Chapter V: Part I: To SYLVIA (4)

Consider, oh young noble maid, the infamy of being a prostitute! And yet the act itself in this fatal amour is not the greatest sin, but the manner, which carries an unusual horror with it; for it is a brother too, my child, as well as a lover, one that has lain by thy unhappy sister’s side so many tender years, by whom he has a dear and lovely off-spring, by which he has more fixed himself to thee by relation and blood: consider this, oh fond heedless girl! And suffer not a momentary joy to rob thee of thy eternal fame, me of my eternal repose, and fix a brand upon our noble house, and so undo us all.----Alas, consider, after an action so shameful, thou must obscure thyself in some remote corner of the world, where honesty and honour never are heard of: no, thou canst not shew thy face, but it will be pointed at for something monstrous; for a hundred ages may not produce a story so lewdly infamous and loose as thine. Perhaps (fond as you are) you imagine the sole joy of being beloved by him, will atone for those affronts and reproaches you will meet with in the censuring world: but, child, remember and believe me, there is no lasting faith in sin; he that has broke his vows with heaven and me, will be again perjured to heaven and thee, and all the world!----He once thought me as lovely, lay at my feet, and sighed away his soul, and told such piteous stories of his sufferings, such sad, such mournful tales of his departed rest, his broken heart and everlasting love, that sure I thought it had been a sin not to have credited his charming perjuries; in such a way he swore, with such a grace he sighed, so artfully he moved, so tenderly he looked. Alas, dear child, then all he said was new, unusual with him, never told before, now it is a beaten road, it is learned by heart, and easily addressed to any fond believing woman, the tattered, worn out fragments of my trophies, the dregs of what I long since drained from off his fickle heart; then it was fine, then it was brisk and new, now palled and dull by being repeated often. Think, my child, what your victorious beauty merits, the victim of a heart unconquered by any but your eyes: alas, he has been my captive, my humble whining slave, disdain to put him on your fetters now; alas, he can say no new thing of his heart to thee, it is love at second hand, worn out, and all its gaudy lustre tarnished; besides, my child, if thou hadst no religion binding enough, no honour that could stay thy fatal course, yet nature should oblige thee, and give a check to the unreasonable enterprise. The griefs and dishonour of our noble parents, who have been eminent for virtue and piety, oh suffer them not to be regarded in this censuring world as the most unhappy of all the race of old nobility; thou art the darling child, the joy of all, the last hope left, the refuge of their sorrow, for they, alas, have had but unkind stars to influence their unadvised off-spring; no want of virtue in their education, but this last blow of fate must strike them dead; think, think of this, my child, and yet retire from ruin; haste, fly from destruction which pursues thee fast; haste, haste and save thy parents and a sister, or what is more dear, thy fame; mine has already received but too many desperate wounds, and all through my unkind lord’s growing passion for thee, which was most fatally founded on my ruin, and nothing but my ruin could advance it; and when, my sister, thou hast run thy race, made thyself loathed, undone and infamous as hell, despis’d, scorn’d and abandon’d by all, lampoon’d, perhaps diseas’d; this faithless man, this cause of all will leave thee too, grow weary of thee, nauseated by use; he may perhaps consider what sins, what evils, and what inconveniencies and shames thou’st brought him to, and will not be the last shall loathe and hate thee: for though youth fancy it have a mighty race to run of pleasing vice and vanity, the course will end, the goal will be arrived to at the last, where they will sighing stand, look back, and view the length of precious time they’ve fool’d away; when traversed over with honour and discretion, how glorious were the journey, and with what joy the wearied traveller lies down and basks beneath the shades that end the happy course.

Forgive, dear child, this advice, and pursue it; it is the effect of my pity, not anger; nor could the name of rival ever yet have power to banish that of sister from my soul----farewell, remember me; pray heaven thou hast not this night made a forfeit of thy honour, and that this which comes from a tender bleeding heart may have the fortune to inspire thee with grace to avoid all temptations for the future, since they must end in sorrows which is the eternal prayer of,

_Dearest child,_

_Your affectionate Sister._

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

Ask me not, my dearest brother, the reason of this sudden change, ask me no more from whence proceeds this strange coldness, or why this alteration; it is enough my destiny has not decreed me for _Philander_: alas, I see my error, and looking round about me, find nothing but approaching horror and confusion in my pursuit of love: oh whither was I going, to what dark paths, to what everlasting shades had smiling love betray’d me, had I pursued him farther? But I at last have subdued his force, and the fond charmer shall no more renew his arts and flatteries; for I’m resolv’d as heaven, as fix’d as fate and death, and I conjure you trouble my repose no more; for if you do (regardless of my honour, which if you loved you would preserve) I will do a deed shall free me from your importunities, that shall amaze and cool your vicious flame. No more--remember you have a noble wife, companion of your vows, and I have honour, both which are worth preserving, and for which, though you want generous love, you will find neither that nor courage wanting in _Sylvia_.

* * * * *

_To_ SYLVIA.

Yes, my adorable _Sylvia_, I will pursue you no farther; only for all my pains, for all my sufferings, for my tormenting sleepless nights, and thoughtful anxious days; for all my faithless hopes, my fears, my sighs, my prayers and my tears, for my unequalled and unbounded passion, and my unwearied pursuits in love, my never-dying flame, and lastly, for my death; I only beg, in recompense for all, this last favour from your pity; That you will deign to view the bleeding wound that pierced the truest heart that ever fell a sacrifice to love; you will find my body lying beneath that spreading oak, so sacred to _Philander_, since it was there he first took into his greedy ravished soul, the dear, the soft confession of thy passion, though now forgotten and neglected all--make what haste you can, you will find there stretched out the mangled carcase of the lost

PHILANDER.

_Ah_ Sylvia! _Was it for this that I was sent in such haste away this morning to_ Cesario_? Did I for this neglect the world, our great affair, and all that Prince’s interest, and fly back to_ Bellfont _on the wings of love? Where in lieu of receiving a dear blessing from thy hand, do I find----never see me more--good heaven--but, with my life, all my complaints are ended; only it would be, some ease, even in death, to know what happy rival it is has armed thy cruel hand against_ Philander’s _heart_.

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

Stay, I conjure thee, stay thy sacrilegious hand; for the least wound it gives the lord of all my wishes, I’ll double on my breast a thousand fold; stay then, by all thy vows, thy love, and all thy hopes, I swear thou hast this night a full recompense of all thy pains from yielding _Sylvia_; I do conjure thee stay----for when the news arrives thou art no more, this poor, this lost, abandoned heart of mine shall fall a victim to thy cruelty: no, live, my _Philander_, I conjure thee, and receive all thou canst ask, and all that can be given by

SYLVIA.

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

Oh, my charming _Philander_! How very ill have you recompensed my last lost commands? Which were that you should live; and yet at the same moment, while you are reading of the dear obligation, and while my page was waiting your kind return, you desperately exposed your life to the mercy of this innocent rival, betraying unadvisedly at the same time my honour, and the secret of your love, and where to kill or to be killed, had been almost equally unhappy: it was well my page told me you disarmed him in this rencounter; yet you, he says, are wounded, some sacred drops of blood are fallen to the earth and lost, the least of which is precious enough to ransom captive queens: oh! Haste _Philander_, to my arms for cure, I die with fear there may be danger----haste, and let me bathe, the dear, the wounded part in floods of tears, lay to my warm lips, and bind it with my torn hair: oh! _Philander_, I rave with my concern for thee, and am ready to break all laws of decency and duty, and fly without considering, to thy succour, but that I fear to injure thee much more by the discovery, which such an unadvised absence would make. Pray heaven the unlucky adventure reach not _Bellfont; Foscario_ has no reason to proclaim it, and thou art too generous to boast the conquest, and my page was the only witness, and he is as silent and as secret as the grave: but why, _Philander_, was he sent me back without reply? What meant that cruel silence----say, my _Philander_, will you not obey me?----Will you abandon me? Can that dear tongue be perjured? And can you this night disappoint your _Sylvia_? What have I done, oh obstinately cruel, irreconcileable----what, for my first offence? A little poor resentment and no more? A little faint care of my gasping honour, could that displease so much? Besides I had a cause, which you shall see; a letter that would cool love’s hottest fires, and turn it to devotion; by heaven it was such a check----such a surprise----but you yourself shall judge, if after that I could say less, than bid eternally farewell to love--at least to thee--but I recanted soon; one sad dear word, one soft resenting line from thee, gained love the day again, and I despised the censures of the duller world: yes, yes, and I confessed you had overcome, and did this merit no reply? I asked the boy a thousand times what you said, how and in what manner you received it, chid him, and laid your silent fault on him, till he with tears convinced me, and said he found you hastening to the grove,--and when he gave you my commands----you looked upon him with such a wild and fixed regard, surveying him all over while you were opening it----as argued some unusual motion in you; then cried, ‘Be gone--I cannot answer flattery’----Good heaven, what can you mean? But ‘ere he got to the farther end of the grove, where still you walked a solemn death-like pace, he saw _Foscario_ pass him unattended, and looking back saw your rencounter, saw all that happened between you, then ran to your assistance just as you parted; still you were roughly sullen, and neither took notice of his proffered service, nor that you needed it, although you bled apace; he offered you his aid to tie your wounds up----but you replied--’Be gone, and do not trouble me’----Oh, could you imagine I could live with this neglect? Could you, my _Philander_? Oh what would you have me do! If nothing but my death or ruin can suffice for my atonement, I will sacrifice either with joy; yes, I’ll proclaim my passion aloud, proclaim it at _Bellfont_, own the dear criminal flame, fly to my Philander’s aid and be undone; for thus I cannot, no, I will not live, I rave, I languish, faint and die with pain; say that you live, oh, say but that you live, say you are coming to the meadow behind the garden-grove, in order to your approach to my arms: oh, swear that all your vows are true; oh, swear that you are _Sylvia’s_; and in return, I will swear that I am yours without reserve, whatever fate is destined for your

SYLVIA.

_I die with impatience, either to see or hear from you; I fear it is yet too soon for the first----oh therefore save me with the last, or I shall rave, and wildly betray all by coming to_ Dorillus _his farm, or seeking you where-ever you cruelly have hid yourself from_

SYLVIA.

* * * * *

_To_ SYLVIA.

Ah, _Sylvia_, how have you in one day destroyed that repose I have been designing so many years! Oh, thou false----but wondrous fair creature! Why did heaven ordain so much beauty, and so much perfidy, so much excellent wit, and so much cunning, (things inconsistent in any but in _Sylvia_) in one divine frame, but to undo mankind: yes, _Sylvia_, thou wert born to murder more believing men than the unhappy and undone _Philander_. Tell me, thou charming hypocrite, why hast thou thus deluded me? Why? oh, why was I made the miserable object of thy fatal vow-breach? What have I done, thou lovely, fickle maid, that thou shouldst be my murderer? And why dost thou call me from the grave with such dear soft commands as would awake the very quiet dead, to torture me anew, after my eyes (curse on their fatal sense) were too sure witnesses of thy infidelity? Oh, fickle maid, how much more kind it had been to have sent me down to earth, with plain heart-breaking truth, than a mean subtle falsehood, that has undone thy credit in my soul? Truth, though it were cruel, had been generous in thee; though thou wert perjured, false, forsworn----thou shouldst not have added to it that yet baser sin of treachery: you might have been provoked to have killed your friend, but it were base to stab him unawares, defenceless and unwarned; smile in my face, and strike me to the heart; soothe me with all the tenderest marks of my passion----nay, with an invitation too, that would have gained a credit in one that had been jilted over the world, flattered and ruined by all thy cozening sex, and all to send me vain and pleased away, only to gain a day to entertain another lover in. Oh, fantastic woman! destructive glorious thing, what needed this deceit? Hadst thou not with unwonted industry persuaded me to have hasted to _Cesario_, by heaven, I had dully lived the tedious day in traversing the flowery meads and silent groves, laid by some murmuring spring, had sigh’d away the often counted hours, and thought on _Sylvia_, till the blessed minute of my ravishing approach to her; had been a fond, believing and imposed on coxcomb, and never had dreamt the treachery, never seen the snake that basked beneath the gay, the smiling flowers; securely thou hadst cozened me, reaped the new joys, and made my rival sport at the expense of all my happiness: yes, yes, your hasty importunity first gave me jealousy, made me impatient with _Cesario_, and excuse myself to him by a hundred inventions; neglected all to hasten back, where all my joys, where all my killing fears and torments resided--but when I came----how was I welcomed? With your confirming billet; yes, _Sylvia_, how! Let _Dorillus_ inform you, between whose arms I fell dead, shame on me, dead--and the first thought my soul conceived when it returned, was, not to die in jest. I answered your commands, and hastened to the grove, where----by all that is sacred, by thyself I swear (a dearer oath than heaven and earth can furnish me with) I did resolve to die; but oh, how soon my soft, my silent passion turned to loud rage, rage easier to be borne, to dire despair, to fury and revenge; for there I saw, _Foscario_, my young, my fair, my rich and powerful rival, he hasted through the grove, all warm and glowing from the fair false one’s arms; the blushes which thy eyes had kindled were fresh upon his cheeks, his looks were sparkling with the new-blown fire, his heart so briskly burnt with a glad, peaceful smile dressed all his face, tricked like a bridegroom, while he perfum’d the air as he passed through it----none but the man that loves and dotes like me is able to express my sense of rage: I quickly turned the sword from my own heart to send it to his elevated one, giving him only time to----draw--that was the word, and I confess your spark was wondrous ready, brisk with success, vain with your new-given favours, he only cried--’If _Sylvia_ be the quarrel--I am prepared----’ And he maintained your cause with admirable courage I confess, though chance or fortune luckily gave me his sword, which I would fain have rendered back, and that way would have died; but he refused to arm his hand anew against the man that had not took advantage of him, and thus we parted: then it was that malice supported me with life, and told me I should scorn to die for so perfidious and so ruinous a creature; but charming and bewitching still, it was then I borrowed so much calmness of my lessening anger to read the billet over, your page had brought me, which melted all the rough remaining part of rage away into tame languishment: ah, _Sylvia_! This heart of mine was never formed by nature to hold out long in stubborn sullenness; I am already on the excusing part, and fain would think thee innocent and just; deceive me prettily, I know thou canst soothe my fond heart, and ask how it could harbour a faithless thought of _Sylvia_--do--flatter me, protest a little, swear my rival saw thee not, say he was there by chance----say any thing; or if thou sawest him, say with how cold a look he was received----Oh, _Sylvia_, calm my soul, deceive it flatter it, and I shall still believe and love thee on----yet shouldest thou tell me truth, that thou art false, by heaven I do adore thee so, I still should love thee on; should I have seen thee clasp him in thy arms, print kisses on his cheeks and lips, and more----so fondly and so dotingly I love, I think I should forgive thee; for I swear by all the powers that pity frail mortality, there is no joy, no life, no heaven without thee! Be false! Be cruel, perjured, infamous, yet still I must adore thee; my soul was formed of nothing but of love, and all that love, and all that soul is _Sylvia_’.; but yet, since thou hast framed me an excuse, be kind and carry it on;----to be deluded well, as thou canst do it, will be the same to innocence, as loving: I shall not find the cheat: I will come then----and lay myself at thy feet, and seek there that repose, that dear content, which is not to be found in this vast world besides; though much of my heart’s joy thou hast abated; and fixed a sadness in my soul that will not easily vanish----oh _Sylvia_, take care of me, for I am in thy power, my life, my fame, my soul are all in thy hands, be tender of the victims, and remember if any action of thy life should shew a fading love, that very moment I perceive the change, you shall find dead at your feet the abandoned

PHILANDER.

_Sad as death, I am going towards the meadow, in order to my approach towards_ Sylvia, _the world affording no repose to me, but when I am where the dear charmer is_.

* * * * *

_To_ Philander _in the Meadow_.

And can you be jealous of me, _Philander_? I mean so poorly jealous as to believe me capable of falsehood, of vow-breach, and what is worse, of loving any thing but the adorable _Philander_? I could not once believe so cruel a thought could have entered into the imaginations of a soul so entirely possessed with _Sylvia_, and so great a judge of love. Abandon me, reproach me, hate me, scorn me, whenever I harbour any thing in mind so destructive to my repose and thine. Can I _Philander_, give you a greater proof of my passion; of my faithful, never-dying passion, than being undone for you? Have I any other prospect in all this soft adventure, but shame, dishonour, reproach, eternal infamy and ever-lasting destruction, even of soul and body? I tremble with fear of future punishment; but oh, love will have no devotion (mixed with his ceremonies) to any other deity; and yet, alas, I might have loved another, and have been saved, or any maid but _Sylvia_ might have possessed without damnation. But it is a brother I pursue, it is a sister gives her honour up, and none but _Canace_, that ever I read in story, was ever found so wretched as to love a brother with so criminal a flame, and possibly I may meet her fate. I have a father too as great as _Aeolus_, as angry and revengeful where his honour is concerned; and you found, my dearest brother, how near you were last night to a discovery in the garden. I have some reason too to fear this night’s adventure, for as ill fate would have it (loaded with other thoughts) I told not _Melinda_ of your adventure last night with _Monsieur_ the Count, who meeting her early this morning, had like to have made a discovery, if he have not really so already; she strove to shun him, but he cried out--’_Melinda_, you cannot fly me by light, as you did last night in the dark--’She turned and begged his pardon, for neither coming nor designing to come, since she had resolved never to violate her vows to _Alexis_: ‘Not coming?’ cried he, ‘not returning again, you meant, _Melinda_; secure of my heart and my purse, you fled with both.’ _Melinda_, whose honour was now concerned, and not reminding your escape in her likeness, blushing, she sharply denied the fact, and with a disdain that had laid aside all respect, left him; nor can it be doubted, but he fancied (if she spoke truth) there was some other intrigue of love carried on at _Bellfont_. Judge, my charming _Philander_, if I have not reason to be fearful of thy safety, and my fame; and to be jealous that so wise a man as _Monsieur_ did not take that parly to be held with a spirit last night, or that it was an apparition he courted: but if there be no boldness like that of love, nor courage like that of a lover; sure there never was so great a heroine as _Sylvia_. Undaunted, I resolve to stand the shock of all, since it is impossible for me to leave _Philander_ any doubt or jealousy that I can dissipate, and heaven knows how far I was from any thought of seeing _Foscario_, when I urged _Philander_ to depart. I have to clear my innocence, sent thee the letter I received two hours after thy absence, which falling into my mother’s hands, whose favourite he is, he had permission to make his visit, which within an hour he did; but how received by me, be thou the judge, whenever it is thy fate to be obliged to entertain some woman to whom thy soul has an entire aversion. I forced a complaisance against my nature, endured his racking courtship with a fortitude that became the great heart that bears thy sacred image; as martyrs do, I suffered without murmuring, or the least sign of the pain I endured--it is below the dignity of my mighty passion to justify it farther, let it plead its own cause, it has a thousand ways to do it, and those all such as cannot be resisted, cannot be doubted, especially this last proof of sacrificing to your repose the never more to be doubted

SYLVIA.

_About an hour hence I shall expect you to advance._

* * * * *

_To_ the Lady----

_Madam,_

’.is not always the divine graces wherewith heaven has adorned your resplendent beauties, that can maintain the innumerable conquests they gain, without a noble goodness; which may make you sensibly compassionate the poor and forlorn captives you have undone: but, most fair of your sex, it is I alone that have a destiny more cruel and severe, and find myself wounded from your very frowns, and secured a slave as well as made one; the very scorn from those triumphant stars, your eyes, have the same effects, as if they shined with the continual splendour of ravishing smiles; and I can no more shun their killing influence, than their all-saving aspects: and I shall expire contentedly, since I fall by so glorious a fate, if you will vouchsafe to pronounce my doom from that store-house of perfection, your mouth, from lips that open like the blushing rose, strow’d over with morning dew, and from a breath sweeter than holy incense; in order to which, I approach you, most excellent beauty, with this most humble petition, that you will deign to permit me to throw my unworthy self before the throne of your mercy, there to receive the sentence of my life or death; a happiness, though incomparably too great for so mean a vassal, yet with that reverence and awe I shall receive it, as I would the sentence of the gods, and which I will no more resist than I would the thunderbolts of _Jove_, or the revenge of angry _Juno_: for, madam, my immense passion knows no medium between life | and death, and as I never had the presumption to aspire to the glory of the first, I am not so abject as to fear I am wholly deprived of the glory of the last: I have too long lain convicted, extend your mercy, and put me now out of pain: you have often wrecked me to confess my promethean sin; spare the cruel vulture of despair, take him from my heart in pity, and either by killing words, or blasting lightning from those refulgent eyes, pronounce the death of,

_Madam,_

_Your admiring slave_,

FOSCARIO.

* * * * *

_To_ SYLVIA.

_My Everlasting Charmer_,

I am convinc’d and pleas’d, my fears are vanish’d, and a heaven of solid joy is opened to my view, and I have nothing now in prospect but angel-brightness, glittering youth, dazzling beauty, charming sounds, and ravishing touches, and all around me ecstasies of pleasure, inconceivable transports without conclusion; _Mahomet_ never fancied such a heaven, not all his paradise promised such lasting felicity, or ever provided there the recompense of such a maid as _Sylvia_, such a bewitching form, such soft, such glorious eyes, where the soul speaks and dances, and betrays love’s secrets in every killing glance, a face, where every motion, every feature sweetly languishes, a neck all tempting--and her lovely breast inviting presses from the eager lips; such hands, such clasping arms, so white, so soft and slender! No, nor one of all his heavenly enjoyments, though promised years of fainting in one continued ecstasy, can make one moment’s joy with charming _Sylvia_. Oh, I am wrapt (with bare imagination) with a much vaster pleasure than any other dull appointment can dispense--oh, thou blessing sent from heaven to ease my toils of life! Thou sacred dear delight of my fond doting heart, oh, whither wilt thou lead me, to what vast heights of love? Into extremes as fatal and as dangerous as those excesses were that rendered me so cold in your opinion. Oh, _Sylvia, Sylvia_, have a care of me, manage my overjoyed soul, and all its eager passions, chide my fond heart, be angry if I faint upon thy bosom, and do not with thy tender voice recall me, a voice that kills out-right, and calls my fleeting soul out of its habitation: lay not such charming lips to my cold cheeks, but let me lie extended at thy feet untouched, unsighed upon, unpressed with kisses: oh, change those tender, trembling words of love into rough sounds and noises unconcerned, and when you see me dying, do not call my soul to mingle with thy sighs; yet shouldst thou abate one word, one look or tear, by heaven I should be mad; oh, never let me live to see declension in thy love! No, no, my charmer, I cannot bear the least supposed decay in those dear fondnesses of thine; and sure none ever became a maid so well, nor ever were received with adorations, like to mine!

Pardon, my adorable _Sylvia_, the rashness of my passion in this rencounter with _Foscario_; I am satisfied he is too unhappy in your disfavour to merit the being so in mine; but it was sufficient I then saw a joy in his face, a pleased gaiety in his looks to make me think my rage reasonable, and my quarrel just; by the style he writes, I dread his sense less than his person; but you, my lovely maid, have said enough to quit me of my fears for both----the night comes on--I cannot call it envious, though it rob me of the light that should assist me to finish this, since it will more gloriously repay me in a happier place--come on then, thou blest retreat of lovers, I forgive by interruptions here, since thou wilt conduct to the arms of _Sylvia_,--the adoring

PHILANDER.

_If you have any commands for me, this weeder of the gardens, whom I met in going in thither, will bring it back; I wait in the meadow, and date this from the dear primrose-bank, where I have sat with_ Sylvia.

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

_After the happy night._

’.is done, yes, _Philander_, it is done, and after that, what will not love and grief oblige me to own to you? Oh, by what insensible degrees a maid in love may arrive to say any thing to her lover without blushing! I have known the time, the blest innocent time, when but to think I loved _Philander_ would have covered my face with shame, and to have spoke it would have filled me with confusion--have made me tremble, blush, and bend my guilty eyes to earth, not daring to behold my charming conqueror, while I made that bashful confession--though now I am grown bold in love, yet I have known the time, when being at Court, and coming from the Presence, being offered some officious hand to lead me to my coach, I have shrunk back with my aversion to your sex, and have concealed my hands in my pockets to prevent their being touched;-a kiss would turn my stomach, and amorous looks (though they would make me vain) gave me a hate to him that sent them, and never any maid resolved so much as I to tread the paths of honour, and I had many precedents before me to make me careful: thus I was armed with resolution, pride and scorn, against all mankind; but alas, I made no defence against a brother, but innocently lay exposed to all his attacks of love, and never thought it criminal till it kindled a new desire about me, oh, that I should not die with shame to own it----yet see (I say) how from one soft degree to another, I do not only confess the shameful truth, but act it too; what with a brother--oh heavens! a crime so monstrous and so new----but by all thy love, by those surprising joys so lately experienced----I never will----no, no, I never can----repent it: oh incorrigible passion! oh harden’d love! At least I might have some remorse, some sighing after my poor departed honour; but why should I dissemble with the powers divine; that know the secrets of a soul doomed to eternal love? Yet I am mad, I rave and tear myself, traverse my guilty chamber in a disordered, but a soft confusion; and often opening the conscious curtains, survey the print where thou and I were last night laid, surveying it with a thousand tender sighs, and kiss and press thy dear forsaken side, imagine over all our solemn joys, every dear transport, all our ravishing repeated blisses; then almost fainting, languishing, cry--_Philander_, oh, my charming little god! Then lay me down in the dear place you pressed, still warm and fragrant with the sweet remains that thou hast left behind thee on the pillow. Oh, my soul’s joy! My dear, eternal pleasure! What softness hast thou added to my heart within a few hours! But oh, _Philander_--if (as I’ve oft been told) possession, which makes women fond and doting, should make thee cold and grow indifferent--if nauseated with repeated joy, and having made a full discovery of all that was but once imaginary, when fancy rendered every thing much finer than experience, oh, how were I undone! For me, by all the inhabitants of heaven I swear, by thy dear charming self, and by thy vows----thou so transcendest all fancy, all dull imagination, all wondering ideas of what man was to me, that I believe thee more than human! Some charm divine dwells in thy touches; besides all these, thy charming look, thy love, the beauties that adorn thee, and thy wit, I swear there is a secret in nature that renders thee more dear, and fits thee to my soul; do not ask it me, let it suffice, it is so, and is not to be told; yes, by it I know thou art the man created for my soul, and he alone that has the power to touch it; my eyes and fancy might have been diverted, I might have favoured this above the other, preferred that face, that wit, or shape, or air----but to concern my soul, to make that capable of something more than love, it was only necessary that _Philander_ should be formed, and formed just as he is; that shape, that face, that height, that dear proportion; I would not have a feature, not a look, not a hair altered, just as thou art, thou art an angel to me, and I, without considering what I am, what I might be, or ought, without considering the fatal circumstances of thy being married (a thought that shocks my soul whenever it enters) or whatever other thought that does concern my happiness or quiet, have fixed my soul to love and my _Philander_, to love thee with all thy disadvantages, and glory in my ruin; these are my firm resolves--these are my thoughts. But thou art gone, with all the trophies of my love and honour, gay with the spoils, which now perhaps are unregarded: the mystery is now revealed, the mighty secret is known, and now will be no wonder or surprise: But hear my vows: by all on which my life depends I swear----if ever I perceive the least decay of love in thee, if ever thou breakest an oath, a vow, a word, if ever I see repentance in thy face, a coldness in thy eyes (which heaven divert) by that bright heaven I will die; you may believe me, since I had the courage and durst love thee, and after that durst sacrifice my fame, lose all to justify that love, will, when a change so fatal shall arrive, find courage too to die; yes, die _Philander_, assure thyself I will, and therefore have a care of

SYLVIA.

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

OH, where shall I find repose, where seek a silent quiet, but in my last retreat, the grave! I say not this, my dearest _Philander_, that I do or ever can repent my love, though the fatal source of all: for already we are betrayed, our race of joys, our course of stolen delight is ended ‘ere begun. I chid, alas, at morning’s dawn, I chid you to be gone, and yet, heaven knows, I grasped you fast, and rather would have died than parted with you; I saw the day come on, and cursed its busy light, and still you cried, one blessed minute more, before I part with all the joys of life! And hours were minutes then, and day grew old upon us unawares, it was all abroad, and had called up all the household spies to pry into the secrets of our loves, and thou, by some tale-bearing flatterer, were seen in passing through the garden; the news was carried to my father, and a mighty consult has been held in my mother’s apartment, who now refuses to see me; while I, possessed with love, and full of wonder at my new change, lulled with dear contemplation, (for I am altered much since yesterday, however thou hast charmed me) imagining none knew our theft of love, but only heaven and _Melinda_. But oh, alas, I had no sooner finished this enclosed, but my father entered my cabinet, but it was with such a look----as soon informed me all was betrayed to him; a while he gazed on me with fierceness in his eyes, which so surprised and frighted me, that I, all pale and trembling, threw myself at his feet; he, seeing my disorder, took me up, and fixed so steadfast and so sad a look upon me, as would have broken any heart but mine, supported with _Philander_’., image; I sighed and wept--and silently attended when the storm should fall, which turned into a shower so soft and piercing, I almost died to see it; at last delivering me a paper--’Here,’ (cried he, with a sigh and trembling-interrupted voice) ’.ead what I cannot tell thee. Oh, _Sylvia_,’ cried he, ‘--thou joy and hope of all my aged years, thou object of my dotage, how hast thou brought me to my grave with sorrow!’ So left me with the paper in my hand: speechless, unmov’d a while I stood, till he awaked me by new sighs and cries; for passing through my chamber, by chance, or by design, he cast his melancholy eyes towards my bed, and saw the dear disorder there, unusual--then cried--’Oh, wretched _Sylvia_, thou art lost!’ And left me almost fainting. The letter, I soon found, was one you’d sent from _Dorillus_ his farm this morning, after you had parted from me, which has betrayed us all, but how it came into their hands I since have understood: for, as I said, you were seen passing through the garden, from thence (to be confirmed) they dogged you to the farm, and waiting there your motions, saw _Dorillus_ come forth with a letter in his hand, which though he soon concealed, yet not so soon but it was taken notice of, when hastening to _Bellfont_ the nearest way, they gave an account to _Monsieur_, my father, who going out to _Dorillus_, commanded him to deliver him the letter; his vassal durst not disobey, but yielded it with such dispute and reluctancy, as he durst maintain with a man so great and powerful; before _Dorillus_ returned you had taken horse, so that you are a stranger to our misfortune--What shall I do? Where shall I seek a refuge from the danger that threatens us? A sad and silent grief appears throughout _Bellfont_, and the face of all things is changed, yet none knows the unhappy cause but _Monsieur_ my father, and _Madam_ my mother, _Melinda_ and myself. _Melinda_ and my page are both dismissed from waiting on me, as supposed confidants of this dear secret, and strangers, creatures of _Madam_ the Countess, put about me. Oh _Philander_, what can I do? Thy advice, or I am lost: but how, alas, shall I either convey these to thee, or receive any thing from thee, unless some god of love, in pity of our miseries, should offer us his aid? I will try to corrupt my new boy, I see good nature, pity and generosity in his looks, he is well born too, and may be honest.

Thus far, _Philander_, I had writ when supper was brought me, for yet my parents have not deigned to let me come into their presence; those that serve me tell me _Myrtilla_ is this afternoon arrived at _Bellfont_; all is mighty close carried in the Countess’s apartment. I tremble with the thought of what will be the result of the great consultation: I have been tempting of the boy, but I perceive they have strictly charged him not to obey me; he says, against his will he shall betray me, for they will have him searched; but he has promised me to see one of the weeders, who working in the garden, into which my window opens, may from thence receive what I shall let down; if it be true, I shall get this fatal knowledge to you, that you may not only prepare for the worst, but contrive to set at liberty

_The unfortunate_ SYLVIA.

_My heart is ready to break, and my eyes are drowned in tears: oh_ Philander, _how much unlike the last will this fatal night prove! Farewell, and think of_ Sylvia.

* * * * *

_This was writ in the cover to both the foregoing letters to_ Philander.

Philander, all that I dreaded, all that I feared is fallen upon me: I have been arraigned, and convicted, three judges, severe as the three infernal ones, sat in condemnation on me, a father, a mother, and a sister; the fact, alas, was too clearly proved, and too many circumstantial truths appeared against me, for me to plead not guilty. But, oh heavens! Had you seen the tears, and heard the prayers, threats, reproaches and upbraidings--these from an injured sister, those my heartbroken parents; a tender mother here, a railing and reviling sister there--an angry father, and a guilty conscience--thou wouldst have wondered at my fortitude, my courage, and my resolution, and all from love! For surely I had died, had not thy love, thy powerful love supported me; through all the accidents of life and fate, that can and will support me; in the midst of all their clamours and their railings I had from that a secret and soft repose within, that whispered me, _Philander_ loves me still; discarded and renounced by my fond parents; love still replies, _Philander_ still will own thee; thrown from thy mother’s and thy sister’s arms, _Philander_’. still are open to receive thee: and though I rave and almost die to see them grieve, to think that I am the fatal cause who makes so sad confusion in our family; (for, oh, ‘tis piteous to behold my sister’s sighs and tears, my mother’s sad despair, my father’s raging and his weeping, by melancholy turns;) yet even these deplorable objects, that would move the most obdurate, stubborn heart to pity and repentance, render not mine relenting; and yet I am wondrous pitiful by nature, and I can weep and faint to see the sad effects of my loose, wanton love, yet cannot find repentance for the dear charming sin; and yet, should’st thou behold my mother’s languishment, no bitter words proceeding from her lips, no tears fall from her downcast eyes, but silent and sad as death she sits, and will not view the light; should’st thou, I say, behold it, thou would’st, if not repent, yet grieve that thou hadst loved me: sure love has quite confounded nature in me, I could not else behold this fatal ruin without revenging it upon my stubborn heart; a thousand times a day I make new vows against the god of love, but it is too late, and I am as often perjured----oh, should the gods revenge the broken vows of lovers, what love-sick man, what maid betrayed like me, but would be damned a thousand times? For every little love-quarrel, every kind resentment makes us swear to love no more; and every smile, and every flattering softness from the dear injurer, makes us perjured: let all the force of virtue, honour, interest join with my suffering parents to persuade me to cease to love _Philander_, yet let him but appear, let him but look on me with those dear charming eyes, let him but sigh, or press me to his fragrant cheek, fold me--and cry--’Ah, _Sylvia_, can you quit me?--nay, you must not, you shall not, nay, I know you cannot, remember you are mine--There is such eloquence in those dear words, when uttered with a voice so tender and so passionate, that I believe them irresistible--alas, I find them so--and easily break all the feebler vows I make against thee; yes, I must be undone, perjured, forsworn, incorrigible, unnatural, disobedient, and any thing, rather than not _Philander_’.--Turn then, my soul, from these domestic, melancholy objects, and look abroad, look forward for a while on charming prospects; look on _Philander_, the dear, the young, the amorous _Philander_, whose very looks infuse a tender joy throughout the soul, and chase all cares, all sorrows and anxious thoughts from thence, whose wanton play is softer I than that of young-fledged angels, and when he looks, and sighs, and speaks, and touches, he is a very god: where art thou, oh miracle of youth, thou charming dear undoer! Now thou hast gained the glory of the conquest, thou slightest the rifled captive: what, not a line? Two tedious days are past, and no kind power relieves me with a word, or any tidings of _Philander_--and yet thou mayest have sent--but I shall never see it, till they raise up fresh witnesses against me--I cannot think thee wavering or forgetful; for if I did, surely thou knowest my heart so well, thou canst not think it would live to think another thought. Confirm my kind belief, and send to me----

There is a gate well known to thee through which thou passest to _Bellfont_, it is in the road about half a league from hence, an old man opens it, his daughter weeds in the garden, and will convey this to thee as I have ordered her; by the same messenger thou mayest return thine, and early as she comes I’ll let her down a string, by which way unperceived I shall receive them from her: I will say no more, nor instruct you how you shall preserve your

SYLVIA.

* * * * *

_To_ SYLVIA.

_That which was left in her hands by_ Monsieur, _her father, in her cabinet._

_My adorable_ Sylvia,

I can no more describe to thee the torment with which I part from _Bellfont_, than I can that heaven of joy I was raised to last night by the transporting effects of thy wondrous love; both are to excess, and both killing, but in different kinds. Oh, _Sylvia_, by all my unspeakable raptures in thy arms, by all thy charms of beauty, too numerous and too ravishing for fancy to imagine--I swear----by this last night, by this dear new discovery, thou hast increased my love to that vast height, it has undone my peace--all my repose is gone--this dear, dear night has ruined me, it has confirmed me now I must have _Sylvia_, and cannot live without her, no not a day, an hour----to save the world, unless I had the entire possession of my lovely maid: ah, _Sylvia_, I am not that indifferent dull lover that can be raised by one beauty to an appetite, and satisfy it with another; I cannot carry the dear flame you kindle to quench it in the embraces of _Myrtilla_; no, by the eternal powers, he that pretends to love, and loves at that coarse rate, needs fear no danger from that passion, he never was born to love, or die for love; _Sylvia_, _Myrtilla_ and a thousand more were all the same to such a dull insensible; no, _Sylvia_, when you find I can return back to the once left matrimonial bed, despise me, scorn me: swear (as then thou justly may’st) I love not _Sylvia_: let the hot brute drudge on (he who is fired by nature, not by love, whom any body’s kisses can inspire) and ease the necessary heats of youth; love is a nobler fire, which nothing can allay but the dear she that raised it; no, no, my purer stream shall never run back to the fountain, whence it is parted, nay it cannot, it were as possible to love again, where one has ceased to love, as carry the desire and wishes back; by heaven, to me there is nothing so unnatural; no, _Sylvia_, it is you I must possess, you have completed my undoing now, and I must die unless you give me all----but oh, I am going from thee----when are we like to meet----oh, how shall I support my absent hours! Thought will destroy me, for it will be all on thee, and those at such a distance will be insupportable.----What shall I do without thee? If after all the toils of dull insipid life I could return and lay me down by thee, _Herculean_ labours would be soft and easy----the harsh fatigues of war, the dangerous hurries of affairs of State, the business and the noise of life, I could support with pleasure, with wondrous satisfaction, could treat _Myrtilla_ too with that respect, that generous care, as would become a husband. I could be easy every where, and every one should be at ease with me; now I shall go and find no _Sylvia_ there, but sigh and wander like an unknown thing, on some strange foreign shore; I shall grow peevish as a new wean’d child, no toys, no bauble of the gaudy world will please my wayward fancy: I shall be out of humour, rail at every thing, in anger shall demand, and sullenly reply to every question asked and answered, and when I think to ease my soul by a retreat, a thousand soft desires, a thousand wishes wreck me, pain me to raving, till beating the senseless floor with my feet----I cried aloud--’My _Sylvia_!’--thus, thus, my charming dear, the poor _Philander_ is employed when banished from his heaven! If thus it used to be when only that bright outside was adored, judge now my pain, now thou hast made known a thousand graces more--oh, pity me----for it is not in thy power to guess what I shall now endure in absence of thee; for thou hast charmed my soul to an excess too mighty for a patient suffering: alas, I die already----

I am yet at _Dorillus_ his farm, lingering on from one swift minute to the other, and have not power to go; a thousand looks all languishing I’ve cast from eyes all drowned in tears towards _Bellfont_, have sighed a thousand wishes to my angel, from a sad breaking heart--love will not let me go--and honour calls me--alas, I must away; when shall we meet again? Ah, when my _Sylvia_?--Oh charming maid--thou’lt see me shortly dead, for thus I cannot live; thou must be mine, or I must be no more--I must away--farewell--may all the softest joys of heaven attend thee--adieu--fail not to send a hundred times a day, if possible; I’ve ordered _Alexis_ to do nothing but wait for all that comes, and post away with what thou sendest to me----again adieu, think on me----and till thou callest me to thee, imagine nothing upon earth so wretched as _Sylvia_’. own

PHILANDER.

_Know, my angel, that passing through the garden this morning, I met_ Erasto----_I fear he saw me near enough to know me, and will give an account of it; let me know what happens----adieu half dead, just taking horse to go from_ Sylvia.

* * * * *

_To_ PHILANDER.

_Written in a leaf of a table-book_.

I have only time to say, on Thursday I am destined a sacrifice to _Foscario_, which day finishes the life of

SYLVIA.

* * * * *

_To SYLVIA_.

_From_ Dorillus _his farm_.