Letters of affaires love and courtship. Written to several persons of honour and quality; / by the exquisite pen of Monsieur de Voiture, a member of the famous French Academy established at Paris by Cardinall de Richelieu. English'd by J.D.

THE AMOROUS LETTERS OF Monsieur de VOITURE.

LETTER I.

Floricia,

FOR God's sake, let's once shake off this darke colour, or if we must needs be in mourning let it be for your absence. I received your excuses before you sent them, and you cannot but think me reallie satisfied you were not in any fault, since I had the confidence to accuse you▪ I have taken more paines then you would have done your self, to finde out what might be said in your defence; and to be in∣genious with you, I made your cause so much my own, and thought my selfe obliged to be so tender of your innocence, that I durst not omit any thing that might maintain it. For, had you been found guilrie, I should first have suffered for it, nor indeed had any been so cruellie punished as my self. But all this omitted, I have a greater opinion of my own fortune and your courage then to doubt that either of them should fall so low. It is unworthie both you and me, to fear that an affe∣ction so well cemented should by any casualtie be dissolved:

nay it is a crime in us but to imagine such a thing possible. If but one of those two Gentlemen, with whose conversation I re∣proached you, had staid till day in your Chamber, I should think you could no lesse then take a whole night to fall out with him for it; nay though I should have seen him in your embraces, I think I should have taken you for another, or that you had mi∣staken him for me. In a word, I should rather distrust the fidelitie of my own eyes then your faith, and am more easilie perswaded I may be deceived in them then in you. No, your entertainment of those two men shall never finde my thoughts any businesse, nay though they had spent an Age with you, I should not believe you had bestowed one quarter of an hour with them. But I pray let me know, when you had dismissed the former, did you stay alone with the other, or did your woman come immediatelie into your Chamber? Did they upon their departure from you undertake that journey with as much satis∣faction as at other times? Do you still feed them with those faire hopes, wherein onelie I esteem them more rich, then if they possessed all the World besides? I am somewhat curious as to these particulars, out of a confidence that I cannot but be much pleased with them, and no doubt but I should be rather satisfied then any way disturbed at that interview, were I but fully informed thereof. But, in the mean time, they saw you, while I was at a distance of thirtie Leagues from you, nay at the same time that I was alone in my Chamber bemoaning your absence, they were in yours and heard you discourse. Nay it may be they saw you laugh, and that you gave one of them occasion to fall into some pleasant dreames that night. Ah Floricia! what a treacherous passion is jealousie, and how easilie she insinuates her selfe into us, while our Reason is a∣sleep! I know that your past errours oblige you to verie de∣plorable consequences, and that you are forced to manie actions against your own inclinations and mine, to avoid running the hazard of one thing which you think verie deare. But if you knew how much I am cast down at it, and how heavie these con∣siderations lie upon me, it may be, that another time you will hazard any thing rather then my life; and yet you reproach me with a negligence that I did not send you my picture soone enough. But I pray, was it your desire I should have come and made a third with the other two? or could you have wished

me present to be an eye-witnesse of the entertainment you gave them? This is so irrational, that my verie picture would not have suffered it, for it would have been no lesse then to put me to death in effigie. Adde to that, I should have felt something of it hence, and, no question, have fallen into some languish∣ing disease, not unlike those who are killed at the distance of a hundred leagues, onelie by pricking their images. But though there were no such thing to be feared, yet should you not desire the sight of my picture, especiallie in the condition the first daies of your absence had put me into. All the Art of painting could not have afforded colours ill enough to represent that which sadnesse had cloathed me in; nor indeed can I see any likeli∣hood that a man half dead should be drawn to the life. You would have found me quite another person, then what you had seen so pleasant in your companie. If I had ben well drawn you would not have known me, for I hardlie knew my self, and might hardlie passe for an ill coppie of what I was a while since. But I hope that after some short time you will finde me more cheerful and more divertible, for I begin to cleer up my coun∣tenance, and if the Painter do but his dutie, you shall discover in the Piece a certain hope, that it shall not be long ere you may expect my attendance to second that of my P••cture. Do you therefore prepare your self to entertaine me with more freedom, and if you are yet at your own disposal, let not the recommen∣dations of the witty Gentlewoman hinder you. I sent her not my humblest services, but onelie returned those I had received from her by three several persons; and I should no have pre∣sumed to do it, had I not been afraid to offend you by retain∣ing any thing of hers. Besides, you would soone have beene informed, whether I had not made a conscience to be importu∣nate to you for a quarter of an hour by so unwelcome a refl••∣ction as that. The same consideration which prevailed with you, not to acquaint me with the newes I have otherwise learnt, made me stif••e this. But since we know all one of another, and that the bad angel, which keeps us asunder will needs dis∣cover all those actions of ours which may any way give offence, I beseech you let us elude his malice, and so prevent him in this, that knowing all things by a mutual communication, they may put on quite another face; and for my part, I professe to you, I shall never be guiltie of any thing, which in any likelihood

may give you offence, whereof I shall not presentlie make my confession to you. Be you pleased to make me the same pro∣mise, and withal, let me know whence you came to understand that I had sent recommendations to any one, and by what means you have discovered that, wherebie I came to the newes whereof I have made my complaint to you: for, to be free with you, I am extreamlie troubled at it, and for my part, I can think no otherwise then that you have some Genius about me, who acquaints you with what is done. But since he tells you all, aske him whether I love you, as also, how often in a day I sigh for you.

To Madam — LETTER II.

IT is certainlie a menace would startle a more confident per∣son then I am. But while you shall threaten me after this rate, I must needs confesse I cannot much fear you, and shall be so bold as to give you a meeting in the afternoone according to your direction, what misfortune soever may be the consequence of it. I know your lodging is no secure place for me, and that under pretence of the friendship whereof you are pleased to honour me with a promise, there is not any one from whom I should far more mischief then from you. But yet be pleased not to leave me too long upon the Rack, for if you are resol∣ved to be kinde as you pretend, let this occasion give you hand∣sel. The truth is, my implicite obedience towards you, and the resignation wherewith you see I put my self into your hands, does in some sort oblige you thereto. Though I know what you have destined me to, yet shall I do all that lies in my power, to satisfie that person, who you desire should be, at my charge; and I promise you to keep her affection secret, without deriving any vanitie or reputation thence; but I doubt I shall not so easilie conceale your intelligence thereof.

To the Same. LETTER III.

Madam;

THe onelie way to make a Geometrical proportion in my sufferings is to acquaint me that you are subject to any, and whereas I have hitherto undergone my own with patience enough, I much doubt whether I shall be able to bear yours. But happen as it may or will, I cannot endure too much, since it is for your sake I do it; for the two words which you thrust into your Letter of a different rank and file from the rest, can∣not but render all things supportable to me, and make me cheerful even in Martyrdome. I think you no Infidel as to this point, but are satisfied of my resolution, since that having given me notice of the mischief you intended me, you expect I should come my self to receive it, and that in the afternoone I should repaire to a place, where my sufferings are to be multiplied. This m••••ace might frighten another, and would oblige a wiser man then my self to mind his own safetie. But what hazard so∣ever I may run, there's no means to avoid your commands, or, being honoured so highlie with your acquaintance as I am, to forbeare professing my self,

Madam,

Your, &c.

To the Same. LETTER IV.

MADAM,

I Have clearlie forgotten all I should have said to — to whom you would have me reconciled; and yet I must needs tell you, it is not that I have slept since. I am displeased with my self, that I have had no more respect for a person, who

had been recommended to me from so good hands, and that not being able to afford her any roome in my inclinations, she hath found so little in my memorie. That is a certain part of my Soul where I might justlie have allowed her a place, for that is it which is the most opposite to judgement, and hath the charge onelie of things past. But if I tell her any thing that favours of obligation this afternoone, she shall have no cause to complain that I speak to her onelie by heart; for I finde mine at such a distance from whatever I have to say to her, that if I have not your immediate assistance, you will finde I shall be as far to seek as you, both as to words and time. But, were it Heavens plea∣sure you knew not that of your departure, and that you were not able to give me any account of it at least for this day. For, to deal truelie with you, I have not courage enough, to endure the verie imagination of it, nay that verie thought st••fles in me all other. When I consider that to morrow you will not be to be found here, I think it strange I should be in the World to day: nay I am almost in an humour to acknowledge with you that there is some fiction in the love I pretend to, when it comes into my mind that I am still alive, and that this affliction does not absolutelie make an end of me. Others have become speech∣lesse, and confined themselves to the deserts of Thebais upon lesse discontents then mine. But if I tell you, that I cannot go so far from you to bemoane my misfortune, I am, methinks, the more to be excused, that I go not to endure an hermitage in the wildernesses of Aegypt, since I hope to finde a place in that you are going to build. This hope is all that flaies me in this World, my life hangs altogether on this consideration. I know not whether all I have said here be within the limits of a pas∣sionate friendship; and yet you cannot affirm that I speak to you too clearlie, since you have ever had a priviledge to give my words several interpretations: nor complain that I write not to you in such termes as you desire, since I could never yet meet with the man that should teach me how to do it. While my failings are connived at, and the discoverie of my resent∣ments allowed, I professe to you, with the same affection as I did yesterdaie, that the onelie extravagance the World shall know me guiltie of, shall be, ever to be enamoured of what was ever amiable, and encurre your displeasure from the hour that you are assured of my friendship.

To the same. LETTER V.

I Am fullie satisfied that my daies are neer an end, and that I am at the Vigills of the greatest misfortune will ever hap∣pen to me. In the mean time I finde my self more free and un∣disturbed then I durst have hoped, and amidst thousands of re∣flections that adde to my torment, there are some few that alleviate it. The astonishment I am in permits me not to examine the cause of so extraordinarie an accident; but I am not to be taught, that you produce in my soul, I know not by what means, certain effects whereof I cannot finde out the cause, and that you kindle a certain joy in my heart, though I know no reason for it. Be it as it will, I finde my selfe so resolved for death as if there were something for me to expect after it; and how insupportable soever that separation may be which brings with it your absence, I am prepared to endure it, as if it were onelie a passage to a better life. All I am troubled at, is, that that person, to whom you lend me sometimes, suffers me not to end my daies qu••etlie, but I must be forced to spend between you and her the last hours of my life. By this I am absoluttlie convinced (though I could not hitherto be perswaded to be∣lieve it) that at the hour of death, we all see our good and bad angels, and that we have at that moment happie and unhappie visions. But I humblie beseech you in case you hate me not yet, not to forsake me in this extreamitie, and to be careful and tender of a Soul which cannot be saved but by your meanes, and must be tormented eternallie, if you denie it your protection.

To the Same. LETTER VI.

IT was high time for me to think of my Conscience, and it was a happie turne for me, that I made yesterdaie some part of my confession; for I had not been yet so sick as I am this day, and my sicknesse encreases so, that, had I delaied it any longer, I think I had died in a verie sad condition. At least, to measure things by the fits I am troubled with, and the di∣stractions that torment me, I see my selfe falling into extrava∣gances and enthusiasmes, and have no great hope to be, though but for one hour longer, absolute Master of my senses and in∣tellectualls. What perswades me the more it will be so, is, that amidst the sufferings & afflictions which I expected should have swallowed me up, I cannot put on much sadnesse, and find my self lesse troubled then ordinarie, though I am in the worst condition I ever was in in my life. I lost, not manie daies since, a deare friend, whom the excesse of his paine made insensible thereof. His dreames made him laugh amidst the pangs of death, and his imaginations found him some ease, whilest he was on the rack of a Feaver. I beseech you envie me not such a disso∣lution as that, and since I have not eight daies to live, give me leave to spend them after that manner. This granted I shall acknowledge you merciful beyond my faith, and my selfe happie beyond my hope. For an attempt so extravagant as mine should not meet with so good successe, and after the commission of so high an effence, I did not expect to die so soon, nor so quietlie. I crave your pardon; I thought not to have written any thing to you but what concerned your friend, and now I first perceive that I have not said a word of her. I humblie beseech you to dispose of both her and me as you please, onelie let me know when you would have me to come and hear the sentence. I should humblie begge it may be given this evening — but I am afraid to be too importunate, and I know not where to finde you in the afternoone.

To the same. LETTER VII.

IF this be the day that I am to entertain the person you re∣commended to me yesterday, I beseech you send me what you would have me to do it withall, or take it not ill, that I should make no presents to others, of a good, wherein the poorest are richer then my self. I never had so many painfull houres as the twelve I spent last, and since I had the honour of your presence, I have had so little rest, that I dare assure you there are few Feuillants but were better lodged then I. That man, in whose heart you yesterday left the dagger, hath had a better night; Fear, regret, despaire, and all the poisons of love that are of a cold nature, were my perpetuall Tormentors; and sleep, which for some time would needs give me some ease, hath been properlie to me the image of Death, since it continu∣allie represented to me that of your absence. The condition I am in considered, I do not think your friend would find anygreat en∣tertainment in my company, unlesse it be that her love must needs be converted into hatred, and all her passions swallowed up into that of Revenge. If this will serve, she shall find in me absolute satisfaction, and shall be well pleased to see the world affords some more wretched then she. However, give me leave to intreat you, what humour soever she may be in, not to leave me so much alone with her, that some bodie cannot se∣parate us; and withall to consider that there is no safetie for me, whether she love or hate me. I humbly beg this favour of you, that in case I may ever have her. —I may not receive my death from any other hands then yours, and that there may be no need of any other Instruments, but that I may be stifled by my own sighs, and the disturbances I am in for your absence. I know not whether you will begin, with this, to shew her the Letters I write to you; but I shall not complain of it, provided you give me leave to be gone immediately, and secure my selfe in Spain. For that I think a remedie appliable to all sorts of misfortunes; and if you have permitted another to retire thi∣ther to avoid a feavour, you may very well excuse me, if I go thi∣ther

to shun death. But, the misery I am in considered, I won∣der I should be guiltie of such a thought, an imagingtion of that nature, being, methinks, too light to fall into a mind so deeply afflicted as mine. However, since you everie year save one mans life, and that you professed yesterday that you would do all the kindnesses that cost you nothing; why should I not hope, that I haply am he whom you will favour so much, and that you will not suffer me to die, since you can prevent it with so much ease.

To the same. LETTER VIII.

I Thought there had not been any but your self could have caused me ill nights, but I yesterday met a Ladie, who hath made me spend this last without the least admission of sleep, and wounded me so deeplie in the heart, that I have not known any rest since I saw her. Without any design, as I conceive, to mut∣ther me, she told me that you were to depart to morrow, and that she had had this newes from your own mouth. If it be so, I think I have some reason to quarrell with you, (having robbed me of halfe my life) that, without any desert of mine, you make my daies shorter then they should be. You will haplie think it strange, that a man so unfortunate as I am should complain that he is not suffered to live long enough, and think my self injured that I am too soon delivered out of my miserie. But I see that even the most miserable are in love with life; and since I cannot lose mine but by a separation from you, I think it is onlie the manner of dying that startles me, and that I am to be excused, if I am afraid of so cruell a one. This consideration hath not permitted me to close my eyes since yesterday, and if this day prove so long as the night last past, I am to fear your absence as a misfortune which cannot happen till after a hundred years. But such an unhappie accident ought to be foreseen even at that distance; nay though it wece not to come to passe till the end of the world, I should begin to fear it from this minute. However, be pleased to let me know what I am to expect, and since it is all the kindnesse you can do me, let me know the day

and hour of my death, that so I may have a little time to recol∣lect thoughts before hand, and to prepare my self for it.

To the same. LETTER IX.

I Had designed the Letter I now send you enclosed, to have been much about the same time with you at — and that it would have stuck up at M—'s a good while, ere you had thought of it. But I was forced to keep it till now, as not being able to find out the mans lodging to whom I should have deli∣vered it, till two houres after his departure. I believe you must needs have heard of the fresh occasions of affliction which are happened to me since, and consequentlie it is not necessarie I should be my self the bringer of all the ill newes. I shall onely tell you, that I am not much happier in my Friendships then I am in my passions, and that Fortune smites me in all the patts where she can wound me. However, to make this misfortune the more insupportable, she needed not have sent it me after your departure, and if she was resolved I should take this un∣kindnesse the more heavilie, she ought to have done it before she had quite smothered me. By this you perceive what an in∣considerable thing Friendship is, when it is not attended with passion. For this accident, which at any other time would have run through my heart, and which I should have given all I am worth in the world to have avoided, hath not bin••able to castme downe more then I was; and of all the tears I have spilt since, I know not whether I have bestowed one whole one on my friend And, to say truth, since he was to stay here, & was out of all hope to come where you are, I cannot imagine the losse of his libertie any great inju••y to him, or that he might not easily dispence with the conversation of all the world, when he could not have yours. I think it much harder measure, I should be kept here a Prisoner with the rest, and should be deteined when no bodie accuses me. However it be, yet I confesse the greatest Criminals are more innocent then I am, and though they should have conspired against the state and the King, I am guiltie of a design more traitorous then then that, for which I see there is no way but death.

To the same. LETTER X.

THat neither grief nor love can cause any mans death, you need no greater assurance then that neither hath yet made an end of me; and that having past two daies without the ho∣nour of your fight, there is still some symptomes of life in me. If any thing could prevaile with me to dispence with your ab∣sence, it was a certain faith I had that death would discharge me, and that so pressing an affliction would not suffer me to lan∣guish long. In the mean time I find, much contrary to my my hope, that I last longer then I had imagined, and how mor∣tall soever my wounds may be, yet I think my soule cannot take her leave of my heart, because she sees your image there. 'Tis the onely pretence I meet with to clear her from cowardice, nor can I see any other reason that could engage her so long in a place, where she suffers so much. Ever since the houre you saw me drawne by four wild horses, and torne to pieces by my separation from you, I da••e swear, I have not had the leisure to wipe my eys, which though they have now lost all acquaintance with light and colours, yet will never do me such faithful service as they do now, since they help me to bewaile your absence. A∣midst the torments I suffer, and the languishing condition I am in, I think my self all that is left of mankind upon earth, or that I am transported into that corner of the world, where the Sun is as seldom seen as Comets are here, and where the shortest night is three moneths long. And yet, all this notwithstanding, my unhappinesse were not arrived to the height, if the darkness wherein I now am, lasted no longer, and I much question, whether after that time, I may hope to see day. But, consider I beseech you Madame, what extremitie I am reduced to, that being as yet but in the twilight of so long and tedious a night, I begin, alreadie to count the houres, and that without breaking forth into impati∣ence at every moment, as if a midst the obscuritie I am covered with, there were some short intervals of rest, and that I cold sometimes flatter my self into some pleasant dream. But how extravagant soever my imaginations may be, they attain not

that height as to insinuate ought that is delightful, & mythoughts are onlie rationall in this, that they never promise me any hap∣pinesse. This being my condition, I think I may safely sweare, that the most w••etched man in the world is he who honours you most; and it were certainly impossible I should live so long, did I no•• hope to die of it suddenly. But I perceive, I cannot have fifteen daies longer to bemoane your absence, and that my miseries and life cannot last above that time. This hope en∣gages me to bear more patiently with both, and I believe you are not displeased that I entertain it, since it is your will I should hope all I ought. At least, I cannot interpret more ad∣vantageously for my self, the last words you said to me; and which way soever•• cast my eye, I see not how I can ever expect better. In the mean time, you that see 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and much farther then I do, be pleased to tell me whether my extravagance should hope a better issue then that, and what would have become of me, if I had lived longer.

To the same. LETTER XI.

I Am very much ashamed to tell you so much; but the wretch who should have been dead long since is still in the world; nay, after I had been fifteen daies without heating from you, I am in condition to give you some account of my self. 'Tis, I must needs say, so sad a one, and the affliction I wrestle with so insupportable, that if I shift it not off some way or or other, you will not conclude it is for want of resen••ment and resoluti∣on, in regard that amidst the torments I encounter with, there is lesse courage requisite to endure death then continue life. And certainlie, that which I lead is so unhappie, that I had re∣solved to be rid of it a thousand times, if I durst presume on any enjoyment of my self out of your sight, and if you had not taught me, that it wants something of absolute miserie, to have the satisfaction of a voluntarie death. That therefore I must look for as the sole effect of my own griefs, and consequentlie I must creep by inches to my end, and not make my journey shorter by halfe a day. And yet, though the trouble it is to me, that I

shall never see you again, hath cost me above a hundred thousand tears, J have not sufficiently bewailed your absenee; and having so many misfortunes to grieve for, it were unjust J should be so readie to give up the last gaspe.

To the same. LETTER XII.

SInce you have forsaken us, a minute hath not past which hath hot added something to my afflictions, and J have not overcome an houre, which J thought not should be that of my death. But now J perceive, that my soul is so overpressed with grief, that it hath not the strength to get away; and that if she remain yet in my bodie, it is like the lazie birds in the Indies, whereof you heard so me discourse, as J take it about a hundred years since, who cannot be gotten to quit the Tree which can∣not afford them any further nourishment, and had rather dy lan∣guishing, then take the pains to chang place. J assure you J ag∣gravate not this storie in any thing; and that great mind, where∣by you imagine all things with so much ease cannot assist you in the comprehension of half my afflictions. J spend whole daies without ever opening mine eyes, and the best part of the night without ever putting them together. And what you will won∣der at much more, is, that these restlesse houres of impatience and despaire, and those nights which the fear of having displea∣sed you made me sit up with many mortall disturbances, J now grieve for as lost joyes, and the enjoyments of my life past. This indeed is punishment proportionable to the greatest ex∣travagance that ever was known; these are the torments I am destined to suffer for too near an acquaintance with you. But amidst all these afflictions, though J see it must necessarilie cost me my life, and that all the indulgences of Heaven and Fortune are too weak to deliver me of them, yet can J not be perswaded, though not imagine how, but that it is in your power to make me die happie, and that what all the world besides can∣not do, you only can.

To the same. LETTER XIII.

MADAME,

I Was in hope to make this advantage of the solitude wherein you left me, that J should not have derived the least diversion or entertainment from any one; and that being in a place where J am absolutelie unacquainted I should have had the lei∣sure to entertain you with some of my thoughts. But J have hardlie the time to to say any thing to you, being snatched away for Fountainbleau, whither Fortune is pleased to command me, upon businesse of great importance, purposely, as J conceive, to dep••ive me me of the satisfaction of writing to you. And indeed how liberall soever she may be of her smiles and flatte∣ries, I have but too much reason to be jealous of her, having been treated with so many of her ill offices: nor can J think she can ever be fullie reconciled to a man, to whom she hath done so much mischief. But having kept me up in the midst of so ma∣ny misfortunes, J might entertain some hopes, if there were any thing of courage left in me, that she reserves me for some great accident, and that she will do in me some of her miracles, when she hath alreadie done one so strange as that of the saving of my l••fe. Yet the last favour she did me was much beyond it, and I am more obliged to her for her assistance in the happie recoverie of the first Letter you writ to me, after it had been lost two daies. I know not whether J should have acquainted you with it; but as soon as J had it in my hands, J was presently sa∣tisfied that it was not impossible for me to entertain some joy though I want your presence; and for the time J spent in the reading of it, J much doubt whether J was any thing troubled at your absence. Do not imagine, that a small time would suf∣fice for this, for it amounts to little lesse then all that is passed since I received it, and indeed it is the only employment my eyes have taken any delight in since they saw you. J this, J professe, J speak trulie, and sincerely, though J have diverse times seen your two good friends, being not any thing pleased either with the voice of the one, or the actions of the other. When J went to her with whom J left you, the verses of Tasso which J entrea∣ted

her to repeat, made up one halfe of her discourse, and her gestures the other. And though they are both excellent things in their kind, yet all was not able to raise me out of melancholie, great as the former wherein you had seen me; and I could find nothing in her, that might any way alleviate the doome you give me, that I never gain her affection. However, her friendship might have proved more advantageous to me then you imagine, and I should addresse my self to her with more earnestnesse then I do, sines she hath crueltie enough to destroy those whom she loves, when they are become as unhappie as I am. But I per∣ceive, she would not do me that favour without hearing my case, and that I must go through the rack to my death. At least she began to put me on it the day I last saw her, and put a ma∣ny interrogatories to me concerning the cause of my transpor∣tation, which I am not out of yet. But a man who can bear with your absence, may well endure any racking, nor is it probable that Torments should force any thing out of me, when I am so accustomed to suffer, and that having alreadie confessed once, I cannot perceive my paines are ever the lesse. It is on you — that I fasten this reproach, and whom, methinks I have reason to quarrell with, in that having acknowledged my crime to you, you have neither justice enough to put me to death, nor mercie enough to let me live. I heartilie beseech you to grant me ei∣ther, and if I may not hope to find you favourable, let me find you just. But what ever your doom is, be pleased to let me hear it from your own mouth, and I do not much trouble my selfe whether it be life or death, so I have one of the two in your presence. There is no attempt so difficult, which I shall not ac∣complish; no inchanted Castle which I should not enter under your conduct. But if the enchantments which hinder you from being seen, must ne dissolved by the most faithfull and most amorous man in the world, I certainlie am He, there being no other that shall presume to offer at this Adventure. But see Mon∣sieur de B. with whom I am to go, sends me word that he is just upon his departure; and I dare not put him to attendance, for I honour him very much. He hath a seat in M.— whither he is to go within these fifteen daies: I must be allowed much more lei∣sure then I have now, to answer Letters that require Commen∣taries. Be pleased then to afford time proportionable to the em∣ployment, for all I have had hitherto hath been hardly enough to understand them well.

To Diana. LETTER XIV.

IF the affliction it is not to see what you affect be as insup∣portable to you as it is to me; and if, during that absence, you suffer something suitable to what I do endure, what consi∣derations were those, Faire Diana, that were able to engage you two daies from a sight of me, and why do we not run any h••zard or extremitie, rather then what whereinto we are reduced by this misfortune? To smoother the discourses of four or five per∣sons, and to hinder their observations of our enjoyments, is it requisite we should not have any, and to avoid a little noise, must we needs endure so much miserie? no, no, my dearest Diana, the greatest misfortune can possiblie happen to us, is to be separated one from another, nor indeed do I know any o∣ther we should fear so much. Besides, you are not to imagine, that the trouble we put our selves to, can make our Loves be thought any thing the more secret. The sadnesse, wherewith my countenance is overcast when I want the light and influen∣ces of your presence discovers them to all the World, and speaks louder then any person could do. Let us then henceforward shake off a discretion which costs us so dear, and give me leave and the meanes to see you this afternoone, if it be your plea∣sure I should live.

To the Same. LETTER XV.

HAving permitted you to spend the time all yesterdaie till midnight, I conceive there's no great danger, if to day, I put you in minde, fairest Diana, that you have a servant who hath not seen you almost these two daies; and who but yesterdaie was reproached with his sadnesse, when in the mean time, you

were commended, where you were, for your freedome and pleasantnesse. I have therefore thought it not unseasonable, to be your remembrance of him this morning, for haplie you thought not on him yesterdaie, since I dare not hope that in so good companie, any thought of yours could be so presump∣tuous as to minde you of me. At least I had so manie of all kinds, that I have some reason to believe there could not re∣maine any with you; and I imagine that being well attended, and thinking me too much alone, you sent me all yours to divert me. And indeed they pressed upon me so much and were so confident that they accompanied me into a house, where they could not expect to be verie wellcome. 'Twas a Ladie's for whom you have sometimes reproached me that I had no compassion, where finding one of your Cousins, who had as little for you, I could not but take occasion to speak of you; this obliged me to stay there two hours longer then ordinarie, during which time your name was up above twentie times. I could perceive both the one and the other break forth into fire and jealousie, whence I thought us sufficientlie revenged; I of him who had been so bold as to love Diana; and you of her who had presumed to love what belongs to her. I know not whether I have, in this, been too indiscret or too malicious, but I assure you, it was the onelie pleasure I had yesterdaie, and the first I ever had in that place. I humblie begge you will pardon it me upon condition of a reciprocal forgivenesse from me, if haplie you received yesterdaie any satisfaction without my par∣ticipation thereof.

To Climene. LETTER XVI.

SInce I am so farre from being in a capacitie to speak to you, as if I were absent, give me leave to write to you, and to make use of the onelie meanes which is left me to expresse my selfe. I thought, fairest Climene, that the greatest misfortune I could feare, was that of being at a distance from you: but hath absence any thing more cruel or more insupportable in it,

then my appearance before you such as it is at this present? To be neer all the graces, all the joyes, and all the beauties in the Wo••ld, and not to presume to turne his eyes towards them; to have his heart on one side, and to look perpetuallie on the other; to speak of all things but what a man thinks on, and whilest a man is in the midst of a fire, and upon the rack, to be obliged to tell stories: these certainlie are torments beyond all imagination, and such as it is impossible any man should suffer, if he did it not for your sake. I am now sufficientlie re∣venged of all the mischiefes which I said mine eyes had done me; they have now as little freedome as my self, they endure in their turne all the miserie they have caused me, and are now so punish'd that they dare not look towards you, and have lost that joy for wh••ch they had sold you my libertie. This, Cli∣mene, ••s the condition I am in upon your account, these the affli∣ctions I g••oane under, for my knowledge, above any other, of your amiablenesse and perfections. I cannot perceive any pos∣sibilitie they should have any remission, nay I foresee others that threaten me, and doubt not but I shall be much more un∣happie within these three daies then I now am, when I shall neither have the means to see you, hear you, nor write to you. In the mean time, amidst these afflictions I perpetuallie blesse the day I first met you, and would rather endure all these mi∣series, then be guiltie of the tranquilitie I was in before I had seen you. All I begge, is, that you would have a little compas∣sion on me, and afford me in your own tho••gh••s some few wi∣sh••s of better fortune, since I can, for your sake, so well beare with a bad one.

To Mademoiselle de — LETTER XVII.

MADAM,

I Cannot sleep but with a great deal of disturbance, I have lost the taste of all things, nay I have not the same advan∣tage of the aire as other men, and I do not so much breath as sigh, this is the condition I have been in ever since I saw you last. 'Tis true I am not well satisfied whence all this proceeds,

and am not certain whether it be an effect of my Rheume or my Love; but in all probabilitie you contribute most to my mis∣fortune, since the greatest ease I finde is to write to you. I ne∣ver certainlie thought you so amiable in my life, as you were the other day. Notwithstanding what you know, and what would have frightned any other man, I thought you the most pleasant thing in the World, and though you forced me away from time to time, and that your humour was changed into that of Ma∣demoiselle de St. Martin, yet was I extreamelie satisfied with your discourse and your entertainment. This convinces me, that besides those things in you which lie open to the e••e, there is some secret inchantment forces men to love you, and makes it impossible, happen what will to you, but that you must be faire and kinde. All your disdains could never oblige me to think you cruel: when you teare my heart into a thousand peices, there's not one but is yours, nay one smile of yours chaces away all the grief and bitternesse you make me endure. Since I am much pleased with all gentle things, I cannot think ill what you do, nay even death it self were good as you dresse it. Since then I am so much taken with your rigour, do but ima∣gine what resentment I should have of your favours, and be pleased, though but once, to trie what effect they shall produce in me. You know that a small matter con••ents me, and con∣sequentlie the satisfaction of my desire will not stand you in much.

To M. D. LETTER XVIII.

THis is the fourth Letter I write to you since I have heard from you; if the fault be Fortune's, it is the greatest misfortune in the World, if yours, the greatest crueltie you ever were guiltie of. In the mean time I cannot forbear being your remembrancer of my self, and without considering whe∣ther it will availe me any thing, I write Letters to you without any expctation of answer, and entertaine you with complaints without any hope of pitie or satisfaction. The last time I

writ to you, I thought my self a little at ease, but, for ought I perceive there is not any to be looked for, after a man hath once in his life seen you. That representation, which I thought halfe blotted out of my mind, is recovered there with all its colours and more light then ever: it so fills my soul that there is no roome for any thing else, and what this place affords I look on as at a greater distance from me then you who are a hundred Leagues hence. It is certainlie a verie sad case, that an excessive Beautie should be guiltie of an excesse of crueltie and ingratitude, and that so manie reasons as there are not to love you, should consist with so much obligation, nay, neces∣sitie to do it. Seeing you performed not the promise you made me, I did all that lay in my power to recover my former Liber∣tie, and to deliver my self out of your hands. But now I have done all I could, I am fallen again into them, and all my en∣deavours amount onelie to this, that I should beware another time how I attempt an impossibilitie, and not adde, to so manie afflictions, that of seeking remedies where there are none to be had. You may then do what you please with me, without any feare that I shall resent it, as being at a losse of all courage, strength, and resolution, when I have to deal with you. But, methinks, it concerns your generositie verie much, not to use crueltie towards a man, who cries you Quarter, and casts him∣self at your feet, and make the most complaint, the most dis∣interessed, and the most perfect passion that ever was, the most unfortunate.

To — LETTER XIX.

IT is one of the fairest daies that ever were seen in Summer; I am at Liancour, one of the most pleasant places in the World; I have the companie of three or four of the handsom∣est Ladies in France, and yet I lock my self up in my Chamber, alone, to write to you. Hence you may easilie inferre that I am in a much better humour now then I was the last time, and consequentlie this Letter will be milder then the other. I re∣pented

me I had sent it an hour after it was gone, and the same night I received yours, wherewith I was absolutelie satisfied; not that it caused any change in my judgement, or that I thought not my resentment just; but I could be no longer angrie with you, and am convinced, that you cannot do me so great a dis∣pleasure, for which three words from you shall not procure an act of Oblivion. For, in fine, my affection is at the present, arrived to that point whereto you said once at St. Clou, that it ought to be, in so much, that though I should finde you guil••ie, not of a negligence but an infidelitie, I could not forbeare lo∣ving you. Since it was decreed I should be in the power of some one, it is certainlie my great happinesse that I am fallen into the hands of a person of so much goodnesse, reason, and integritie, and who disposes of me with more care, caution, and lenitie, then I could do my self. But all this granted, I have at the present to object to you, that you have not that tenderness of my quiet you ought: for to deal freelie, what was your in∣tention, to write to me that Fortune hath carried her self verie stranglie towards you, without acquainting me how, and lea∣ving the rest to my conjecture? It is indeed an invention the neatest that may be, to make me imagine and feel all the mis∣fortunes that may have happned to you, whereas I should have had but some to wrastle with, if you had acquainted me how it is. Deliver me as soon as you please out of this paine, which I professe, is one of the greatest I ever had in my life. I write to you in much haste and disturbance, for I am now called away by some that knock at my Chamber door. But I cannot endure to write you a short Letter, and you, h••pl••e, would think it as mischievous as the other, if it be not long enough. I have kissed yours a thousand t••mes, and read it almost as manie; it is the han••somest and m••st obliging in the World: But, I be∣seech you write to me negligentlie▪ that you may do it the more pleasantlie, and entertain me in your Letters with the same freedom as you spoke to me in your Chamber. I am but too well acquainted with your abilities, fear it not, and I would have a knowledge of your affection proportionable to my wi∣shes. I am extreamlie glad you are with the person you tell me of; for knowing how much you love her, and how amiable she is, I doubt not but she contributes much to your enjoyments. You tell me that she is now as well acquainted with me as you

are. How? have you acquainted her with all my ill condi∣tions, have you told her how full of mischief I am, and what trouble I have put you to? If it be so, it is certainlie verie maliciouslie done, and assure your self, I shall, to be revenged, know what I have to tell her of you, when I see her. It was not necessarie to make such a particular description of me, and it had been better to have done it lesse like, that so I might have been more handsome; for she, who is so tender of your quiet, and who hath no jealousie for you, and so much affects what you love, I am afraid may wish me ill for having tormented you so much, and believe me, a person of little honour, when she shall understand I have been jealous. But I beseech you, make it your businesse to raise in her a good opinion of me, for I de∣sire, above all things to be in her favour, and now that I con∣ceive my self in your affection••, there is not any thing I desire so much as her friendship. Fo••r daies since, I lost Monsieur C. — and certainlie with much reg••et, for J love and esteem him infinitelie. I told him that J was to write to you by the way of — you have satisfied me verie much where you tell me, that you take great delight in reading the books I presented you with; but let me know which of them you are most taken with, and in that, what pleases you best. I was resolved to beg some account of them from you, but now I desire not onelie that, but of whatever you do; for I shall be extreamlie glad to know the most inconsiderable of your thoughts and actions. I am upon my return to Paris, where I shall finde a Letter of yours, which makes me verie impatient to be there; two daies, I hope, will bring me thither: But in regard the Messenger goes not away till to morrow noone, I send this Letter before by a Lacqueie. Adieu, I begge the continuance of your affe∣ction; for my part, how much I love you, I am not not able to tell you, time shall discover.

To Madam — LETTER XX.

MADAM,

I Am at last come hither alive, and am ashamed to tell it you; for, methinks, a person of honour ought not to live after he had been ten daies without seeing you. I should be the more astonished, that I have been able to do it, were I not satisfied that for some time, there have happned things to me altogether extraordinarie, and such, as whereof I had not the least expe∣ctation, and that since I have seen you, all things are done in me by miracle. It is certainlie a strange effect that I have all this while withstood so manie afflictions, and that a man so much wounded could hold out so long! No sadnesse so weightie, no sorrow comparable to that I struggle with. Love, and feare, grief, and impatience, are my perpetual torments, and the heart I had bestowed on you whole, is now torne into a thousand pieces, but you are in everie one of them, nor could I part with the least to any I finde here. In the mean time, amidst so ma∣nie and such mortal afflictions, I assure you I am not to be pittied, for it is onelie in the lower region of my minde that the tempests are raised, and while the clouds are in perpetual agi∣tation, the higher part of my soul is quiet and clear, when you shine with the same beautie, lustre, and influences, as you had on the fairest daies wherein I have seen you, and with those beames and circulations of light, and graces as are sometimes seen about you. I must needs confesse, as often as my ima∣gination is directed that way, I am insensible of all affliction. So that it sometimes happens, that while my heart suffers ex∣traordinarie torments, my soul tastes infinite felicities, and at the same time that I am afflicted, weep, and consider my self at a great distance from your presence, nay, haplie, your thoughts, I would not change fortunes with those who see, are lov'd and enjoy. I know not whether you, Madam, whose soul knows not the least disturbance, can conceive these contrarieties; it is as much as I can do to comprehend them, who feel them, and am often astonished to finde my self so happie and so unhappie

at the same time. But let not, I beseech you, what I tell you of my happinesse, divert your care from a considerati∣on of my miseries, for they are such as cease not to frighten me even when I feel them not, the only agitation of two so different resentments being enough to cast me to the ground. If then you have any reasons to comfort me withall, that are not taken out of Seneca, I beseech you send them them me, and withall some of those miraculous words, which you know, that can restore strength and cheerfulnesse to the most indisposed minds, and which have twice alreadie saved my life? you ought certainlie to be tender of it, since indeed it is yours, and that I have made foheartie a present to you of it. For my part, I must confesse it is much dearer to me since it hath belonged to you & I should be loath to leave the world so soon after my acquain∣tance with what, is most accomplished, and most excellent in it.

To Madame. — LETTER XXI.

MADAME,

I Crave your pardon, and confesse that I have not, in my opi∣nion, loved you long, and that the standing of my affection is but the day before yesterday. At least it hath thrived so much since that time, and is arrived to such a height, that when I look thence on what I had before, it seems to me so little, that it hardly appears, and that love, which, eight daies since, I thought the greatest in the world, seems in a manner nothing to me. As I am glad to see my self in that condition, so is it a grief to me that it hapened no sooner, and I am angrie with my own heart, for having concealed from you so large a place so long. Being am••able as you are, methink•• I have done you an injurie in that I have not loved you as much as I do now, even from the first minute that I saw you, and should not have per∣mitted, that the obligations I owe you should contribute any thing thereto. But certainlie, it was because I could not disco∣ver what you were at the first sight; and, to say truth, the dif∣ferent beauties you have, so many graces and attractions, so much wit, judgement, courage, vigour and generositie cannot

be seen with the cast of an eye, but it tequires time to do it, and there are so many things in you, that it would take up many daies even to see you well. I know not whether I am mistaken, but methinks now I have overcome it, and my soul is so filled, that there is no place for any thing else; it is wholly taken up with reflections on you, and comprehensions of you, which are attended with so much delight and attention, that be∣ing upon the brink of a horrid precipice, I do not perceive it, and being readie to lose you, I am all joy that I have found you. I professe, dearest Madame, that what I write is clearlie what I think, and that the least part of what I think is, what I now write. There are no words to expresse the affection I bear you, it is beyond any thing that may be said, or thought. There is only you in the world that can imagine it, &c.

To Madame. LETTER XXII.

MADAME,

I Am at this time a little in doubt how J ought to write to you, for J am extremely dis-satisfied with you, and particu∣larly that you have not given me any account of your self, never wanting the opportunity to do it. What hinders me, is that J would not say any thing whereat you might be troubled, or might any way disturb your quiet, for, assure your self, J am more tender of it then my own. But, withall, J must tell you, that J cannot disguise my resentment of it from you, nor is it in my power to use any artifice as to you, or write to you as J should, were J satisfied. To be free then with you, J cannot conceive, how a person who hath done so many things for the preservation of my quiet, should not in six weeks find leisure enough to oblige me with a Letter, and that you, who account absence a thing so dangerous, and seem to be in so much fear it should produce some ill effect in me, are so carried away with it, and have, during so long time, neglected to make use of the only remedie there is against it. It is now upon two months since your departure, you had a certain direction how to write to me, there were Carriers in all the places through which you

passed and yet J have not had so much as one Letter from you, What, in your opinion, should J think of it? would you have me think that at Orleans, at Blois, at Tours, at Angers, and since, during all the t••m you sta••d at — and at — you had not the leisure to send me a Letter? Was it that you were indifferent whether you received anie from me, & should thence inferre that J should be the l••sse hastie for yours? It is indeed true, that you were not obliged thereto, and that I seemed content, at your departure, not to expect any from you, till you had had the leisure to receive something from me. But should you have done the lesse for that, and should you not rather have thought it a pleasure to do me a kindnesse when I least looked for it? I had left you ot your liberty; whether you would oblige me or no, you have made made use of it, you have not written to me, be∣cause it was at your discretion to do it or not. How then! if you had perceived that J would have been content to stay four months for a Letter from you, should you not have written to me all that time, for who can be content five weeks may as well twentie? To deal freelie with you, I know not what to think of it, might J object lightnesse to the noblest mind, and surest heart in the world, J should conceive you changed. But any thing seems more probable to me then that. How∣ever it be, assurre your self, my M. (J call you so still, and that very heartilie) my affection is not a whit diminished. It onely takes anay something of that secret joy which you had left me in all my sufferings, and the satisfaction it was to me, to think, that since J have known you, you have ever had a care, good∣nesse, and kindnesse for me great as J could wish, and that you never let s••ip any occasion wherein you made me not the grea∣test expressions that might be expected, of a sincere and perfect friendship. And though it be otherwise now, my love is never the lesse, and you are as dear and precious to me, as when you would needs be let blood everie day for my sake, and were not afraid to shorten your own life, to prolong the time you had to see me. J undergoe my affl••ctions with much constancie; and what troubles me most, is, that you have given me occasion to imagine once in my life, that J were not the most ungrate∣full man in the world, though J loved you but moderatelie, and with mediocritie.

LETTER XXIII.

M. D. M.

IN what darknesse have you left me, and into what abysse am I now fallen since I have lost your sight? I am more tender of your tranquility, then to presume to acquaint you with all the trouble you have put me to, though my afflictions are come to that point, that I sometimes wish your love to me were not as mine to you, lest you should suffer as I do. You will not think it strange I should be so much disordered, if you consider the rea∣son I have, and you will not wonder I should take so much pains to get up again, after so high a fall. But, my M. be but pleased to represent to your self what hath happened to me in a few daies; fortune hath directed me to the most amiable person in the world, I have found her, I have seene her, I have loved her, she hath discovered abundance of good inclinations for me, I have lost her, and all this hath passed so luddenlie, and was done with so much precipitation, that I often doubt, whether I have been so happie as I imagine I have, and that I have onlie dreamed what hath happened to me. And indeed to speak seriouslie, so much friendship for me from a person I was hardlie acquainted with, so much confi∣dence and resolution in a woman, so manie excellent qualities in the same subject, and manie undiscoveted treasures at the same time; and on the other side such a number of accidents one in the neck of another, such a throng of good and bad ad∣ventures, are things that seem rather to have been imaginarie, then reall; there being hardly a fable which is not so well con∣trived, as to pretend to more probabilitie then this. In a word, my M. the pleasant dream is over, I know not what is become of all those felicities, my rest hath been disturbed, and, awake∣ing, I find my selfe in the blackest and most dismall night that ever was. In the mean time, I endeavour to get it over with as much patience as may be, and till the day does appear, I enter∣tain my self with the most pleasant imaginations I can. I cen∣sider with my self; that I derive joy enough for the remainder of my life, from my having had your love, though but for one minute, and that the very remembrance of this happinesse, should engage me to a cheerfull suffering of all kinds of tor∣ments.

I was not reasonable that the most precious thing the world could brag of, should cost me nothing. Fortune hath been verie just in forcing me to buy the heart you have bestowed on me, and J am obliged to her, in that she hath not called to me for satisfaction for your love, till that after you had freelie granted it me, at a time when you owed me nothing, and that J could not look on it, but as the largesse of your own inclina∣tions. J should therefore be verie ungratefull, if J should now be frugall of a few teares for a person who hath lost so much blood for me. I is now my turn to suffer, and it is but fit J should give you some assurances of my affection, after J have received so many of yours. But you are so good, that it is impos∣sible J should suffer any thing in your presence; and it was but necessarie you should be at a distance, that my martyrdom might be thought the more meritorious. In fine, my M. you see with what thoughts J endeavour to moderate the bitterest sorrowes in the world, and to bear with the absence of the most accom∣plished, and most inviting person that ever was. But, do what J can, J must needs confesse, that many times my resolution and my reason forsake me, and J easilie perceive, that, if you re∣lieve me not I shall not be able to hold out long. Be pleased then to let me hear from you as soon as possible; assure me that you are in health, and command me to abate somewhat of my affli∣ction.

To M. D. B. LETTER XXIV.

MADAME,

THe night is past with all other men, but not with me; since I cannot yet discern any thing of what, of all things the world affords, I desire most to know. It is long since that my mind hath been overcast with such thick clouds, that light can have no admittance, and the obscurity is so great, that I cannot perceive any thing but confused and mis-shaped images of things, which sometimes I am pleased with, but for the most part astonished at. Do you therefore, in whom all the light and brightnesse of heaven seems to be centred, dispell this dark∣nesse,

and suffer me not to be any longer in doubt, whether I am the most happie, or the most unhappie man upon earth. The sharpest displeasure, and the most perfect joyes are so interwo∣ven, that one comes not without the other, nay it often hap∣pens, that, at the same time, I am ingaged with incredible affli∣ctions, and infinite enjoyments. Be pleased, I beseech you, to separate these, and suffer not there should be so much disorder in a place where you command; after so many riddles, tell me one intelligible word, whereby I may know my good or bad fortune. For my whole soul, which I have bestowed on you, I only begge, that you would but let it look into yours, and that the dearest mind in the world, may not be ever the most obscure to me. Consider what trouble it is to me, never to speak to you, but before a person, who would prove a mortall enemie to my affection, if she came to the discoverie of it, and what torment it is, to make a perpetuall comedie of a thing so serious, and continuall falshoods the maskes and shrouds of such pure truths. Enable me to do all this, have the goodnesse to make me eternally happie, by saying one word onlie; suffer not the justest passion in the world to be most unfortunate, or that I should die of grief for having perfectly loved the most ami∣able person in the world.

To the same. LETTER XXV.

IT cannot possiblie be otherwise then that you should use ••ome charme upon me yesterday, when you made me acknow∣ledge my self satisfied with you; for certainlie without some ma∣gicall operation, it were impossible that by three words, that sig∣nified so little, you should have made me forget the most sig∣nall affront you were able to do me. In the mean time, certain it is, that you laid my sorrows asleep, and so hansomelie surpri∣zed and eluded my judgement, that in the most pressing grief I e••••r groaned under, I withall felt the greatest joy I ever was sen∣sible of. But the inchantment was soon over, and, to my un∣happinesse, I recovered my understanding as soon as I had left you, and after I had, in your presence, with much adoe kept in

the teares of joy, I have all this night wept the most bitterly that could be. Let me do what I can to humour my self, yet can I not but presentlie reflect on the treacherous part you have play∣ed me, such as will never admit oblivion, and hath quite bro∣ken off all confidence and correspondence between us; and what is most to be lamented, though there is all the reason in the world that I should not love, yet I see not any likelihood how it can be done. All the sorrowes, whereof you yesterday stayed the course, have this day like a deluge overturned all, and made such a disorder, that, unlesse 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be the knowledge of my own mi∣serie, and that my memorie tells me that you are what is most amiable in the world, I am utter••ie insensible of all reason, and discernment of things. This is the condition I am in, which is such as seems incapable of my remedie. But see withall what confidence I have in you! if I may this day receive but one obliging word from your mouth; if you discover any one favourable look or action, or but say within your selfe that you would have me recovered, I question not but all my misfortunes are past, and that I shall forget all the unkind∣nesse you have done me.

To the same. LETTER XXVI.

MADAME,

I Most humbly begge your pardon for it, but I must in∣deed confesse, that I have been satisfied with you these dozen houres. I know that, according to your consi∣deration of it. I could not have been guiltie of a grea∣ter crime, and that you are not offended at any thing so much in me, as that you should imagine I entertained the least secret joy. Hence you may measure my gratitude, in that though I am confident you will make me repent it, yet can I not but return you my acknowledgements, and tell you, that, all this granted, there is no affl••ction I would not willinglie endure for your sake. You may there∣fore, if you think good, ruine all my imaginations, and

all my confidence, let me be convinced that I have mis∣understood whatever I have interpreted favourablie to my selfe; let me perceive that my affection is indifferent, it may be importunate to you. 'Tis happinesse enough for all my life, to have imagined my selfe though but for one halfe day, in your favour, and this verie satisfaction hath enabled me to undergoe all manner of inconveni∣ences.

To the same. LETTER XXVII.

MADAME,

ARe you not the most implacable of any that ever were borne of your s••xe? you are not satisfied that you shew me not the least favour, nay, you are so far from it, that you would not have me imagine so much, and as if you derived abundance of reputation from my being per∣petuallie sad, you are presentlie offended if you find but the least complaisance in a corner of my mind. What charge is it to you, I pray, if I flatter my self with some thoughts of my own happinesse, and entertain my selfe with such imaginary en∣joyments as you contribute nothing to, when in the meane time I have been so over-reached, as to cast my affection on the most ungratefull person in the world? Are you not ex∣tremelie unjust, after all this, to take it ill I should be at a losse of discretion in other things, and that a man of so little conduct, should be so ill a judge of himselfe? Be pleased then, in that at least, to let me take the advantage of the irregula∣ritie of my Reason, and the disorder you have put me into. Had I my senses and intellectualls about me, I should not be so confident that you loved me, nor indeed, had I them, should I do it; so that the condition I am in considered, I cannot entertaine a thought you should take any of∣fence it.

To the Same. LETTER XXVIII.

SInce you are so much afraid I should be too happie, and are extreamlie disordered at whatever I magine, as if you were accountable for my thoughts, yet is it but necessarie I should dis∣cover them to you, and make you clearlie understand what those confidences meane which raise so much hostilitie between us. Though I die for it, I must give you a just account there∣of, and knowing the sharpnesse of your discernment, and that you are fullie possessed of my soul, it were in vain for me to pre∣tend to conceal any thing of it from you. I professe openlie, I never entertained the least hope, desire, or, indeed, imagina∣tion, that you had that affection for me, which I have for you: for, conceiving you infinitelie above any thing this Element affords, I could never be perswaded you were subject to that kinde of passion which cements together two souls of the same nature... But proportionablie to the inclinations which those spirits above are pleased sometimes to have for that part of mankinde which they take into their protection, I have thought it likelie you might regard my welfare, and that it was impossible, that the most generous soul in the World should admit any passion but the purest that ever was. This acknow∣leged, I must needs confesse it hath often happen'd, that some one action of yours, a smile, the cast of an eie, a blush on some favourable occasion, have sometimes raised a certain imagina∣tion in me that you abhorr'd me not; but an imagination so weake, and so far from pretending to confidence, that it signifies something lesse then opinion, a suspicion, or doubt, which lightlie moving upon my heart, left a certain track of light behinde it, and filled the rest of my soul with tranqu••llitie and joy. Now I have told you whence proceed those enjoyments and satisfactions you are so highlie offended with; but if after this explication thereof you think them still unjust, I am ready to disclaime them, for, I deal freelie with you, were it in my power, to be so, it would trouble my conscience to be happie,

if you were unwilling I should, and, having made an absolute conveyance of my soul, you are to make your own advantages thereof; it is absolutelie at your disposal, and it is whollie left to your consideration, whether you would rather have it happie or unhappie.

To the Same. LETTER XXIX.

MADAM,

IF all that is handsome; all that is attractive, what ever hath any insinuation of delight, in this World were joyned to∣gether, could it make us any thing so amiable as you were last night? And was not all that the Poets say of Smiles, Graces, and Loves, visiblie discovered about you at that time? Now that I have been so happie as to have seen all this with my eyes, I make a resolution never to complain of any thing,...

I know well enough it will cost me the rest of my soul; but may I perish if I am troubled a jot at it! and had I the com∣mand of those of all the World besides, I should heartilie, with them all, purchase such a pleasure as that I had when I saw you.

To the Same. LETTER XXX.

MADAM,

I Am now convinced I shall never get out of your hands, and that all the designes I lay to recover my libertie prove in∣effectual; for as you do everie day adde some new unkindness to the former which raise in me some inclinations to revolt, so I from time to time discover some new attraction that de∣taines me; the increase of your perfections is proportionable to that of your rigours, and according to both are my chaines doubled. After I had used my utmost endeavours to oppose

whatever I thought handsome in your person, and your intel∣lectualls, it happen•• that wh••n I see you again, I finde in you some beautie I never had observed before, and c••nsequentlie against which I was nor prepared; and there is in you such a diversitie of things amiable, that there will never be a wanting some one against which I cannot m••ke my partie good.

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

thing to propose or begge of you concerning it, there being in my will such an humble compliance with yours, that I give it not leave either to wish the good you would not I should have, nor avoid the ill you shall destine me to. All I have to say to you, is, that, you being absolute Mistresse of my Soul, it is not reasonable that all my felicitie should consist onelie in my ima∣gination, and that it were, haplie, but just, you should enter∣taine the most solid and sincere passion that ever was, with more reall and more solid enjoyments.

To Mademoiselle — LETTER XXXII.

MADAM,

THe greatest pleasure I ever had in my life is that of having seen you, and the greatest torment, that of being incap∣able to see you again. May I perish, if my eies could fasten on any thing they thought pleasant since I parted from you! I have left at Blois all the enjoyments I was wont to finde here, and I am more disordered at Paris, then ever I was in any place. And yet I should be much troubled to be lesse afflicted, and am even in love with my sadnesse when I but consider that you would be satisfied with the sight of it. It is certainlie but just that so great a good fortune as that of having found you, should cost me something, nay, though I forfeited all the tranquillitie of this life, I should not think I had bought it at too deare a rate. The least reflection, or the remembrance of the most inconsi∣derable of your actions, or of but some expression of yours, findes me a satisfaction, greater then the affliction all the mis∣fortunes in the World are able to give me, and, even at the same time that I suffer, that I see you not, and am in doubt whether you love me. I would not change conditions with those who are most fortunate, who see, and who enjoy. So great resolution, where there is so much occasion of disturbance, can∣not certainlie but raise in me a serious beliefe that you dissem∣bled not, when you told me that you had bestowed your heart on me; for had I no other then my own, I were not able to hold out against so manie sorrows, and I am satisfied that I can∣not

have such an extraordinarie strength of my self, but must needs have derived it from you. To deal truelie with you, it is, I must confesse a verie strange adventure that's happened to me, to have found in one single person, whatever this World calls amiable, to have no sooner seen her then lov'd her, and to have no sooner lov'd her then lost her, that my felicitie hath been raised and laied on an instant, and that, in so short a time, I have had so much reason to enjoy and to bemoane my selfe. However it be, I cannot but think that a happie hour wherein I saw you, and would not part with the Idaea that remaines of you in my imagination, for all that is most substantial upon earth. I shall be further confi••med in this opinion according to what answer you shall make me, which if it prove as favourable as the words you last gave me, I shall think all I suffer for you well bestowed. You may then safelie slight the danger you say there is in writing, and put your self to some hazard to deliver me out of that I shall be in, if you quit your tendernesse of me. Be pleased therefore to consider, that nothing laies a greater obligation on a candid Soul then an absolute confidence, and that it is but just, you should afford some little comfort to a man, who desires no more, and cannot have any but what he receives from you.

LETTER XXXIII.

HAving had one of the worst nights in the World, it cannot be expected J should have patience for a day of the same kinde, and yet J cannot perceive how this should prove any better, if you, who appoint my fortunate and unfortunate times, are not pleased to order it otherwise. J thought my selfe yesterdaie, when J took my leave of you, verie well satisfied, and methought, there or four words J had forced from you, had laid me asleep; but J had not gone ten paces from your house, ere all my misfortunes fell upon me afresh; that distraction, those feares, those jealousies, those diffidences which J had but newlie shaken hands with, made a general assault upon me, possessed themselves of my Soul, and could never be gotten out

since. Whether J sleep or wake, they are the perp••tual employ∣ment of my thoughts and dreames: they have represented to me whatever should prove most troublsome to me, and what I should most feare, and have furnished my imagination with chimera's and extravagant apparitions. J was in hope the day would have dispelled all this, but it is alreadie far spent, and yet J still see the same things. My Soul is a place where you exercise supreame authoritie, suffer not there should be so much Anarchie where you are accountable for the government: drive away these frightful images out of a minde where there ought to be onelie your own, and let there not be so neer the most de∣lightful object in the World, those that are the most hide∣ous. J have so much confidence in you, that if J have but three words from you, after the reading of this Letter, J doubt not but J shall finde immediate ••ase. J shall be sensible hence of what you shall but whisper in your Chamber, and shall be at rest assoone as you wish me so. Jf onelie your astonishment was the cause of your silence yesterdaie, J beseech you let it not have the same power over you to day; and since you cannot speak obliging things, but when your own inclination directs you, be pleased to do it now when J am not neer to importune you, but begge it at a great distance, and with a great submis∣sion, and am readie to assure you, that if it be your pleasure J should be unhappie J would rather be so, then that there should be the least disconsonaneie between your will and mine.

To Madam — LETTER XXXIV.

MADAM,

VVHen J had not so much as a thought of you, and was verie much at ease, what necessitie had you to tell me in your Letter that it was your desire I should be so? I was in the greatest ••e••en tie in the World, and you no sooner wish it me, but it is changed into the greatest disturbance ima∣ginable. The inevitable priviledge you have to disturb my quiet, is to me a verie prodigious thing; I can neither complie with your ind••fference nor your indignation, and it is a great que∣stion

whether I should stand more in fear of your bad then your good inclinations. When I am in your favour, I can never be at rest, when I conceive my self out ot it, I am withal out of all joy, and so which way soever I look on you, In••ust still l••ok for disorder. The onelie means I know to secure my self, is, not to think on you, and absolutelie to discharge my memorie of whatever remaines there of a person so amiable and withal so dangerous. This was in a manner my condition when I received your letter, and you are come to put all into commo∣tion by wishing me peace and libertie. But since the mischiefe is done there must be a patience to endure, and to see what will be the result: but if it ever happen again while I live, that I can cease thinking of you, for heavens sake, Madam, let me entreat you to spare your complements of congratulation, and if you rejoyce at my happinesse, let it be done secretlie, so that I may be utterlie ignorant of it.

To — LETTER XXXV.

MADAM,

I Shall not faile to wait on you at the Collation, though I were confident to be poisoned; for I have alreadie met with that venome in your Letter, that hath prepared me to receive all you can give me of the kind, nay indeed to desire it. You need not have told me what strange alterations are wrought in men's minds by Devotion, I know it alreadie by experience on my self, since I must attribute to it the change hath happened in me that I cannot live without seeing you. Three lines of what you have written have made another in me much different. You should methinks have had more charitable considerations about you, then to put your neighbour into any danger; and, if you are devout, you are not, for ought I can perceive, trou∣bed much with tendernesse of conscience. To deal soberlie and seriousl••e with you, it was a horrid impietie in you, to have stir••'d up in me all those sentiments which I had with so much trouble laid asleep, and I shall make my complaints to the bare-legged Carmelites, if your future carriage prove not so favourable, as to oblige me to smoother them.

To Madam — LETTER XXXVI.

MADAM,

I Thought my life so neer spent that I had not the hope of one good day left me, and it would haplie have fallen out so, had I not received one this morning from you. If there were any thing in me which you might not claime as your own, this last f••vour of yours hath infalliablie gain'd it y••u; and I must needs tell you, that if hereafter I receive any other from you, I must confesse my selfe a bankrupt, and shall have nothing left me to return you for it. This I tell you in verie good earnest; and if it be not dangerous here to speak too loud, when I cannot be heard of any one, I never thought my selfe so much obliged in any thing, nor is it in my power to render you sufficient thankes for the last act of Grace you did me. J may verie well call it such, since it hath raised me a∣gain after the sentence you pronounced against me the other day, and hath inspired me with life amidst so manie mortal afflictions. 'Tis true that which J now lead is so unhappie, that J look on it as a present J should not much value, were it not bestowed on me by you. For being to run through fifteene daies, ere J shall see you, J question whether it be not crueltie to make me live so long. Yet J shall be content to do it, since it is your pleasure to command it, and that J am much mote concerned in your affection then...

To Mademoiselle — LETTER XXXVII.

MADAM,

UNlesse I should send you Flower-de-luces, this world af∣fords not any flowers fit to make you a present, and there∣fore what I now send you are only strewings for your feet. Nay indeed I much envy them that disposall, as conceiving they will be much more glorious in that place, then if they were on the

heads of Queens. You will wonder much that a man who knowes you so well should be guiltie of a presumption, great as as that of writing to you, and thence you may measure the vio∣lence of my passion, since that at my age, and with my coun∣tenance, it hath forced me to the impudence to declare it to you, and that so great a hazard as that of displeasing you could not oblige me to forbear. J know, Madame, there cannot be any offences more impardonable then what are committed against you, and that J am not destined to die by any other hand then yours. But I recommend my self to the disposal of my destinie, and what misfortune soever may happen to me thereby, it is im∣possible J should avoid it. While you read this, indignation makes you blush, and gnash your verie teeth. Yet J am as farre from repenting me of any thing as ever, for J am now proof a∣gainst all, even the most extraordinarie accidents, and am, though it cost me my life, resolved to be eternallie

MADAME,

Your, &c

To Madame — LETTER XXXVIII.

MADAME,

I Dare not acquaint you with the condition J am in, and after J have made such brags of the Heart J have bestowed on you, am ashamed you should discover so much the weaknesse of it. J was of a certain belief, that the assurance I had of your affection, would have armed me against all afflict••ons of all kinds, and that it was impossible, J should be loved by you, and unfortunate at the same time. I, in the interim, finde my selfe in as great disorder, as if J had lost all things by the loosing of your sight, and am so much in torment as if there were no other happinesse or unhappinesse in the world then that of your companie or your absence. Hence J inferre, that our two soules are not yet well sodred together, and easilie discover that you have given me but a verie small part of yours, since J want a supplie of courage to struggle

with a single affliction. 'Tis true, if we consider aright, that what I have to deal with, is not of that kind of misfor∣tunes which constancie teaches men to endure with patience; nay Reason, with all its rigour and severitie, cannot disap∣prove so just a suffering as mine, and if she will not permit me to regret the most pleasing, the most inviting person, and the greatest Beautie in the world, she cannot take it amisse I should grieve for the most accomplished, the most generous and the most discreet. Though I should not be afflicted that I cannot see you, yet that I hear you not is reason enough that I should, and have withall an extraordinarie resentment for the losse of a conversation that did not only enlighten my soule, but enflamed it, and from which I never parted not onlie a better man, but also a more amorous. If amidst so manie occasions of trouble it is possible I should admit any comfort, it must hap∣pen beyond my expectation, and it will be much more conve∣nient that you should give it me then that I should take it of my self. Be you therefore pleased, Madame, who have a better insight in all things then I have, and are particularlie acquain∣ted with my heart and fortune, to tell me whether it be a rati∣onall proceeding that my want of seeing you should be an infi∣nite affliction to me; or if you cannot convince me that that ought not to be; do but tell me that you would not have it so, and that you command me to endeavour my own preservation till I see you again.

To Madame — LETTER XXXIX.

MADAME,

I Was beginning to grumble that you had made me no an∣swer, when a report was scattered up and down that you were to come hither shortlie; which put me into a better humour, and made this dis-satisfaction as short-lived as some others, I have heretofore endeavoured to entertain against you. I must confesse indeed, that I, who make it my businesse to call to mind all the excellent qualities you carry about you, with as much entertainment as if I still saw them, should certainlie have

forgotten all your kindnesses and civilities, if I thought you could have forborne the expression thereof towards me in this occasion, and have denied a man that comfort which you must needs think he could not but stand so much in need of. To be free with you, I cannot believe there ever were any afflictions comparable to mine, and though I was absolutelie satisfied, be∣fore I had left you, that your absence would have proved my death, yet could I not imagine it should have done me so much mischief as it hath. Billy, Gam, and Phan, never wept so much in their lives for you as I have done, nay Biquet was never so much troubled for you, as I have been though you never bestow∣ed any Roses on me. Seriously, Madame, I am just in the same posture at Paris, as you were heretofore at la Basme, but that I have not the pleasure of buying any sheep here, and if J understand any thing your humour, I durst swear your ten years solitude seemed not so tedious to you, as that I have had, though but of three weeks. I sometimes visit Ladies hand∣some enough, but do you imagine they can so much as oblige me to speak? All women signifie no more to meet the present, then the man you know did to you, nay though they had all the Graces about them, yet can they not find me a minutes en∣tertainment. I cannot now, in any company exceed a smile, and when I have viewed all about me, I retire and slinke into a corner by my self. Be pleased, Madame, that the opportunity I look for, may be with the soonest, and that after so much suf∣fering, I may enjoy your companie, as you have formerly pro∣phecied I should.

To — LETTER XL.

MADAME,

THe Cannon of Arras hath not done so much execution as the words you have written to me; for these have in an instant, forced away the enemies that had laid hold on me, and were rea∣dy to take away my life. Yesterday, is I came fro•• your house, I was surprized by a Troop of suspicions, fears, disturbances and jealousies, and your Letter hath defeated them all. They pur∣sued

me quite to my lodging, and would not afford me one mi∣nutes rest all this night: you certainly have more exquisite pu∣nishments for those that offend you, then my Lady Ma••chio∣nesse — and by purting into my head what you do, you take a fuller revenge then if you cleft it in twaine. For you are to imagine that mine is at the present, furnished with all that this world calls joy and grief, satisfaction discontent, the greatest love and the greatest distrusts that ever were, shuffled together. It must be your divinitie, Madame that shall sepa∣rate all these, and since I have but three daies to live, let me enjoy my self in them free from all disturbance.

To — LETTER XLI.

MADAME,

COnsider, I beseech you, the effects of your enchantments, since that, in the condition I am in, they have made me utterly insensible of my misfortune, and, being just upon the point of engaging with the greatest affl••ction could have hap∣pened to me, I think my self the most fortunate man in the world. I am within three daies to take my last leave of what∣ever there is of beautie, wit and gentlenesse, beneath heaven, nay I am to shake hands with all goodnesse, Courtesie, and ge∣nerositie. I know that at the same time I must part with all joy, my life and soule and all; and yet, all this notwithstand∣ing, I want not my good Intervalls, and if I have not slept w••ll this last night, I may affirm, J have not had an ill night of it. To say truth, one minute, such as I had yesterday in the after∣noon, is enough for a mans whole life. The very remembrance of the felicitie I have had, is consolation enough in all occur∣rences, nay though J should have but dreamed it, it were enough to make me eternallie happie. You see what considera∣tion my life whollie hangs on at the present, and whereby it is armed against all manner of afflictions, since that the hapi∣nesse I can pretend to is onlie grounded on a certain faith I have that you have some little affection for me. I humblie beg the con∣tinuance of it for some time, and would not you should think it

much to allow that satisfaction to a man who is verie suddenlie to encounter with so many discontents.

To — LETTER XLII.

MADAME,

YOu will understand by the Letter I writ to you this morn∣ing, that J complie with you in all things; and J do now give you the greatest assurance J can possiblie, of my submissi∣on, when J return you what you had sent me. J finde them both so excellentlie handsome, that J could not resolve on any choice, and therefore J referre my self to you. Yet J am, J must confesse, as much taken with the lesser as J am with the other, and in as much as she is more sprightlie and knowes more dissi∣mulation, she is so much the liker you. You may now consider, whether you have not wit enough to finde out an excuse for lo∣ving two persons, when you have found out a way to make me in love with three. But indeed there is no necessitie for these Inventions, and if you consider how innocent J am ever since this day, you will find J am to be disposed of at your pleasure. But you shall never perswade me, after the receipt of the Letter J last had from you, but that you are the merriest, the most a∣miable, and the person the most given to Gallantrie and en∣tertainment, of any in the world.

To — LETTER XLIII.

MADAME,

I Have had my eyes often since yesterday in the same posture that you saw them, but J have no sooner thought on yours, but my own were immediatelie restored, and freed from all kind of distraction. J cannot imagine there can any thing re∣main undiscovered in a person so full of Light, nor be perswa∣ded that Heaven should make a thing so excellent onlie to sur∣prize

men. The picture I brought yesterday from your house hath cured me of all misfortunes, and I no sooner cast my eye on it, but all my ill inclinations are dispelled, all my diffiden∣ces vanish, and my mind is replenished with content and com∣placencie. This is the estate of my affaires while I write to you, and I dare affirm, the world affords not a man more con∣tent, more happy, or more amorous then my self.

To — LETTER XLIV.

MOnsieur de Castelnaut is in health, Monsieur de Mercaeur hath been slightly wounded, and the Marquesse de Faure almost mortally.

I must needs commend your goodnesse, in that you are so tender of the dead and wounded, and give you many thanks, for what concernment I may have therein. I was my self to be numbred among the latter, the last time I saw you, but in such a way, that I see not any probabilitie I should ever recover it; and unlesse it be, that I may never stirre from your bed-side, or farther then two yards from you, I do not think it possible I should live. It is, questionlesse, Madam, a very great indis∣cretion in you, to appear so amiable as you are, to those whom you wish no hurt to; when I saw but half your charmes and ex∣cellencies, you had more about you then I was possibly able to endure. I leave it to you to imagine what condition I must be in now. I have not had one minutes rest since I left you. And yet this hinders not, but that I have so much satisfaction and so much enjoyment of my self, that, were J to die within an hour, J should not quarrell with you; besides that, since your departure hence must be very sudden, and that J am to expect a most sad and unhappie life, it were not fit J should much fear the losse of it, but rather be extremely satisfied that you took it from meere you went hence.

To — LETTER XLV.

MADAME,

IT must certainlie be acknowledged that you do miracles as well in verse as in prose, there is not anie to be compared with you; for my part, it puts me into the greatest amazement in the world. And when J consider how innocent you were the last winter, when you durst hardlie speak ordinarie things, and were of opinion, that the word Sophister was injurious, J am not able to comprehend, how you came to do all you now can and that a person who never read but one Comedie, should grow so learned. It is a miracle J understand not, may when J heard the Nunnes of Loudun speak Greek and Latine, J was not so much astonished as I am now to see you write. All I begge of you, Madam, is, that you would not make use of the wit you have gotten to over-reach me, for I easilie am perswaded, that if you attempt it, I shall not be able to avoid it. I therefore leave it to your conscience, requiring onlie you would be faith∣full to me, at least till such time as you meet with another, who hath a greater affection, and a higher estem, and admiration for you, then I have.

To — LETTER XLVI.

MADAME,

HAving well considered all that passed yesterday, my promi∣ses shall exceed your desires; for assure your selfe, J shall ne∣ver beg any thing of you, nay, what is more, I will never see you. J have hardly taken my breath, since J made such st••ange vows and resolutions to that purpose, that if ever J prove delinquent hereafter, I must needs renew my addresses to you with the ba∣sest heart, and the most perjured soule in the world. There must certainlie be an extraordinarie weaknesse both in the one and

the other, if ever they fall again into your hands, after so much ill entertainment as they have received from you, nay I shall justlie incurre all the mischiefes you are able to do me, if the remembrance of those you have done deliver me not out of your power, A small beame of light, descending as it were from heaven, hath cleared up the darknesse I was in, discovered to me the Legerdemaine of your charmes, and convinced me, that she whom I thought yesterdaie the most inviting person up∣on earth, is the most to be feared and avoided. Be pleased therefore to give me leave to seek my quiet elsewhere, since I must not expect any neer you, and since there is no punish∣ment you have not inflicted on me, and you know no more torments to put me to, be not troubled I should get away from you, especiallie considering it is not in your power to hinder it, and that at the same time that you read this Letter, I leave Paris, with a resolution never to come into it again, till you are out.

To — LETTER XLVII.

MADAM,

NOthing so certain as that you are destined to be the per∣petual disturbance of my life, since that your kindnesses and unkindnesses are equallie prejudicial to my enjoyments. The Letter you writ to me yesterdaie, the affection you pre∣tended towards me, and the paines you took to speak with me, would not allow me the least sleep last night. I spent it whol∣lie in calling to mind the perfections of your wit and behavi∣our, in all that you said; and considering, that what the world conceives most pleasant, most excellent, and most inviting, was not comparable to the most trivial things you either spoke or did. I know not what may become of me, but certainlie, I am in a great feare, I shall not be able to avoid that accident, which I told you yesterdaie you would be extreamlie glad should happen to me. When I think you love me, I cannot sleep, when I imagine you have cast your affections on another, I utterlie despair: when I am at a great distance from you, I

know not what I do, and when I see you, all your actions, all your gestures, all your words, prove so much poison to me. Hence you may be pleased to consider what kind of life I lead, and what I must expect: there never was certainlie any so full of disorder, and all the hope I have, is, that your absence will shortlie put a period to it, and consequentlie deliver me out of all my miseries.

To Madam — LETTER XLVIII.

MADAM,

YOu have, I must confesse, much reason to laugh at me, who cannot but be much ash••med that, after I had plaied the Hector so much, I am forced to discover such cowardize and weaknesse. For ought I perceive, Madam, which way soever I turn my self, I am never farre from you. I have you perpe∣tuallie in my heart, and am as much at your disposal when J am in my Lodging as when in your Coach. But if things be well considered, you are not to derive any reputation thence, nor I dishonour, and since all this is wrought by enchantment and sorcerie, ther's not any thing you can with justice brag of, or reproach me withal. This must needs be the true cause of this proceeding, for were there not something supernatural in it, 'twere impossible, that, being so well acquainted with your ar∣tifices, J should be so little able to avoid them, and that the most mischievous person in the World should appear to me the most amiable. J beseech you therefore, Madam, content your self with the mischief you have done me, break the image you have made for me; or, if it be your pleasure J should recover, be pleased, since nothing is impossible to you, to force me to believe that you love me, and J shall cheerfullie endure all the miseries you shall inflict on me.

To — LETTER XLIX.

MADAM,

I Could not with any civilitie suffer your Lacqueie to go hence without a Love-letter, and methinks it is much after the rate of those which may verie well serve a Millener's Wife, of your qualitie. J have subject enough ••o write you one that were the most amorous in the World, if J should acquaint you with the least part of what good inclinations my heart hath in store for you. But knowing how much you stand upon your advantages, I durst not let you know after what manner you are there, nor be guiltie of so much easinesse of nature, as to be drawn in with the present of a paire of Gloves, to discover my thoughts in a businesse of such consequence. I am therefore to assure you onelie, that I have received yours as I would do a Kingdome. They are indeed a most excellent paire, I have kiss'd them above a hundred times, and that, I dare assure you, more heartilie, then I should have done the fairest hands in the World, were they not your own.

FINIS.