To M. de V. LETTER XXXI.
MADAM,
AFter fourteen Verses, you may verie well give me leave to write fourteen lines in Prose, and to tell you, in a lan∣guage which is thought ordinarily to speak more truely then the other, that I die for you. That Beautie whereof I speak is much better written in my soul then it is here, and the image I have conceived of it is such, that, when I celebrate you above Aurora and the Sun, I say not any thing which I think not too meane, and which I conceive not below you. Be pleased to consider, what quiet that minde must pretend to, wherein you are so engraven, and which, perpetuallie reflecting on the most accomplish'd thing in the World, amongst a manie motives of desire discovers not, which way soever it looks, any of hope. And yet, in this verie condition, mine finde, content; it is so much taken up with a survey of your miraculous perfections, and considerations of your beautie, that it both not time to bethink it self whether I am lov'd or not, or be sensible that I die. The Idaea I have framed to my self to you, and which I perpetuallie contemplate hath such a command over me, that I neither perceive what I want, nor what I endure; and while my heart burnes and is consumed, while it is disturbed by fears, desires, and agitations, my thoughts are calme, and af∣ford me joyes exceeding those of mankinde. In the mean time, I must with all reason think, that my life cannot last long at this rate, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 belongs to you, and is absolutelie at your dispos••▪ I thought it my dutie to ••••ve you notice what danger it 〈◊〉〈◊〉. It is you•• part to take such order therein as you think good; for as to what concerns me, I have not any