, and _Philander_’s absence, a careless negligence had seized her, till roused and weakened to the thoughts of beauty by _Octavio_’s love, she began to try its force, and that day dressed. While she was so employed, the page hastes with the letter to his lord, who changed colour at the sight of it ere he received it; not that he hoped it brought love, it was enough she would but answer, though she railed: ‘Let her’ (said he opening it) ‘vow she hates me: let her call me traitor, and unjust, so she take the pains to tell it this way;’ for he knew well those that argue will yield, and only she that sends him back his own letters without reading them can give despair. He read therefore without a sigh, nor complained he on her rigours; and because it was too early yet to make his visit, to shew the impatience of his love, as much as the reality and resolution of it, he bid his page wait, and sent her back this answer.
OCTAVIO _to_ SYLVIA.
Fair angry _Sylvia_, how has my love offended? Has its excess betrayed the least part of that respect due to your birth and beauty? Though I am young as the gay ruddy morning, and vigorous as the gilded sun at noon, and amorous as that god, when with such haste he chased young _Daphne_ over the flowery plain, it never made me guilty of a thought that _Sylvia_ might not pity and allow. Nor came that trifling present to plead for any wish, or mend my eloquence, which you with such disdain upbraid me with; the bracelets came not to be raffled for your love, nor pimp to my desires: youth scorns those common aids; no, let dull age pursue those ways of merchandise, who only buy up hearts at that vain price, and never make a barter, but a purchase. Youth has a better way of trading in love’s markets, and you have taught me too well to judge of, and to value beauty, to dare to bid so cheaply for it: I found the toy was gay, the work was neat, and fancy new; and know not any thing they would so well adorn as _Sylvia_’s lovely hands: I say, if after this I should have been the mercenary fool to have dunned you for return, you might have used me thus—-Condemn me ere you find me sin in thought! That part of it was yet so far behind it was scarce arrived in wish. You should have stayed till it approached more near, before you damned it to eternal silence. To love, to sigh, to weep, to pray, and to complain; why one may be allowed it in devotion; but you, nicer than heaven itself, make that a crime, which all the powers divine have never decreed one. I will not plead, nor ask you leave to love; love is my right, my business, and my province; the empire of the young, the vigorous, and the bold; and I will claim my share; the air, the groves, the shades are mine to sigh in, as well as your _Philander_’s; the echoes answer me as willingly, when I complain, or name the cruel _Sylvia_; fountains receive my tears, and the kind spring’s reflection agreeably flatters me to hope, and makes me vain enough to think it just and reasonable I should pursue the dictates of my soul—-love on in spite of opposition, because I will not lose my privileges; you may forbid me naming it to you, in that I can obey, because I can; but not to love! Not to adore the fair! And not to languish for you, were as impossible as for you not to be lovely, not to be the most charming of your sex. But I am so far from a pretending fool, because you have been possessed, that often that thought comes cross my soul, and checks my advancing love; and I would buy that thought off with almost all my share of future bliss! Were I a god, the first great miracle should be to form you a maid again: for oh, whatever reasons flattering love can bring to make it look like just, the world! The world, fair _Sylvia_, still will censure, and say—-you were to blame; but it was that fault alone that made you mortal, we else should have adored you as a deity, and so have lost a generous race of young succeeding heroes that may be born of you! Yet had _Philander_ loved but half so well as I, he would have kept your glorious fame entire; but since alone for _Sylvia_ I love _Sylvia_, let her be false to honour, false to love, wanton and proud, ill-natured, vain, fantastic, or what is worse–let her pursue her love, be constant, and still dote upon _Philander_–yet still she will be the _Sylvia_ I adore, that _Sylvia_ born eternally to enslave
OCTAVIO.
This he sent by _Florio_ his page, at the same time that she expected the visit of his lord, and blushed with a little anger and concern at the disappointment; however she hasted to read the letter, and was pleased with the haughty resolution he made in spite of her, to love on as his right by birth; and she was glad to find from these positive resolves that she might the more safely disdain, or at least assume a tyranny which might render her virtue glorious, and yet at the same time keep him her slave on all occasions when she might have need of his service, which, in the circumstances she was in, she did not know of what great use it might be to her, she having no other design on him, bating the little vanity of her sex, which is an ingredient so intermixed with the greatest virtues of women-kind, that those who endeavour to cure them of that disease rob them of a very considerable pleasure, and in most it is incurable: give _Sylvia_ then leave to share it with her sex, since she was so much the more excusable, by how much a greater portion of beauty she had than any other, and had sense enough to know it too; as indeed whatever other knowledge they want, they have still enough to set a price on beauty, though they do not always rate it; for had _Sylvia_ done that, she had been the happiest of her sex: but as she was she waited the coming of _Octavio_, but not so as to make her quit one sad thought for _Philanders_ love and vanity, though they both reigned in her soul; yet the first surmounted the last, and she grew to impatient ravings whenever she cast a thought upon her fear that _Philander_ grew cold; and possibly pride and vanity had as great a share in that concern of hers as love itself, for she would oft survey herself in her glass, and cry, ‘Gods! Can this beauty be despised? This shape! This face! This youth! This air! And what’s more obliging yet, a heart that adores the fugitive, that languishes and sighs after the dear runaway. Is it possible he can find a beauty,’ added she, ‘of greater perfection—-But oh, it is fancy sets the rate on beauty, and he may as well love a third time as he has a second. For in love, those that once break the rules and laws of that deity, set no bounds to their treasons and disobedience. Yes, yes,—-‘ would she cry, ‘He that could leave _Myrtilla_, the fair, the young, the noble, chaste and fond _Myrtilla_, what after that may he not do to _Sylvia_, on whom he has less ties, less obligations? Oh wretched maid—-what has thy fondness done, he is satiated now with thee, as before with _Myrtilla_, and carries all those dear, those charming joys, to some new beauty, whom his looks have conquered, and whom his soft bewitching vows will ruin.’ With that she raved and stamped, and cried aloud, ‘Hell—-fires—-tortures—-daggers—-racks and poison—-come all to my relief! Revenge me on the perjured lovely devil—-But I will be brave—-I will be brave and hate him—-‘ This she spoke in a tone less fierce, and with great pride, and had not paused and walked above a hasty turn or two, but _Octavio_, as impatient as love could make him, entered the chamber, so dressed, so set out for conquest, that I wonder at nothing more than that _Sylvia_ did not find him altogether charming, and fit for her revenge, who was formed by nature for love, and had all that could render him the dotage of women: but where a heart is prepossessed, all that is beautiful in any other man serves but as an ill comparison to what it loves, and even _Philander_’s likeness, that was not indeed _Philander_, wanted the secret to charm. At _Octavio_’s entrance she was so fixed on her revenge of love, that she did not see him, who presented himself as so proper an instrument, till he first sighing spoke, ‘Ah, _Sylvia_, shall I never see that beauty easy more? Shall I never see it reconciled to content, and a soft calmness fixed upon those eyes, which were formed for looks all tender and serene; or are they resolved’ (continued he, sighing) ‘never to appear but in storms when I approach?’ ‘Yes,’ replied she, ‘when there is a calm of love in yours that raises it.’ ‘Will you confine my eyes,’ said he, ‘that are by nature soft? May not their silent language tell you my heart’s sad story?’ But she replied with a sigh, ‘It is not generously done, _Octavio_, thus to pursue a poor unguarded maid, left to your care, your promises of friendship. Ah, will you use _Philander_ with such treachery?’ ‘Sylvia,’ said he,’my flame is so just and reasonable, that I dare even to him pronounce I love you; and after that dare love you on—-‘ ‘And would you’ (said she) ‘to satisfy a little short lived passion, forfeit those vows you have made of friendship to _Philander_? ‘That heart that loves you, Sylvia,’ (he replied) ‘cannot be guilty of so base a thought; _Philander_ is my friend, and as he is so, shall know the dearest secrets of my soul. I should believe myself indeed ungrateful’ (continued he) ‘wherever I loved, should I not tell _Philander_; he told me frankly all his soul, his loves, his griefs, his treasons, and escapes, and in return I will pay him back with mine.’ ‘And do you imagine’ (said she) ‘that he would permit your love?’ ‘How should he hinder me?’ (replied he.) ‘I do believe’ (said she) ‘he’d forget all his safety and his friendship, and fight you.’ ‘Then I’d defend myself,’ (said he) ‘if he were so ungrateful.’ While they thus argued, _Sylvia_ had her thoughts apart, on the little stratagems that women in love sometimes make use of; and _Octavio_ no sooner told her he would send _Philander_ word of his love, but she imagined that such a knowledge might retrieve the heart of her lover, if indeed it were on the wing, and revive the dying embers in his soul, as usually it does from such occasions; and on the other side, she thought that she might more allowably receive _Octavio_’s addresses, when they were with the permission of _Philander_, if he could love so well to permit it; and if he could not, she should have the joy to undeceive her fears of his inconstancy, though she banished for ever the agreeable _Octavio_; so that on _Octavio_’s farther urging the necessity of his giving _Philander_ that sure mark of his friendship she permitted him to write, which he immediately did on her table, where there stood a little silver escritoire which contained all things for this purpose.
OCTAVIO _to_ PHILANDER.
_My Lord_,
Since I have vowed you my eternal friendship, and that I absolutely believe myself honoured with that of yours, I think myself obliged by those powerful ties to let you know my heart, not only now as that friend from whom I ought to conceal nothing, but as a rival too, whom in honour I ought to treat as a generous one: perhaps you will be so unkind as to say I cannot be a friend and a rival at the same time, and that almighty love, that sets the world at odds, chases all things from the heart where that reigns, to establish itself the more absolutely there; but, my lord, I avow mine a love of that good nature, that can endure the equal sway of friendship, where like two perfect friends they support each other’s empire there; nor can the glory of one eclipse that of the other, but both, like the notion we have of the deity, though two distinct passions, make but one in my soul; and though friendship first entered, ’twas in vain, I called it to my aid, at the first soft invasion of _Sylvia_’s power; and you my charming friend, are the most oblig’d to pity me, who already know so well the force of her beauty. I would fain have you think, I strove at first with all my reason against the irresistible lustre of her eyes: and at the first assaults of love, I gave him not a welcome to my bosom, but like slaves unused to fetters, I grew sullen with my chains, and wore them for your sake uneasily. I thought it base to look upon the mistress of my friend with wishing eyes; but softer love soon furnished me with arguments to justify my claim, since love is not the choice but the face of the soul, who seldom regards the object lov’d as it is, but as it wishes to have it be, and then kind fancy makes it soon the same. Love, that almighty creator of something from nothing, forms a wit, a hero, or a beauty, virtue, good humour, honour, any excellence, when oftentimes there is neither in the object, but where the agreeing world has fixed all these; and since it is by all resolved, (whether they love or not) that this is she, you ought no more, _Philander_, to upbraid my flame, than to wonder at it: it is enough I tell you that it is _Sylvia_ to justify my passion; nor is it a crime that I confess I love, since it can never rob _Philander_ of the least part of what I have vowed him: or if his mere honour will believe me guilty of a fault, let this atone for all, that if I wrong my friend in loving _Sylvia_, I right him in despairing; for oh, I am repulsed with all the rigour of the coy and fair, with all the little malice of the witty sex, and all the love of _Sylvia_ to _Philander_—-There, there is the stop to all my hopes and happiness, and yet by heaven I love thee, oh thou favoured rival!
After this frank confession, my _Philander_, I should be glad to hear your sentiment, since yet, in spite of love, in spite of beauty, I am resolved to die _Philander_’s constant friend,
OCTAVIO.
After he had writ this, he gave it to _Sylvia_: ‘See charming creature’ (said he in delivering it) ‘if after this you either doubt my love, or what I dare for _Sylvia_.’ ‘I neither receive it’ (said she) ‘as a proof of the one or the other; but rather that you believe, by this frank confession, to render it as a piece of gallantry and diversion to _Philander_; for no man of sense will imagine that love true, or arrived to any height, that makes a public confession of it to his rival.’ ‘Ah, _Sylvia_,’ answered he, ‘how malicious is your wit, and how active to turn its pointed mischief on me! Had I not writ, you would have said I durst not; and when I make a declaration of it, you call it only a slight piece of gallantry: but, _Sylvia_, you have wit enough to try it a thousand ways, and power enough to make me obey; use the extremity of both, so you recompense me at last with a confession that I was at least found worthy to be numbered in the crowd of your adorers.’ _Sylvia_ replied, ‘He were a dull lover indeed, that would need instructions from the wit of his mistress to give her proofs of his passion; whatever opinion you have of my sense, I have too good a one of _Octavio_’s to believe, that when he is a lover he will want aids to make it appear; till then we will let that argument alone, and consider his address to _Philander_.’ She then read over the letter he had writ, which she liked very well for her purpose; for at this time our young _Dutch hero_ was made a property of in order to her revenge on _Philander_: she told him, he had said too much both for himself and her. He told her, he had declared nothing with his pen, that he would not make good with his sword. ‘Hold, sir,’ said she, ‘and do not imagine from the freedom you have taken in owning your passion to _Philander_, that I shall allow it here: what you declare to the world is your own crime; but when I hear it, it is no longer yours but mine; I therefore conjure you, my lord, not to charge my soul with so great a sin against _Philander_, and I confess to you, I shall be infinitely troubled to be obliged to banish you my sight for ever.’ He heard her, and answered with a sigh; for she went from him to the table, and sealed her letter, and gave it him to be enclosed to _Philander_, and left him to consider on her last words, which he did not lay to heart, because he fancied she spoke this as women do that will be won with industry: he, in standing up as she went from him, saw himself in the great glass, and bid his person answer his heart, which from every view he took was reinforced with new hope, for he was too good a judge of beauty not to find it in every part of his own amiable person, nor could he imagine from _Sylvia_’s eyes, which were naturally soft and languishing, (and now the more so from her fears and jealousies) that she meant from her heart the rigours she expressed: much he allowed for his short time of courtship, much to her sex’s modesty, much from her quality, and very much from her love, and imagined it must be only time and assiduity, opportunity and obstinate passion, that were capable of reducing her to break her faith with _Philander_; he therefore endeavour’d by all the good dressing, the advantage of lavish gaiety, to render his person agreeable, and by all the arts of gallantry to charm her with his conversation, and when he could handsomely bring in love, he failed not to touch upon it as far as it would be permitted, and every day had the vanity to fancy he made some advances; for indeed every day more and more she found she might have use for so considerable a person, so that one may very well say, never any passed their time better than _Sylvia_ and _Octavio_, though with different ends. All he had now to fear was from the answer _Philander_’s letter should bring, for whom he had, in spite of love, so entire a friendship, that he even doubted whether (if _Philander_ could urge reasons potent enough) he should not choose to die and quit Sylvia, rather than be false to friendship; one post passed, and another, and so eight successive ones, before they received one word of answer to what they sent; so that _Sylvia_, who was the most impatient of her sex, and the most in love, was raving and acting all the extravagance of despair, and even _Octavio_ now became less pleasing, yet he failed not to visit her every day, to send her rich presents, and to say all that a fond lover, or a faithful friend might urge for her relief: at last _Octavio_ received this following letter.
PHILANDER _to_ OCTAVIO.
You have shewed, _Octavio_, a freedom so generous, and so beyond the usual measures of a rival, that it were almost injustice in me not to permit you to love on; if _Sylvia_ can be false to me, and all her vows, she is not worth preserving; if she prefer _Octavio_ to _Philander_, then he has greater merit, and deserves her best: but if on the contrary she be just, if she be true, and constant, I cannot fear his love will injure me, so either way _Octavio_ has my leave to love the charming _Sylvia_; alas, I know her power, and do not wonder at thy fate! For it is as natural for her to conquer, as ’tis for youth to yield; oh, she has fascination in her eyes! A spell upon her tongue, her wit’s a philtre, and her air and motion all snares for heedless hearts; her very faults have charms, her pride, her peevishness, and her disdain, have unresisted power. Alas, you find it every day–and every night she sweeps the tour along and shews the beauty, she enslaves the men, and rivals all the women! How oft with pride and anger I have seen it; and was the unconsidering coxcomb then to rave and rail at her, to curse her charms, her fair inviting and perplexing charms, and bullied every gazer: by heaven I could not spare a smile, a look, and she has such a lavish freedom in her humour, that if you chance to love as I have done–it will surely make thee mad; if she but talked aloud, or put her little affectation on, to show the force of beauty, oh God! How lost in rage! How mad with jealousy, was my fond breaking heart! My eyes grew fierce, and clamorous my tongue! And I have scarce contained myself from hurting what I so much adored; but then the subtle charmer had such arts to flatter me to peace again–to clasp her lovely arms about my neck–to sigh a thousand dear confirming vows into my bosom, and kiss, and smile, and swear–and take away my rage,–and then–oh my _Octavio_, no human fancy can present the joy of the dear reconciling moment, where little quarrels raised the rapture higher, and she was always new. These are the wondrous pains, and wondrous pleasures that love by turns inspires, till it grows wise by time and repetition, and then the god assumes a serious gravity, enjoyment takes off the uneasy keenness of the passion, the little jealous quarrels rise no more; quarrels, the very feathers of love’s darts, that send them with more swiftness to the heart; and when they cease, your transports lessen too, then we grow reasonable, and consider; we love with prudence then, as fencers fight with foils; a sullen brush perhaps sometimes or so; but nothing that can touch the heart, and when we are arrived to love at that dull, easy rate, we never die of that disease; then we have recourse to all the little arts, the aids of flatterers, and dear dissimulation, (that help-meet to the lukewarm lover) to keep up a good character of constancy, and a right understanding.
Thus, _Octavio_, I have ran through both the degrees of love; which I have taken so often, that I am grown most learned and able in the art; my easy heart is of the constitution of those, whom frequent sickness renders apt to take relapses from every little cause, or wind that blows too fiercely on them; it renders itself to the first effects of new surprising beauty, and finds such pleasure in beginning passion, such dear delight of fancying new enjoyment, that all past loves, past vows and obligations, have power to bind no more; no pity, no remorse, no threatening danger invades my amorous course; I scour along the flow’ry plains of love, view all the charming prospect at a distance, which represents itself all gay and glorious! And long to lay me down, to stretch and bask in those dear joys that fancy makes so ravishing: nor am I one of those dull whining slaves, whom quality or my respect can awe into a silent cringer, and no more; no, love, youth, and oft success has taught me boldness and art, desire and cunning to attack, to search the feeble side of female weakness, and there to play love’s engines; for women will be won, they will, _Octavio_, if love and wit find any opportunity.
Perhaps, my friend, you are wondering now, what this discourse, this odd discovery of my own inconstancy tends to? Then since I cannot better pay you back the secret you had told me of your love, than by another of my own; take this confession from thy friend—-I love!—-languish! And am dying,—-for a new beauty. To you, _Octavio_, you that have lived twenty dull tedious years, and never understood the mystery of love, till _Sylvia_ taught you to adore, this change may seem a wonder; you that have lazily run more than half your youth’s gay course of life away, without the pleasure of one nobler hour of mine; who, like a miser, hoard your sacred store, or scantily have dealt it but to one, think me a lavish prodigal in love, and gravely will reproach me with inconstancy—-but use me like a friend, and hear my story.
It happened in my last day’s journey on the road I overtook a man of quality, for so his equipage confessed; we joined and fell into discourse of many things indifferent, till, from a chain of one thing to another, we chanced to talk of _France_, and of the factions there, and I soon found him a _Cesarian_; for he grew hot with his concern for that prince, and fiercely owned his interest: this pleased me, and I grew familiar with him; and I pleased him so well in my devotion for _Cesario_, that being arrived at _Cologne_ he invites me home to his palace, which he begged I would make use of as my own during my stay at _Cologne_. Glad of the opportunity I obeyed, and soon informed myself by a _Spanish_ page (that waited on him) to whom I was obliged; he told me it was the Count of _Clarinau_, a _Spaniard_ born, and of quality, who for some disgust at Court retired hither; that he was a person of much gravity, a great politician, and very rich; and though well in years was lately married to a very beautiful young lady, and that very much against her consent; a lady whom he had taken out of a monastery, where she had been pensioned from a child, and of whom he was so fond and jealous, he never would permit her to see or be seen by any man: and if she took the air in her coach, or went to church, he obliged her to wear a veil. Having learned thus much of the boy, I dismissed him with a present; for he had already inspired me with curiosity, that prologue to love, and I knew not of what use he might be hereafter; a curiosity that I was resolved to satisfy, though I broke all the laws of hospitality, and even that first night I felt an impatience that gave me some wonder. In fine, three days I languished out in a disorder that was very nearly allied to that of love. I found myself magnificently lodged; attended with a formal ceremony; and indeed all things were as well as I could imagine, bating a kind opportunity to get a sight of this young beauty: now half a lover grown, I sighed and grew oppressed with thought, and had recourse to groves, to shady walks and fountains, of which the delicate gardens afforded variety, the most resembling nature that ever art produced, and of the most melancholy recesses, fancying there, in some lucky hour, I might encounter what I already so much adored in _Idea_, which still I formed just as my fancy wished; there, for the first two days I walked and sighed, and told my new-born passion to every gentle wind that played among the boughs; for yet no lady bright appeared beneath them, no visionary nymph the groves afforded; but on the third day, all full of love and stratagem, in the cool of the evening, I passed into a thicket near a little rivulet, that purled and murmured through the glade, and passed into the meads; this pleased and fed my present amorous humour, and down I laid myself on the shady brink, and listened to its melancholy glidings, when from behind me I heard a sound more ravishing, a voice that sung these words:
Alas, in vain, you pow’rs above,
You gave me youth, you gave me charms, And ev’ry tender sense of love;
To destine me to old _Phileno_’s arms. Ah how can youth’s gay spring allow
The chilling kisses of the winter’s snow!
All night I languish by his side,
And fancy joys I never taste;
As men in dreams a feast provide,
And waking find, with grief they fast. Either, ye gods, my youthful fires allay, Or make the old _Phileno_ young and gay.
Like a fair flower in shades obscurity, Though every sweet adorns my head,
Ungather’d, unadmired I lie,
And wither on my silent gloomy bed, While no kind aids to my relief appear, And no kind bosom makes me triumph there.
By this you may easily guess, as I soon did, that the song was sung by Madam the Countess of _Clarinau_, as indeed it was; at the very beginning of her song my joyful soul divined it so! I rose, and advanced by such slow degrees, as neither alarmed the fair singer, nor hindered me the pleasure of hearing any part of the song, till I approached so near as (behind the shelter of some jessamine that divided us) I, unseen, completed those wounds at my eyes, which I had received before at my ears. Yes, _Ociavio_, I saw the lovely _Clarinau_ leaning on a pillow made of some of those jessamines which favoured me, and served her for a canopy. But, oh my friend! How shall I present her to thee in that angel form she then appeared to me? All young! All ravishing as new-born light to lost benighted travellers; her face, the fairest in the world, was adorned with curls of shining jet, tied up–I know not how, all carelessly with scarlet ribbon mixed with pearls; her robe was gay and rich, such as young royal brides put on when they undress for joys; her eyes were black, the softest heaven ever made; her mouth was sweet, and formed for all delight; so red her lips, so round, so graced with dimples, that without one other charm, that was enough to kindle warm desires about a frozen heart; a sprightly air of wit completed all, increased my flame, and made me mad with love: endless it were to tell thee all her beauties: nature all over was lavish and profuse, let it suffice, her face, her shape, her mien, had more of angel in them than humanity! I saw her thus all charming! Thus she lay! A smiling melancholy dressed her eyes, which she had fixed upon the rivulet, near which I found her lying; just such I fancied famed _Lucretia_ was, when _Tarquin_ first beheld her; nor was that royal ravisher more inflamed than I, or readier for the encounter. Alone she was, which heightened my desires; oh gods! Alone lay the young lovely charmer, with wishing eyes, and all prepared for love! The shade was gloomy, and the tell-tale leaves combined so close, they must have given us warning if any had approached from either side! All favoured my design, and I advanced; but with such caution as not to inspire her with a fear, instead of that of love! A slow, uneasy pace, with folded arms, love in my eyes, and burning in my heart—-at my approach she scarce contained her cries, and rose surprised and blushing, discovering to me such a proportioned height–so lovely and majestic–that I stood gazing on her, all lost in wonder, and gave her time to dart her eyes at me, and every look pierced deeper to my soul, and I had no sense but love, silent admiring love! Immovable I stood, and had no other motion but that of a heart all panting, which lent a feeble trembling to my tongue, and even when I would have spoke to her, it sent a sigh up to prevent my boldness; and oh, _Octavio_, though I have been bred in all the saucy daring of a forward lover, yet now I wanted a convenient impudence; awed with a haughty sweetness in her look, like a Fauxbrave after a vigorous onset, finding the danger fly so thick around him, sheers off, and dares not face the pressing foe, struck with too fierce a lightning from her eyes, whence the gods sent a thousand winged darts, I veiled my own, and durst not play with fire: while thus she hotly did pursue her conquest, and I stood fixed on the defensive part, I heard a rustling among the thick-grown leaves, and through their mystic windings soon perceived the good old Count of _Clarinau_ approaching, muttering and mumbling to old _Dormina_, the dragon appointed to guard this lovely treasure, and which she having left alone in the thicket, and had retired but at an awful distance, had most extremely disobliged her lord. I only had time enough in this little moment to look with eyes that asked a thousand pities, and told her in their silent language how loath they were to leave the charming object, and with a sigh—-I vanished from the wondering fair one, nimble as lightning, silent as a shade, to my first post behind the jessamines; that was the utmost that I could persuade my heart to do. You may believe, my dear _Octavio_, I did not bless the minute that brought old _Clarinau_ to that dear recess, nor him, nor my own fate; and to complete my torment, I saw him (after having gravely reproached her for being alone without her woman) yes, I saw him fall on her neck, her lovely snowy neck, and loll and kiss, and hang his tawny withered arms on her fair shoulders, and press his nauseous load upon _Calista_’s body, (for so I heard him name her) while she was gazing still upon the empty place, whence she had seen me vanish; which he perceiving, cried–‘My little fool, what is it thou gazest on, turn to thy known old man, and buss him soundly—-‘ When putting him by with a disdain, that half made amends for the injury he had done me by coming, ‘Ah, my lord,’ cried she, ‘even now, just there I saw a lovely vision, I never beheld so excellent a thing:’ ‘How,’ cried he, ‘a vision, a thing,–What vision? What thing? Where? How? And when—-‘ ‘Why there,’ said she, ‘with my eyes, and just now is vanished behind yon jessamines.’ With that I drew my sword–for I despaired to get off unknown; and being well enough acquainted with the jealous nature of the Spaniards, which is no more than see and stab, I prepared to stand on my defence till I could reconcile him, if possible, to reason; yet even in that moment I was more afraid of the injury he might do the innocent fair one, than of what he could do to me: but he not so much as dreaming she meant a man by her lovely vision, fell a kissing her anew, and beckoning _Dormina_ off to pimp at distance, told her, ‘The grove was so sweet, the river’s murmurs so delicate, and she was so curiously dressed, that all together had inspired him with a love-fit;’ and then assaulting her anew with a sneer, which you have seen a satyr make in pictures, he fell to act the little tricks of youth, that looked so goatish in him–instead of kindling it would have damped a flame; which she resisted with a scorn so charming gave me new hope and fire, when to oblige me more, with pride, disdain, and loathing in her eyes, she fled like _Daphne_ from the ravisher; he being bent on love pursued her with a feeble pace, like an old wood-god chasing some coy nymph, who winged with fear out-strips the flying wind, and though a god he cannot overtake her; and left me fainting with new love, new hope, new jealousy, impatience, sighs and wishes, in the abandoned grove. Nor could I go without another view of that dear place in which I saw her lie. I went–and laid me down just on the print which her fair body made, and pressed, and kissed it over a thousand times with eager transports, and even fancied fair _Calista_ there; there ’twas I found the paper with the song which I have sent you; there I ran over a thousand stratagems to gain another view; no little statesman had more plots and arts than I to gain this object I adored, the soft idea of my burning heart, now raging wild, abandoned all to love and loose desire; but hitherto my industry is vain; each day I haunt the thickest groves and springs, the flowery walks, close arbours; all the day my busy eyes and heart are searching her, but no intelligence they bring me in: in fine, _Octavio_, all that I can since learn is, that the bright _Calista_ had seen a vision in the garden, and ever since was so possessed with melancholy, that she had not since quitted her chamber; she is daily pressing the Count to permit her to go into the garden, to see if she can again encounter the lovely _phantom_, but whether, from any description she hath made of it, (or from any other cause) he imagines how it was, I know not; but he endeavours all he can to hinder her, and tells her it is not lawful to tempt heaven by invoking an apparition; so that till a second view eases the torments of my mind, there is nothing in nature to be conceived so raving mad as I; as if my despair of finding her again increased my impatient flame, instead of lessening it.
After this declaration, judge, _Octavio_, who has given the greatest proofs of his friendship, you or I; you being my rival, trust me with the secret of loving my mistress, which can no way redound to your disadvantage; but I, by telling you the secrets of my soul, put it into your power to ruin me with _Sylvia_, and to establish yourself in her heart; a thought I yet am not willing to bear, for I have an ambition in my love, that would not, while I am toiling for empire here, lose my dominion in another place: but since I can no more rule a woman’s heart, than a lover’s fate, both you and _Sylvia_ may deceive my opinion in that, but shall never have power to make me believe you less my friend, than I am your
PHILANDER.
POSTSCRIPT.
_The enclosed I need not oblige you to deliver; you see I give you opportunity._
_Octavio_ no sooner arrived to that part of the letter which named the Count of _Clarinau_, but he stopped, and was scarce able to proceed, for the charming _Calista_ was his sister, the only one he had, who having been bred in a nunnery, was taken then to be married to this old rich count, who had a great fortune: before he proceeded, his soul divined this was the new amour that had engaged the heart of his friend; he was afraid to be farther convinced, and yet a curiosity to know how far he had proceeded, made him read it out with all the disorder of a man jealous of his honour, and nicely careful of his fame; he considered her young, about eighteen, married to an old, ill-favoured, jealous husband, no parents but himself to right her wrongs, or revenge her levity; he knew, though she wanted no wit, she did art, for being bred without the conversation of men, she had not learnt the little cunnings of her sex; he guessed by his own soul that hers was soft and apt for impression; he judged from her confession to her husband of the vision, that she had a simple innocence, that might betray a young beauty under such circumstances; to all this he considered the charms of _Philander_ unresistible, his unwearied industry in love, and concludes his sister lost. At first he upbraids _Philander_, and calls him ungrateful, but soon thought it unreasonable to accuse himself of an injustice, and excused the frailty of _Philander_, since he knew not that she whom he adored was sister to his friend; however, it failed not to possess him with inquietude that exercised all his wit, to consider how he might prevent an irreparable injury to his honour, and an intrigue that possibly might cost his sister her life, as well as fame. In the midst of all these torments he forgot not the more important business of his love: for to a lover, who has his soul perfectly fixed on the fair object of its adoration, whatever other thoughts fatigue and cloud his mind, that, like a soft gleam of new sprung light, darts in and spreads a glory all around, and like the god of day, cheers every drooping vital; yet even these dearer thoughts wanted not their torments. At first he strove to atone for the fears of _Calista_, with those of imagining _Philander_ false to _Sylvia_: ‘Well,’ cried he—-‘If thou be’st lost, _Calista_, at least thy ruin has laid a foundation for my happiness, and every triumph _Philander_ makes of thy virtue, it the more secures my empire over _Sylvia_; and since the brother cannot be happy, but by the sister’s being undone, yield thou, O faithless fair one, yield to _Philander_, and make me blest in _Sylvia_! And thou’ (continued he) ‘oh perjured lover and inconstant friend, glut thy insatiate flame—-rifle _Calista_ of every virtue heaven and nature gave her, so I may but revenge it on thy _Sylvia_!’ Pleased with this joyful hope he traverses his chamber; glowing and blushing with new kindling fire, his heart that was all gay, diffused a gladness, that expressed itself in every feature of his lovely face; his eyes, that were by nature languishing, shone now with an unusual air of briskness, smiles graced his mouth, and dimples dressed his face, insensibly his busy fingers trick and dress, and set his hair, and without designing it, his feet are bearing him to _Sylvia_, till he stopped short and wondered whither he was going, for yet it was not time to make his visit–‘Whither, fond heart,’ (said he) ‘O whither wouldst thou hurry this slave to thy soft fires!’ And now returning back he paused and fell to thought–He remembered how impatiently _Sylvia_ waited the return of the answer he writ to him, wherein he owned his passion for that beauty. He knew she permitted him to write it, more to raise the little brisk fires of jealousy in _Philander_, and to set an edge on his blunted love, than from any favours she designed _Octavio_; and that on this answer depended all her happiness, or the confirmation of her doubts, and that she would measure _Philander_’s love by the effects she found there of it: so that never lover had so hard a game to play, as our new one. He knew he had it now in his power to ruin his rival, and to make almost his own terms with his fair conqueress, but he considered the secret was not rendered him for so base an end, nor could his love advance itself by ways so false, dull and criminal–Between each thought he paused, and now resolves she must know he sent an answer to his letter; for should she know he had, and that he should refuse her the sight of it, he believed with reason she ought to banish him for ever her presence, as the most disobedient of her slaves. He walks and pauses on–but no kind thought presents itself to save him; either way he finds himself undone, and from the most gay, and most triumphing lover on the earth, he now, with one desirous thought of right reasoning, finds he is the most miserable of all the creation! He reads the superscription of that _Philander_ writ to _Sylvia_, which was enclosed in his, and finds it was directed only–‘For _Sylvia_’, which would plainly demonstrate it came not so into _Holland_, but that some other cover secured it; so that never any but _Octavio_, the most nice in honour, had ever so great a contest with love and friendship: for his noble temper was not one of those that could sacrifice his friend to his little lusts, or his more solid passion, but truly brave, resolves now rather to die than to confess _Philander_’s secret; to evade which he sent her letter by his page, with one from himself, and commanded him to tell her, that he was going to receive some commands from the Prince of _Orange_, and that he would wait on her himself in the evening. The page obeys, and _Octavio_ sent him with a sigh, and eyes that languishingly told him he did it with regret.
The page hastening to _Sylvia_, finds her in all the disquiet of an expecting lover; and snatching the papers from his hand, the first she saw was that from _Philander_, at which she trembled with fear and joy, for hope, love and despair, at once seized her, and hardly able to make a sign with her hand, for the boy to withdraw, she sank down into her chair, all pale, and almost fainting; but re-assuming her courage, she opened it, and read this.
PHILANDER _to_ SYLVIA.
Ah, _Sylvia_! Why all these doubts and fears? why at this distance do you accuse your lover, when he is incapable to fall before you, and undeceive your little jealousies. Oh, _Sylvia_, I fear this first reproaching me, is rather the effects of your own guilt, than any that love can make you think of mine. Yes, yes, my _Sylvia_, it is the waves that roll and glide away, and not the steady shore. ‘Tis you begin to unfasten from the vows that hold you, and float along the flattering tide of vanity. It is you, whose pride and beauty scorning to be confined, give way to the admiring crowd, that sigh for you. Yes, yes, you, like the rest of your fair glorious sex, love the admirer though you hate the coxcomb. It is vain! it is great! And shews your beauty’s power—-Is it possible, that for the safety of my life I cannot retire, but you must think I am fled from love and _Sylvia_? Or is it possible that pitying tenderness that made me incapable of taking leave of her should be interpreted as false–and base–and that an absence of thirty days, so forc’d, and so compelled, must render me inconstant–lost–ungrateful—-as if that after _Sylvia_ heaven ever made a beauty that could charm me?
You charge my letter with a thousand faults, it is short, it is cold, and wants those usual softnesses that gave them all their welcome, and their graces. I fear my _Sylvia_ loves the flatterer, and not the man, the lover only, not _Philander_: and she considers him not for himself, but the gay, glorious thing he makes of her! Ah! too self-interested! Is that your justice? You never allow for my unhappy circumstances; you never think how care oppresses me, nor what my love contributes to that care. How business, danger, and a thousand ills, take up my harrassed mind: by every power! I love thee still, my _Sylvia_, but time has made us more familiar now, and we begin to leave off ceremony, and come to closer joys to join our interests now, as people fixed, resolved to live and die together; to weave our thoughts and be united stronger. At first we shew the gayest side of love, dress and be nice in every word and look, set out for conquest all; spread every art, use every stratagem–But when the toil is past, and the dear victory gained, we then propose a little idle rest, a little easy slumber: we then embrace, lay by the gaudy shew, the plumes and gilded equipage of love, the trappings of the conqueror, and bring the naked lover to your arms; we shew him then uncased with all his little disadvantages; perhaps the flowing hair, (those ebony curls you have so often combed and dressed, and kissed) are then put up, and shew a fiercer air, more like an antique _Roman_ than _Philander_: and shall I then, because I want a grace, be thought to love you less? Because the embroidered coat, the point and garniture’s laid by, must I put off my passion with my dress? No, _Sylvia_, love allows a thousand little freedoms, allows me to unbosom all my secrets; tell thee my wants, my fears, complaints and dangers, and think it great relief if thou but sigh and pity me: and oft thy charming wit has aided me, but now I find thee adding to my pain. O where shall I unload my weight of cares, when _Sylvia_, who was wont to sigh and weep, and suffer me to ease the heavy burden, now grows displeased and peevish with my moans, and calls them the effects of dying love! Instead of those dear smiles, that fond bewitching prattle, that used to calm my roughest storm of grief, she now reproaches me with coldness, want of concern, and lover’s rhetoric: