The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

A Letter from a Lady with Child.

WHen thou dost see my Letter, dost thou know Whether 'tis my right hands Character or no? Why should I write, I feel a present fear, That I must write more then a Maid should dare. Oh! should I make it to my mother known, Needs must it make m'asham'd what thou hast done. No outward symptome shews my grief, yet I, Wretched, past help of any medecine lie. Think but how weak I am, when I scarce these Can write, or turn me in my bed with ease; How I do fear lest that my Nurse should spie One Letter interchangeing coloque. Then hastily I leave my words half fram'd, My Letter straight is in my bosome cramm'd; The name of Marriage with shame abash't, My pale wan cheeks with glowing blushes quash't. Fond man what glory hast thou won, Or praise, a Virgin thus to have undone? As once an Apple did Atlanta seize, Th'art now become a new Hippomanes. O be not angry quiver-bearing Maid, That I'me loves patiently by youth betray'd; 'Tis now too late, let thy rage be exil'd, And spare the Mother of, but for the Child. He had a face and years too fit for play, A treacherous face that stole my heart away. Who whil'st I sung for Love is all things mind,

Upon my amorous lips did kisses bind Both them, and each part else did please him well; But chiefly when to loves choice sports, he fell; But whither hath my Pen transported me, Thus to discourse to th'Queen of chastity. Sweet Sir. You sware by these same brests of mine To me, and by thrice three Maids Divine, You'd celebrate the Himeneal rites, And in my arms spend all your youthful nights. This was a Language you were us'd to say When we were acting our delicious play; And when of me your last leave you had took, You sware an oath upon my lips, your book, That you would back return with winged speed To save my name from scandal of the deed; With patience Sir your coming I attend, Until you come receive these Lines I send.