This, my Sylvia, is my sense of a business you so much dread; I may rise, but I cannot fall; therefore, my Sylvia, urge it no more; love gave me ambition, and do not divert the glorious effects of your wondrous charms, but let them grow, and spread, and see what they will produce for my lovely Sylvia, the advantages will most certainly be hers:--But no more: how came my love so dull to entertain thee so many minutes thus with reasons for an affair, which one soft hour with Sylvia will convince to what she would have it; believe me, it will, I will sacrifice all to her repose, nay, to her least command, even the life of
(My eternal pleasure) Your PHILANDER.
I have no longer patience, I must be coming towards the grove, though it will do me no good, more than knowing I am so much nearer to my adorable creature.
I conjure you burn this, for writing in haste I have not counterfeited my hand.
To SYLVIA. Writ in a pair of tablets.
My charmer, I wait your commands in the meadow behind the grove, where I saw Dorinda, Dorillus his daughter, entering with a basket of cowslips for Sylvia, unnecessarily offering sweets to the Goddess of the Groves, from whence they (with all the rest of their gaudy fellows of the spring) assume their ravishing odours. I take every opportunity of telling my Sylvia what I have so often repeated, and shall be ever repeating with the same joy while I live, that I love my Sylvia to death and madness; that my soul is on the rack, till she send me the happy advancing word. And yet believe me, lovely maid, I could grow old with waiting here the blessed moment, though set at any distance (within the compass of life, and impossible to be 'till then arriv'd to) but when I am so near approach'd it, love from all parts rallies and hastens to my heart for the mighty encounter, 'till the poor panting over-loaded victim dies with the pressing weight. No more,--You know it, for it is, and will be eternally Sylvia's.
POSTSCRIPT.
Remember, my adorable, it is now seven o'clock: I have my watch in my hand, waiting and looking on the slow pac'd minutes. Eight will quickly arrive, I hope, and then it is dark enough to hide me; think where I am, and who I am, waiting near Sylvia, and her Philander.
I think, my dear angel, you have the other key of these tablets, if not, they are easily broke open: you have an hour good to write in, Sylvia and I shall wait unemployed by any thing but thought. Send me word how you were like to have been surpris'd; it may possibly be of advantage to me in this night's dear adventure. I wonder'd at the superscription of my letter indeed, of which Dorillus could give me no other account, than that you were surpris'd, and he receiv'd it with difficulty; give me the story now, do it in charity my angel. Besides, I would employ all thy moments, for I am jealous of every one that is not dedicated to Sylvia's Philander.