SURE it hath been a great untruth I have heard: for, methinks, it should be im­possible for You to be so much as one moment angry with me; and especially, after those many kind and indearing ex­pressions You have made me. What! Can my Loving You with the most tender, soft, and melting Passion in the world, such as never yet was known in Woman, give you any discompo­sure, or so much as raise in You a melancholy thought! Oh! what dreadful stings should I feel with­in me, were I but capable of the [Page 2] least Infidelity to You, that are my Joy, my Life, my All! — If You can charge me with any thing, it is with an Excess of Affection for You; That, I confess, I am guilty of, which makes me that I cannot as yet forgive your anger. But why should that occasion any remorse? have I not had reason enough to complain? I dare say, Your own Passion would make You be offended with me, if I were able, without a murmur, to see You forgetful of your former kindnesses. Just Heavens! How am I continually reproaching my self, because this silly heart has not power enough to discover to You, as it ought, its strong and vigorous impulses, when I find You so resolved to conceal from me the secret beats and throbbings of your own.

If at any time my Regards are too languishing, they seem to serve then only to feed my tenderness, [Page 3] and, like merciless Thieves, to rob me of my greatest delights, my highest Transports and Ecstasies: if, on the other hand, they are too quick and sprightly, how does my former languishing check me, and make me the same reproach! And let me do what ever I can, or will, I am still uneasie to my self, and can find no quiet. I have all the extravagant actions of a crazed woman, and do believe, if you keep but the least trifle reserved from me, that I can never chide you enough for it. Ah! Such a cruel Act has been even hell and torments to me; and I am sure, could You but have seen the infi­nite distracting thoughts that then have come into my head, I should, at the least, have made you pity me.

But this is the sad effect of an o're fond Curiosity, and I ought to suffer for my folly. What have I to do with mysteries, and things [Page 4] that are foreign to me? Why should I be so foolishly desirous to search into the bottom of a heart, where, perhaps, I might find no­thing but a cold indifference, nay, and it may be too, Infidelity? Or who knows but it may be some particular point of Honour which may cause this Reserve in You, and therefore You may think I am extremely obliged to You for it into the Bargain. But (alas!) I fear you believe, it would quite break my heart, should I fully un­derstand how small and poor an esteem you have for me, and that is the reason why you are resolv'd to dissemble your real thoughts from me, in meer pity and com­passion to my frailty.— Cruel, Dear man! Why were You not as merciful when we first began our acquaintance, and why did you not then shew your self in your own true colours, and appear the same person You do now? A thou­sand [Page 5] to one but my heart at that time would have taken the same measures with Yours, and we should neither of us have cause now for any complaint. But You were resolved not to discover how faint and hollow your passion was for me, until you were sure I loved You even to the next degree of running mad for you.

But however, I perceive it is not your natural temper that makes you so reserved: You could fly out yesternight, I found so to my cost. But, ah! You can only be touched with the transports of anger, and your passion, if it be not violent and injurious, dwindles straight into insensibility. Ungrate­ful Creature! of what a strange kind of ill composition has Love made you; why may not that ill-natur'd disposition of yours be correspondent to the extrava­gance of mine? and why must not those precipitous ways you take, [Page 6] tend to the furtherance and im­provement of the blessed moments of our Felicity? If any did but see how furious and hasty you are to get out of my Chamber, when the madness of your Passion drives you, who would say it were possi­ble for you to be slow and back­ward in coming in again, when Love gives you the pleasurable in­vitation? But, I must confess, I do deserve this Usage at your hands, for my presuming to pre­scribe to you the Methods you ought to take; as if I were as wise as you. Is it fit for any one to of­fer to give You Laws, who have their thoughts and hearts continu­ally poring on You, as I have Mine? Certainly no, but I cannot help it;— however excuse me and take your own course: — yet, is not this a great instance of the highest tenderness? no, it is all wild and inconsiderate folly, and you have done very well in so severely pu­nishing [Page 7] me for it: For what have I to do to think of being Mistress of any of your motions? Alas! I could blush to death with shame for what I have already done; but you do perfectly understand how such a kind of crime ought to be retaliated.

Do you remember any thing of yesternights carriage, how mild and calm your temper was, when you offered me your service to assist me, that I might never more set eyes on You so long as I lived; and were you able to tender me such an ungenerous remedy, or (to speak more properly) could you fancy that I had so little kindness for you, as to accept it? For it would a great deal sooner break my heart, Loving you, as I do, near to desperation, to see my self, though falsely, but suspected of a crime, than if I saw you in de­liberation actually commit one; for I am infinitely more jealous of [Page 8] my own passion, than I am of yours, and I could ten thousand times more easily pardon an Infi­delity in you, than I could forgive my self the possibility of being ly­able to fall under the suspicion of it my self. Yes, if I am but sa­tisfied of my own Integrity, I can excuse You in any thing you would have me. I value my self so much on the tenderness of my affection to you, and, methinks, the great esteem I bear you, has in it so much considerableness and honour, that I know not any thing can be a greater crime in the world, than to leave you the least shadow of a reason to doubt it.

But how is it possible for you to make a doubt of it? does not every thing persuade you to believe it, as well in your own heart, as in mine? there is not the least negli­gence in You, but what tells you that I love you almost to Adoration. Love has so well instructed me in [Page 9] the Art of turning all things to my advantage, that I could even dare you to give in your own Verdict, whether the most cautious and re­served of all my endearments, does not absolutely convince you of the excess of my passion.— Have you never taken notice of this from my obliging temper? how ma­ny times more than once and again have I kept in the transports and ecstasies of my Joy, when you have come to see me, because, me­thoughts, I read in your eyes that you wished I would use more mo­deration. You have been very much injurious to me, if you have not observed my constraint here­in over and over; for that has gone more to my heart, than any thing I ever did for You in all my life.

But yet, I say nothing to you by way of reproach; what mat­ters it, whether I am perfectly hap­py or no, so long as that which [Page 10] is wanting to make up my Feli­city compleat, gives an accession to yours? If you were more sol­licitous and importune, I should have the pleasurable vanity to fancy I were so much the more be­loved by you; but then, you would not be well pleas'd to have it so. You would think, perhaps, I were indebted to you for your kindness; and I pride my self in this, that I am sure you owe all to my inclination: Therefore do not any longer offer to abuse such a Generosity of Love, nor do not go about to contrive how you may divert it, even to destroy ab­solutely that more than little re­mainder of affection I yet have for you: but, on the contrary, take example by me, and be you gene­rous in your turn. Let me see you come, and protest to me, that the dis-interest of my tenderness increases yours; that I hazard no­thing even then when I really be­lieve [Page 11] I hazard all, and that you are as Passionate, and as Faithful, as I am Passionately and Faithfully Yours.

WITHOUT any flou­rish upon the matter, you must needs pardon me if I tell you that the Lady you were with yester-evening was not at all handsome, and she danced after such an aukward and unbecoming manner, that I protest the sight gave me a very great disturbance: her motions were all irregular, and then her Air, oh! so strange­ly odd and ridicule, as was beyond all sufferance. The Count de Cugne sure had a mind to shew himself pleasant, or else was ex­ceedingly mistaken, in his Chara­cter [Page 14] of her to me, for a very Love­ly and Beautiful person, when there is scarce a tolerable Feature in all her face. How could you have the patience to hold so long a discourse with her? For I am confident, by the remarks I made of her Countenance, that she can have no wit. But what tho'? She was well enough to please your humour, and you thought it worth your while to take up with her company most of the time that the Ball lasted: Nay, You had also the Assurance to tell me, that you thought her Conversation was no ways amiss. Pray now, what did she say that charm'd you so? Did she acquaint you with the Intrigue of some FRENCH Lady that you had a Passion for; or was she so Frank as to make an ingenuous break, and tell you, that in truth she was the Fair One who admired you most wondrously? For sure nothing under the delightful [Page 15] Theme of Love could give you the patience to hold out with her so tedious and wearison a Conver­sation.

For my heart I cannot find any thing so agreeable and pleasant in the New-arrived French-men; I am sure I was pester'd with 'em all the evening, and could find nothing in all their pretended fine pieces of Gallantry, but meer empty froth and tittle-tattle: and then the address wherewith they managed their discourses was with such affected and extrava­gant grimaces, that seriously for my part, I thought them only fit company for Fools and Mad-folks: and if the truth could be known, I believe it was their Idle imperti­nences which gave me that dread­ful fit of the head-ach I had all night long; — but you would not know I ailed any thing, if I did not tell you so.

[Page 16]I do suppose your Country-men are gone to be informed how that happy Lady finds her self this Morning, after the terrible Fa­tigue she had yester-night; for as I am a living creature I should think you gave her Dancing enough to put her into a Feaver.

But with your favour, pray tell me, what is't you see about her that so strangely captivates you? Do you think her more tender in her affections, and more faithful than any other of her Sex? or have you found in her a more present inclination to give you her good wishes, than that which I have ma­nifested to you? I am confident you have not, for that, I think, is impossible; you know as well as my self, that I did but only see you pass by as I stood in the Balco­ny, and from that instant I lost all the ease and quiet of my life; and I presently was sensible of such an alteration in me, as made me ut­terly [Page 17] to forget either my Sex, or my Birth; for with an extream impatience did I run to meet the Occasion of seeing you a second time. If she hath done more than this, she must certainly be to at­tend your rising this morning, and the little Durino will without doubt find her sitting close by your pillow. I wish with all my heart she may so for your own felicity, for I am so strange a Lover of any thing that may be pleasing to you, that I could be content to spend my whole life in so grateful a Ser­vice, although it were at the ex­pence of all my own peace and happiness: And if you have but the least Inclination to entertain that Fair Object of your desires and Vows with the reading of my Let­ter, I beseech you do not make the least scruple of it, it is a Sacrifice absolutely at your disposal, to use as You think fitting, therefore do't and welcome; you shall please me [Page 18] by it, if you do but please your self, what I write to you will not at all prejudice your Love-affairs, perhaps it may advance them.

I am not altogether a stranger in this Kingdom, my name is known by those who have be­stow'd their Compliments upon me for being no despicable Beau­ty, and indeed I have swallowed their Flattery, and brought my self into a Fancy that I might make some pretensions to a good Face, until the moment of your contemptuous rejection disabus'd me.

Propose me therefore for an ex­ample to your new Conquest, tell her that I love you even to the de­gree of being little better than out of my wits for you, I'll joyn with you in it heartily, so it may do you any real service; for I had a thousand times rather contribute to my own ruine by an ingenuous Confession, than deny a passion [Page 19] that is so dear and precious to me. Yes, I love you ten thousand times more than my own Soul; nay, at this very instant I am writing to you, I will, and must acknowledg, I am jealous. Your yesternights Carriage hath set my heart all on Fire; and now I do believe you are unfaithful, since, I find, I must tell you all. But notwith­standing all your indifference, I love you beyond what any mortal Woman yet has ever loved Man, though he has proved himself faithful, as Saints are to their Ho­ly Service. I hate the Marquis de Furtado mortally, because he was the occasion of your seeing this New-come so Ravishing a Beauty to you: I wish with all my Soul that the Marchioness de Castro had been going to her grave, when she was led to the Altar; for it is from that solemnity that I must date all the unexpressible miseries I have indured, and still am sensible of: [Page 20] I could wish that man in eternal Purgatory who first invented Dancing; nay more, I loath my own self, and I abhor the French Lady a thousand times more than all the world beside.

But no body has had so many different Aversions, and yet can say, what I may with a safe Con­science dare to speak, and that is, that not any of them has presumed to reach so far as You; You, in the midst of them all, did ever ap­pear Amiable and Lovely to my eyes. Under whatsoever form I look'd upon you, nay, though it was at the feet of that Cruel Ri­val, who has been the destroyer of all my Felicity, I found a thousand dazling Charms in You, to which in any other person but your self I should have been for ever blind. Nay further, I was so immeasura­bly besotted, that I could not check and keep in those my delightful transports, when I perceived you [Page 21] took notice of them as well as my self; and though I am verily per­suaded, that it is chiefly to that good opinion You have of your self to which I am indebted for the losing of your heart, yet I had a great deal rather see my self condemned to all the dreadful tor­ments of despair, than I would so much as desire you one single com­mendation less than what the La­dies give you. O let 'em go on still, and admire you more and more, my admiration will improve proportionably.

But (alas!) how is it possible for Love to grant so many contra­rieties? for I am most sure of this, that never was any Creature breathing touched with greater Jealousie at every thing that comes near you, than my self; and yet for all that, I would go on my bare feet to the worlds end to seek you out new Admirers.

[Page 22]I hate that French woman so desperately, that in my Consci­ence I could be the cruellest Crea­ture upon earth in destroying her, and yet notwithstanding such an extreme aversion, I could with all my Soul wish her the Felicity of your utmost affection, if I thought in the least such a Love could give any accession to the happiness you now enjoy, because I am so passi­onate a Lover of your satisfaction. Oh! methinks I am raised to the height of all humane blessedness, if at any time I see you but pleas­ed; and if the Sacrifice of all the delight of my life were but capa­ble of procuring the least addition to yours, you should find me never deliberate about the business. Why cannot you say so much as this comes to for me? Ah! if you lov'd me with the same ardour as I do even adore you, how great would both our happinesses be! Your Fe­licity would make up mine, and [Page 23] your own too would by that means become more perfect.

There is not a Soul in all the world so filled with Love, as mine is to you: None knows how to value You at the rate that I do, for I could suffer a thousand deaths to bring you any quiet and con­tent. If you were able to make your pretensions to any other, now you have been so long used to my tender and uncommon ways of ob­liging you, I am sure, imagine what you will, you could not be truly happy but with me. I know other Women's kindnesses by the Standard of my own, and though they may make never so plausible a shew of their fondness and af­fection to you, yet I am too well convinced, that Love has only brought me into the world to be the person that must absolutely doat upon You. Alas! what would become of your morose and unpleasant temper, if it were not [Page 24] for my easie heart that will com­ply with it? I fancy there is Rhe­torick in the worst of your looks, and, methinks too, I understand it plainly: but do you believe that any Woman else would play the Fool for your sake like me? No, no, it is ridiculous to think it, as it is impossible to be done: For 'tis only We two that know how to Love well. We should both of us have broke our hearts long before this time, if our Souls had not been of one and the same composition. Sure now I speak a truth that you'l consent to: but I know not how to go on any fur­ther;— think the rest, and be you but happy, no matter what be­comes of me.

Farewel.

WHAT! and will you be always absent from me? shall this day pass away too, and will you not resolve to come back to Lisbon? Pray, consider with your self, and think how long you have been gone; is not two whole days a tedious while with you? I am sure they seem an Age to me: but for my part, I'me apt to believe you have a mind to find me dead at your return, and fit for you to pay me your last duty, in attending me to my grave. Alas! You do but smother the reality of the business, and your pretensions [Page 26] are only as a blind to my frailty. Your design was not so much to wait upon the King to see his Ships, when you left the Court, as it was to defend your self from an incommode and troublesome Mi­stress. I must confess, I am so, even to the last degree; for what should I do else but tell it you, since that you too well know it already?

I am neither rightly pleas'd with you, nor with my self long. If you are absent from me but one four and twenty hours, it is as bad as death to me: and what some other woman, perhaps, would look up­on as an excess of felicity, I can scarcely make it out to be tolera­ble: sometimes I am apt to fancy, that you have no happiness your self, another time I find you so full, that I'm afraid I am not the only person that causes it: and, to deal frankly with you, not any of my highest transports and ecsta­sies, but what give me cruel dis­pleasures, [Page 27] if I perceive you do not take notice of them sufficient­ly. Whatsoever disturbs you, e'en puts me out of my wits: Oh, I would fain see you all confined within your self; that I took up all your thoughts, and influenced all your motions! Examine the insuperable friendship I bear you, and do not make any Sallies, un­less you intend to plunge me into deepest desperation.

I will own to you that I am not wise, but the reason why I am not, is, because I am so much in Love. I know very well it would be but reason and prudence in me to sit down and be quiet, now I am wri­ting to you, for you are but two miles off from the town, and it is your duty retains you there; my Brother has been so extreme ill ever since you have been gone, that I could have scarce found so much time as to receive a visit from you: besides, there are no Ladies where [Page 28] you are, and that ought to be no mean satisfaction to my heart. But (alas!) there are a thousand other thoughts in my head that do almost distract me; so true it is, that a Woman, when she loves to that violent degree that I do, creates to her self Torments out of every thing. Those Arms, those Ships, that preparation for war, all things conspire to make you disrelish the peaceable de­lights of Love.

Perhaps, at this very instant you are thinking on the moment of our Separation, as a most certain and inevitable Calamity, and there­fore now you are beginning to a­waken all the forces of your reason and Philosophy, to persuade your heart to resolve on it. Ah! the fight of the most ravishing Beau­ties in all Europe would not be so dreadfully fatal to me, as that of your Canons, if it be true, that they can have such an influence [Page 29] over you. Not that ever I would go about to keep you from your duty, for I love your Honour and Reputation a great deal more than my own life, and I cannot but think you were born for a more glorious fortune, than to pass a­way all your days in idle ease with me: but however, I could wish, this sad necessity would give you as great a horror as it does me: that you were not able to think on it without a bitter apprehension; and how unavoidable soever such a separation must seem to you, that yet you would think it was beyond the power of weak humanity to support, and not die under the shock.

But, my dearest Bliss! let me beg of you not to accuse me, though I do say all this, and fancy that I should be extreme well satisfied to see you under any despair: you should never pour out a tear, but what I would with all my soul dry [Page 30] up, and shed ten thousand for it. I should be the first that would de­sire you with courage to bear the Oppression, though, at the same time, I think it would rob me of my life, through the excessive vio­lence of my sorrow; nor should I be able to take any Joy in that I was ever born, if I did really be­lieve my absence would deprive you of the least consolation.

What is it I would have then? truly I cannot tell; but this I am resolved I will do, Love you all my life even to Adoration; and I will wish, if it be possible, that you would love me as much. But one cannot wish for all this, without being of consequence one of the greatest Fools in nature: but how­ever, do not you be disgusted at this my folly, for I had never been capable of so much extravagance, had it not been for your sake; and yet, if you will believe me, I would not change it for all the [Page 31] most solid wisdom that ever yet was found in Woman, if it could not be gained without obliging me to Love you less than now I do. I have met with a thousand charms in your wit, & you sometimes have been so kind to tell me, that you have found as many in mine. But I could heartily dispense with see­ing those things in us both, for that would hinder the progress of our folly. 'Tis only Love that ought to have dominion over all the powers of our Souls. All that is within us seems to be made for that end; and provided that be satisfied, I am very indifferent how much my Reason complains.

Have you been of this Opinion since I saw you last? Oh! I trem­ble with fear, lest you should still have your mind in perfect free­dom: But yet, how is it possible that there should be any left you, when all the discourse here is of a War, which is (Oh cruel Stars!) [Page 32] to part you from me? No, for certainly you are never able to be so perfidious. You have not so much as seen a poor common Soul­dier, but he has fetch'd a sigh from you, and doubtless then, I shall have the pleasure to hear you say at your return, that you have done more for me, who have loved you beyond all manner of expressi­on. As for my part, I will assure you, there is none shall mention me to you, that shall be able to ac­cuse me of any such defect: I am continually uttering such extrava­gancies, that all who hear me are absolutely at a Non-plus; and if my Brother's distemper did not a little seem to bear me out in these kind of Frantick discourses, the servants of the house would really conclude I had quite lost my senses: I must ingenuously own, I am not very much in them: you may be able to judge what disor­der my mind is in, by the irregula­rity of this Letter.

[Page 33]But I cannot help it, and, in truth, I think, you ought to wish no less; if you would be fully sa­tisfied of the greatness of my af­fection. The ruines your absence has brought upon my face, should appear more lovely and grateful in your eyes, than if I had the fresh­est colour, and most beautiful Complexion in the world; and I should think but very ill of my self, if after I have been deprived of your sight for the tedious space of three whole days, the Air of my Countenance should not be strangely altered for the worse: nay, I am apt to believe I should be so angry, as that I should never be able to forgive my self for it as long as I live. But what will become of me, if I shall be forced to lose it for six months together? But why should I talk thus? Alas! there's none shall perceive any change in me then, for I will dye whenever I am separated from you [Page 34] for so long a time, and then will give you my last and sorrowful farewell.

But hold, I fancy I hear a rat­ling in the Streets, and my heart would have me to believe it is only the noise of your return that makes it. Ah heavens! I can say no more; if it be You, Dear You, that are arrived! — But if I can­not see you come back, I'll dye through my distraction and impa­tience: for now I feel my pulse to beat so high, that if the hopes I have conceived of your arrival be not at last satisfied with the blessed vision of you, I'm sure I have not many moments more to live.

AND what! will you always be thus cold and languish­ing? shall nothing be able to trou­ble your repose? Sure I might find out something that would be pow­erful enough to move you: what think you, if I should throw my self into the Arms of a Beloved Rival, and you in presence, would not that do the business? I thought I had been capable to put you into an apprehension by dealing other­wise with you, and that I should not stand in need of this last effect of Inconstancy, which notwith­standing, I am almost confident [Page 36] my Love will never let me put in practice. When I was in the Walks, I received the Duke of Almeyda's hand, after his first civility of Sa­luting mine. I was extremely pleas'd with his sitting next to me all the Supper-time: I looked up­on him with the most soft and passionate regards I could for my life throughout the whole repast, and which I am fully persuaded you could not but take notice of; and every now and then I was whi­spering one silly thing or other in his Ear, which you perhaps, might imagine to be some notable busi­ness, and wonder too how I had the assurance to do so; and yet for all this, I could not for my soul make you in the least change your Countenance. Ungrateful man! Cruel Creature! how is it possi­ble for you to be thus inhumane, as to have so small a kindness for a person that has so great a passion for you!

[Page 37]What, let me seriously interro­gate you, have not my fond cares, my indearing favours, nor my faithfulness so much as deserved one minutes Jealousie from you? Can I be so little thought of, and valued by him, who is far more dear and precious to me than my most sweet repose, nay, than my dearest honour? and can he be so dis-regardful as to see me ruine my self without the least passionate concern and horrour? Alas! the least shadow of yours sets all my Joints a trembling: You cannot once cast your eyes upon any other Woman, but I am immediately struck with deadly Convulsions; Nay, if you offer to give me your reasons for but the smallest and most common action of civility, as put the case, but to lend a Lady your hand over the Kennel, I am for all that day like a Distracted Creature, raving under the high­est extremities of despair: and [Page 38] yet you can see me keep up a Con­versation with another for a whole evening together before your face, without shewing the least regret or disturbance in the world.

Ah! You have never loved me, I am sure on't, for I know very well what it is to love, and can never believe that any thing so plainly opposite to the passion I have for you can be called by that most Sacred name. What would I do to punish this ungrateful cold­ness and indifference which you are so guilty of! Sometimes my Rage and madness does so transport me, that I could wish with all my Soul I were able to fall in love with some one else. But how vain and extravagant is such a wish, when in the very height of all my indig­nation, I can see nothing amiable in this world but you! Yesterday, when your lukewarmness made you lose a thousand charms, which at other times I could discern in [Page 39] you, yet for my life I could not forbear admiring all your wayes; methoughts your very disdains had in 'em an I know not what of great­ness and Majesty, that was expres­sive of the Character of your Soul, and it was only of you I whisper'd, when I inclined to the Duke, and laid my head last night so close to his: so little (alas!) do I know how to offend, although, per­haps, I may have the fairest Op­portunities for it that heart can possibly desire.

I fancy it would most strangely please me, if I could see you do but any thing that would furnish me with a pretence of giving you some publick affront; but again, now I think on't, how should I be able to do such a thing? my very Choler is only an excess of Love; and at the same time when I am most inraged against you for your great tranquillity and repose, I imagine I could find out a thou­sand [Page 40] arguments to forbid it me, altho' I did not love you to that high degree of extravagance you know I do. But now my Brother watched us, and the discovery of the least desire you had to speak to me would have ruin'd me for ever: but could not you be jealous, with­out being taken notice of? I un­derstand every motion of your eyes, there is not any alteration in your Countenance at any time, but what I perfectly know the meaning of, though none of the rest of the company is able to guess at them. Alas! I confess I find Love in your eyes, but yet not such a Love as was proper for that time; there should have been rage, you should have contradicted me in all I said or did, imagined me ugly, and made your close and vigorous application to some other Lady in my presence; in a word, you should have been jealous, since I have given you such apparent reasons to be so.

[Page 41]But instead of these Natural ef­fects of a true and perfect Love, you are giving me a thousand im­pertinent Compliments, and are loading me even to oppression, with your Hyperboles of praises; nay, you your self could lend the hand which I gave to the Duke, when as, if I had been able to have done so by you, and could have given yours to any other Lady, I think it would have struck me with a horror, but little inferiour to that the miserable feel in the other world.

And I knew the time when you were coming to wish me of my hap­piness in having one of the pret­tiest and most Janteé sparks of all our Court my Humble Servant. Oh Insensible Creature! is it af­ter this manner you love, and are you no otherwise beloved by me? That I had been capable of ima­gining you so cold and languid, in your seeming hot and zealous af­fection [Page 42] before I had loved you at this excessive rate! But what shall one say, though it had been possi­ble for me to have seen all that I do see at this day; nay, if I could have discerned more, I am sure I should never have been able to re­sist the inclination I had to love you; for that was rais'd at first to so violent a height, that it would have been in vain for me ever to attempt the conquering of it: and when at any time I think on those blessed hours of delight which so dear a passion has procured me, I do not find I am in the least capa­ble to repent of what I have done, or suffered for you.

What should I not do, if I were perfectly pleas'd with you, since my Love now does so transport me, when I have the most reason in the world to pour out all my Fury on you, for being the only cause of those many sad miseries I have indured? But you are too [Page 43] well acquainted with all my diffe­rent motions: You have seen me satisfied, and you have seen me la­bouring under grievous discon­tents: sometimes I have thanked you, and another while I have been telling you how wretched you have made me; and in either temper of angry passion, or more pleasant acknowledgments, you have still observed me to be the violentest of all women that have ever made the greatest pretensions to Love: and shall not such an unparallel'd instance and Exam­ple of kindness provoke you to Emulation? Love me, my Dear Insensible, try to love me as much as you can, as much as you your self are beloved; sure this is but reasonable; sure it is but as you ought to do. I have taken you to be a man of generosity, I have heard you say you do not love to be indebted for any thing, and will you be indebted to me in [Page 44] Love? Shall it be known that a weak Woman out-does you in kindness? you are not wont easily to be o'recome.

The Soul has not any delight it can call true and perfect but what consists in Love: the excess of Joy arises from the excess of Passion, and a faint Lukewarmness is much more injurious to those persons that are capable of it, than to those to whom it is shewn. Ah! if you had experienced, as I have done, what a true transport of Love is to the Soul, how would you envy those that have the plea­surable delight of feeling it! I would not, even for the gaining of your own heart, be able to have your tranquillity, your ease, your unconcernedness: I am grown, (I do not blush to own it,) jealous of my transports, as of the great­est blessing I ever enjoyed in all my life; and, to deal frankly with you, and tell you what is in my [Page 45] heart; I would rather indure the most dismal condemnation of ne­ver seeing you more as long as I breath, than I would see you with­out the highest ecstasie and ravish­ment.

WHAT was your reason, I beseech you, to write to me in that manner as you did, was it to try how it would go down with me, or did you really believe I was able to love any o­ther? Patience! how mortally does such an injurious thought wound the delicacy of that affecti­on I bear you! I confess it, I have often had a more than common passion for you, and have loved you to a degree beyond all that ever yet the most Passionate Wo­man in the world could pretend to. But for you to believe me [Page 48] guilty of such a Superlative infi­delity, for you to give me such opprobrious and unworthy lan­guage, for you to wish your self able to persuade me that I should never see you more; these are things insupportable! I have been jealous, 'tis true, and it is impossi­ble for any body to have a perfect Love without Jealousie; but on the other hand, I have never been in­sensible; I have never had you out of my sight, or memory; but when my rage was most violent, I have still remembred you were the person whom most I have suspect­ed.

Ah! Your Passion, I find is made almost up with errors and defects, you do very poorly un­derstand the ways of Love: None can perceive, or very scarcely, that you have any in your heart; for unless you seriously premeditate, and think before-hand what to speak, you are so dry and barren in [Page 49] your expressions, as you little de­serve the name of Love. By your favour, is that heart, which I have so dearly purchased with the price of my own, that heart which I have (I'll dare to say) merited by the infinite number of my transports, and the many instances of my fide­lity, and which you have long ago assured me I had the full and abso­lute possession of; is that heart, I say, capable of offending me in so egregious a manner? how misera­ble is my condition, and how just would be my complaints!

Your first addresses were no bet­ter than meer, downright injuries; and all your Applications, when ever you suffered them to appear unmask'd, were, not only kick-shawy and formal, (for that I could have bore withal for your sake with patience enough) but they were open and bare-faced outrages and affronts.— Go—Ungrateful as you are; I will leave you your suspi­cions [Page 50] as a punishment for your be­ing capable of having any such Frenzies of me. You ought to take so much satisfaction in believing me tender and Faithful, but to doubt of it should prove the great­est torment to you: in that case I could easily cure you, and, to say the truth, the liberty of offending you is a thing too impossible for my repose. But I am resolved to keep you in an error if I can, for that is both an espousing of my Interest, and a revenge too: and if you will believe what I appre­hend of the business, all your Con­jectures are most just, and I the most unfaithful of all women breathing.

But as yet I have not seen the Man that gives you this trouble­some jealousie: and that Letter which you would needs have to be mine, I'll assure you I never writ one syllable of it; there is not any proof in the world, but I can sub­mit [Page 51] my self most readily to it without the least concern of fear, if I were but in so good a humour to give you that satisfaction. — But why should I? I have had no reason for it from You, unless you have deserv'd it for railing so hear­tily against me: and certainly you would have cause sufficient to con­clude me full out as base as you have describ'd me, if your fierce Menaces could frighten me into a self-justi­fication. I shall not see you more, You say, for you will instantly be gone from Lisbonne, for fear lest your unlucky. Stars should some time or other make you meet me; and you swear to be the death of the best friend you have, if he should play the fool, and but desire you to make me one poor trifling visit, or be the damned Judas to betray you into my company. Cru­el Man! What harm have you ever received from a sight of me, that now on the suddden 'tis become so [Page 52] insupportable to you? You have never seen any thing in my Face, but what might have been pleasing and delightful enough to you: all my looks, had you but in the least observed them, have been full of a tender passion, ay, and of a most pressing earnestness that you should take notice of it too. And is this such a heinous thing, as to make you leave Lisbonne in all haste, that so you might never set eyes of me again? Heavens! Sure some strange Judgment is fallen on me, and I'm become a Monster in Nature, or I should never seem so dreadful a thing to you.

But let me beg your patience a little; if this be all the Reason you can alledge for your going away, in God's name, never stir a foot; for I'll save you the trouble of a­voiding me, you shall see, another way that will be full as good, and I'll leave you; for it shall ne'er be said, you met with so importune [Page 53] and troublesome a Woman, that forced you to quit the Countrey for her. My sight hath cost you nothing, unless it were your good nature and civility to let me love you; but yours hath put me to the expence of all the honour, and the quiet of my life: and I'll be as Frank with you too on the other hand, and confess that many a time it hath made up the most per­fect delight and joy of it. When I reflect on the secret disturbances that I have felt within me some­times, when I have fancied I could discern your tread, and the print of your prettly little feet in the walks, what a pleasant kind of languishing has presently run over all my senses; and so likewise if at any time I've been so happy as to meet your regards: but above all things, oh! the unexpressible trans­ports of my Soul, when we have had the liberty of but so much as a moments conversation!

[Page 54]I wonder in my heart how it was possible for me to live before I saw you, and, for my part, I know not how I shall be able to live, when I must never see you more. But, in Justice, you ought your self to be as sensible as I am; I will confess, I have lov'd you, but did you not also tell me, you had as great an Affection for me? And yet, for all this, you can be the first to make the proposition of never see­ing me more: The first! — Nay, I'm sure you must have been so, or else so cruel a proposition had ne­uer been started by me. Well,— however— you shall be satisfied,— and I will never see you more as long as I live. But then it will be no little pleasure to me to be able to reproach your ingratitude: and my revenge will seem to be so much the more entire and perfect, as my eyes, and all my ways and actions will confirm my Innocence to you. For it is so pure and un­spotted, [Page 55] and the base untruth which has been told you, so easie to be confuted, that I would de­sire no more than one quarter of an hour's discourse with you, to give you a full conviction of your in­justice to me, which I am confi­dent would make you most bitter­ly regret that ever you had com­mitted it. I must confess this thought has so run in my head, that I have been already two or three times just upon the point of com­ing to you to tell you of it; and I am not able to say, whether it will not bring me to you, notwith­standing all the strugglings I make against it, before this day be quite over; for your unworthy dealing with me is violent enough to capti­vate all my Reason.

But I have so long pleased my self in studying particularly your humour, that now I believe I am throughly acquainted with it, and I know such a rash carriage of mine [Page 56] would vex your very soul, and therefore I'll desist. I have ever­more observed you to use a most inimitable prudence and discreti­on in all your measures; you have been more solicitously careful of my reputation, than I have been my self; and sometimes you have been so over cautious, so scrupu­lously nice in your conduct, that I have thought my self the misera­blest Woman under Heaven for it, and you know have oft-times smartly told you of it too. And what would you say to me, if I should commit some indiscretion or other, and so discover the in­trigue, and by that means make my self the whole discourse of the Ta­ble among persons of worth and honour? I warrant, you would scorn me for it, and never abide me more, and, I'm sure, could I be­lieve you capable of it, I should dye no other death: for let what will fall out, still I would have you give [Page 57] me (at least) the honour of your esteem.

Make your complaints, speak all the injurious things you can de­vise of me, betray me how you will, nay, hate me to the death, if it be possible, but oh! never give me your contempt and scorn. I can live without your love, since this love of mine will no longer contribute to your felicity; but I shall never be able to live without your esteem. And I believe it is for that very Reason, that I labour under such an Impatience to see you: for how is it possible that it should be an effect of tenderness? I should be a stark fool indeed to love a Man that treats me in that unworthy manner which you do.

However, I will put the best in­terpretation I can on your dealing thus with me, and will believe it to be only an excess of Passion which is the cause of it: for you would not be so furiously trans­ported, [Page 58] if you were less in love— Ah! if I could but persuade my self of this truth, how dear to me would all the affronts and outrages be that ever you have done me! But it is not possible for me to believe it; no, I will not flatter my self with an errour that I could yet al­most find in my heart to hug, for it is very pleasant and agreeable to me: but you are guilty; nay, though you should not be so, yet I would not think otherwise, that so I might severely punish you, for having given me the occasion so to think. I will not, I am resolved, stir abroad any where all this day, where you may be likely to see me, and therefore let that satisfie you, if any thing can. I mean in the afternoon about three a Clock to pay a visit to the Marchioness de Castro, who is very much indispo­sed, and there I am sure you never come, for there are some misun­derstandings between you; after [Page 59] that I will go sit with my Brother an hour or two, and so from his Lodgings to where I am now: I give you this short account of my Travels, because you may the bet­ter know how to dispose of your self any where else, with Assu­rance that you shall not meet with me. In a word, I am resolved to be as angry as you are, and there­fore make the best on't, for this is the last Letter you are ever like to receive from me.

Farewel.

WHAT? is it possible that I, my self, should write to you, and you to be the self same person you were formerly? By what prodigy of Fate have you struck me with the passion of Love, without giving me that of Joy and delight? I have sometimes seen you full of your addresses, and ur­gent importunities, as also, you cannot deny, but at other times I have found you as full of despite and troublesome impatience. I have read in your eyes those very desires, which you might always have observed I have been so parti­cularly touched with in you. Oh! how burning were they, even to make up my whole felicity! I am [Page 62] as tender and as faithful as ever I have been; and yet, methinks, for all this, I reproach my self for being so cold and unconcerned. It seems you have only put a cheat upon my senses, which has never been able to reach so far as my heart. Ah! how dear do those reproaches which you have drawn upon your self cost me, and how does one days remisness and indifference of yours rob me of all my transports!

I cannot imagine what secret in­fluence of the Stars it is that does so continually inspire me, but if I am indebted to you for any kind­ness, it is my own Passionate Cho­ler that has forced it from you: and I plainly now perceive, there has been more of Artifice and ad­dress in all your tender regards than ever of true sincerity and un­feignedness. To be plain with you, this nice delicate way of loving is not always so charming and excel­lent as some may conclude. I must [Page 63] grant you indeed, that it does temper the violence of our de­lights and satisfactions, but then again, it does likewise most cruelly imbitter our griefs and troubles. I am perpetually fancying that I see you still in the same distraction which has already given me Milli­ons of deep-fetched sighs. Oh! my dear! my life! my All! never go about to deceive me in this; your urgent importunities, your great submissions are the things which create all my happiness; but they would also awaken all my rage and fury, could I believe I owed them to any thing else than the Natural impulses and motions of your heart.

I hate all your ways that look studied and affected, and am more afraid of them, than of the coldest and most indifferent temper of all. The outward formal Courtship is a meer trap and snare to catch gross, dull, phlegmatick Souls in, [Page 64] but one of my particular delicacy cannot be surprized so. Shall I be frank with you, and tell you all my extravagancies hereupon? It was the yesterdays excess of your passion that gave birth to all my Jealousies and suspicions: you seem'd as if you were quite out of your senses, and I sought for you in every thing just the Reverse to what you appear'd. Oh heavens! what would have become of me, if I had been able to convince you of the least dissimulation? I am so be­witched to you, that I prefer your passion, to my fortune, to my ho­nour, nay, to my own life it self: But I could with a great deal more ease bear up under the solemn assu­rances of your hatred, than ever I could endure the false pretences of your love.

'Tis not any thing which is without you that I am so taken with; no curious lovely face, soft skin, delicate eyes, pretty hands, [Page 65] fine shape, just mein, janteé air, and the more powerful insinuati­ons of alluring Rhetorick, are able in the least to affect me; I am for the Strong and Masculine Senti­ments of the Soul; This is a charm that perfectly captivates me, and who indeed has power to resist it? Oh! be you as cold as you please, negligent to an absolute dis-re­garding, nay, be light and fickle too, if you can, but never be a dis­sembler. Treason in the case of Love is the highest crime that can be committed against love: and I would a thousand times more free­ly forgive your unfaithfulness to me, than I would the pains and in­dustry you should take to conceal it from me. You told me yester­night very great and notable things, and I could with all my soul have wished you had been able then to have seen your self as I saw you. You would, I'm sure, have found your self to be quite another [Page 66] person, than what commonly you are. Your Air was far more great than naturally it is: all the world might have seen the fierceness of your passion by the fire of your Eyes, and yet that too made them seem a great deal more tender and piercing: I plainly perceived your heart was even up at your mouth, and your Soul ready to fly out at your lips.

Oh! how happy am I that it was not counterfeit! and, let me tell you, I know what you are but too well for my Repose, and it is not in my power to know you less. The pleasure to love with all my soul is a blessing, I will ever own, I hold of you; to you I am only obliged for it, and it is not any longer in your power to ravish it from me: I am very sensible I shall, nay, I must, always love you in spight of my Aversion, and I am sure like­wise that I shall love you in spight of yours. These are dangerous As­surances [Page 67] I give you, but no matter, I know you have not a heart to be retained by fear, and indeed I should not take your conquest to be very sure, if I only kept it upon that lock. Though they may be accounted something in friendship, yet Common Justice and grati­tude are not sufficient in Love; for there must be inclination. There one must follow the motions of ones heart, without ever consult­ing the dictates of ones Reason. The very fight of what we love ex­alts our Souls whether we will or no; at least, I'm sure it does so with me.

'Tis not any thing, because I am used to see you, nor any fear lest you should be offended if I did not see you, that obliges me so to covet your sight; but it is an over-zea­lous Curiosity which proceeds from the heart without any Art, and without reflection. I many times seek you in places, where I [Page 68] am certain before-hand I shall ne­ver find you. If you can but as much for me, without doubt the instinct of our hearts will so order matters, as that they shall meet wheresoever they are. I'm forced to spend the better part of the day in a place where it is impossible you can ever be. But however, let us give up our selves absolutely to our passion; let us be guided and influenced by our own desires; and you will then quickly see, that, notwithstanding our misfortune of not being able to come together, we may not pass away our time ve­ry disagreeably.

But it is late, I have had very lit­tle sleep for these several nights, and I find my self now somewhat drousie; yet, I think, were I blest with your dear company, I could keep my eyes open till morning: and this very thought has perfect­ly waked me, but I will not go on any further, only bid you Adieu.

I Pray thee, my Dear Soul, if you have any kindness for me, let us not any longer keep our Oaths, it costs us too much to ob­serve them, and, if it be possible, whatever comes on it, let us see one another just now. You have suspected me of Infidelity and you have expressed those suspicions to me in a very unworthy and outra­gious manner, but what of all this? Do you think I can cease my af­fection to you? No, I love you still more than I do my own Soul, and it is impossible for me to live without seeing you.

[Page 70]To what end or purpose do we so voluntarily bring upon our selves these mischievous hours of Absence? Do we need any thing so cruel to whet and sharpen our Pas­sion, or have we not enough of them that are unavoidable of themselves? I am sure, for my part, I account them too many, and I hope you have the same Love, and the same reason to do so too. Come then, and restore to my languish­ing Soul all those former delights I have enjoyed, by giving me one half days Conversation with you in liberty. You sent me word, that you would not see me, but only to demand my pardon. Alas! you have no need to implore it, I can forgive you without any such trou­ble: come therefore,—although I could oppress you with your In­juries; — but however come, I conjure you to it, for I'll say no­thing: Nay, I had rather see those dear eyes of yours shooting out [Page 71] fire against me, than I would not see them at all. But alas! I should not hazard much, if I should leave that choice to you: for I very well know, I should see them full of ten­derness, and burning with Love; they have already appeared so to me this morning, when we were in the Church, and I am sure they cannot be altered as yet; I saw clearly by them how much you were confounded at your Creduli­ty, and fondness to believe such things of me; and you likewise might have seen in mine the assu­rances of your pardon.

But let us no longer talk of these things; or if we must speak of them, let it be for caution that we commit not the like for the time to come. How can we in the least doubt of our Love, since we had never been in the world but for its sake? I should never have had the heart I now have, if it had not been designed wholly to be taken up [Page 72] with your Idea; nor would you have had the same Soul you have, if it had not been given you on pur­pose to love me; and heaven would never have made us both so capable of love, if it had not been that I should love you as much as you are amiable, and you love me as much as you are beloved. But confess to me without any reserve, (let me beg it of you,) have you felt what I have done, ever since we seem'd as if we had wished one another all the evil in the world? for I am certain we never did wish our selves any really, and in good earnest; we have not had the power to be so wicked; the Stars that rule us would not give us that cruel liberty, but show'd, they have had a more commanding Empire over us, than all our foolish pee­vishness, and extravagancy could pretend to. Bless me! how has that forced rage and madness been my torment? what violence▪ did [Page 73] my eyes do to themselves, when ever they seem'd to conceal their motions and disorders from you? and what strange Enemies must we be to our selves, to be desirous of a moments misunderstanding be­twixt us, when the affection is ri­sen to so supreme a degree, as ours is to one another! My feet are ready to bring me where I am sure I must meet with you, let me en­deavour what I can to the contra­ry: and my heart, that has got so kind a heat of favourable inclina­tions, upon the very encounter of you, would presently give you an account of it by my eyes: & when ever I have made any strong re­sistance against it, & were resolved they should reveal nothing, I have felt such secret, piercing shootings within, as are impossible to be com­prehended but by those that have been in the same condition with my self. And methinks too, you have had no better fate, I have met [Page 74] you in places, where I am sure that only chance, and lucky accident could never have brought you; and if I may intrust you with all my vanities, I have never observed so much love and fire in your eyes, as now since you have so pretended that we should never see one ano­ther more.

Mercy on our folly! how besot­ted are we to give our selves all these torments and miseries for nothing! but what did I say? ra­ther how well and generously have we done, in shewing our Souls so fully and entirely! Now I am cer­tain I know all the tenderness of yours, and should be able to di­stinguish all its vigorous and passio­nate impulses, from those of all the other Souls in the world: But I cannot say so much of your Cho­ler, or your haughty kind of fierce­ness; for them as yet I do not un­derstand. I knew very well you were capable of jealousie, because [Page 75] you loved; but I did not rightly apprehend the Character and way which this passion took in your heart; that was perfect riddle and mystery to me. It would have been a piece of treachery, any longer to have kept me in suspence and doubt of it; and now, methinks, I cannot forbear paying my ac­knowledgments to your injustice, since it is that alone which has made so important a discovery to me. I have wished you jealous, and have found you so; but from henceforward, do you renounce your suspicion, as I have renounced my Curiosity. What figure soever a lover assumes, there is none so ad­vantagious for him, as that of a happy Lover.

'Tis a great errour for any body to say, that then a Lover is a sot, and stupid, when he is content; those that are not amiable under this form, will be much less so, I am confident, under any other; [Page 76] and when they have not wit and sense enough to make their advan­tage of the Character of a satisfied Lover, it is the fault of their heart, and not that of their felicity. Oh! make haste, and come to confirm my belief of this truth, my dear Soul, and let me not put you to the trouble of reading another Letter from me to beg this blessing, for I shall write but the same thing over again. I should not be so ill-na­tur'd to retard one moment of it by such a tedious Letter as this is, if I did not know that you could not possibly see me at this instant that I am writing to you. Oh! how pleasurable is it to me to be entertaining you in this way! I am not able to prefer any thing to it, but the greater happiness of seeing you, and discoursing with you face to face: there is none so sensible of the extreme delight I take in writing to you but my self; and you do share in that of seeing me.

[Page 77]But alas! I cannot enjoy the one but with such a scrupulous re­servedness, and careful circum­spection, that it almost makes me stark mad, whereas I can indulge my self in the other, when e're I please. Now, whilst all the folks of our house are at their repose, and possibly may think themselves very happy that they can take it, I am enjoying a happiness which the most sweet and profoundest repose in the world is not able to give me. I am writing to you, I am speaking my very Soul to you, so that you ought, out of good manners and a grateful civility, to return and answer it; it Sacrifices to you its Vigils with its last Im­patience. Ah! how happy are we, when we love perfectly! and how do I pity those who languish in an unactive Idleness, where they have absolute liberty. Good morrow, my dear, the day begins to break, it would have appeared a great [Page 78] deal sooner than it was wont, if it had but in the least consulted my impatience: But that is not so full of Love as we are, and there­fore we ought to forgive its slug­gishness, and indeavour to deceive it by a few hours of sleep, that so we may find it to be less insupport­able. Adieu.