To SYLVIA.
My lovely Angel,
So careful I will be of this dear mighty secret, that I will only say, Sylvia shall be obeyed; no more----nay, I'll not dare to think of it, lest in my rapture I should name my joy aloud, and busy winds should bear it to some officious listener, and undo me; no more, no more, my Sylvia, extremes of joy (as grief) are ever dumb: let it suffice, this blessing which you proffer I had designed to ask, as soon as you'd convinced me of your faith; yes, Sylvia, I had asked it though it was a bounty too great for any mortal to conceive heaven should bestow upon him; but if it do, that very moment I'll resign the world, and barter all for love and charming Sylvia. Haste, haste, my life; my arms, my bosom and my soul are open to receive the lovely fugitive; haste, for this moment I am going to plant myself where you directed. Adieu.
To PHILANDER.
After her flight.
Ah, Philander, how have you undone a harmless poor unfortunate? Alas, where are you? Why would you thus abandon me? Is this the soul, the bosom, these the arms that should receive me? I'll not upbraid thee with my love, or charge thee with my undoing; it was all my own, and were it yet to do, I should again be ruined for Philander, and never find repentance, no not for a thought, a word or deed of love, to the dear false forsworn; but I can die, yes, hopeless, friendless--left by all, even by Philander--all but resolution has abandoned me, and that can lay me down, whenever I please, in safe repose and peace: but oh, thou art not false, or if thou be'st, oh, let me hear it from thy mouth, see thy repented love, that I may know there is no such thing on earth, as faith, as honesty, as love or truth; however, be thou true, or be thou false, be bold and let me know it, for thus to doubt is torture worse than death. What accident, thou dear, dear man, has happened to prevent thee from pursuing my directions, and staying for me at the gate? Where have I missed thee, thou joy of my soul? By what dire mistake have I lost thee? And where, oh, where art thou, my charming lover? I sought thee every where, but like the languishing abandoned mistress in the Canticles I sought thee, but I found thee not, no bed of roses would discover thee: I saw no print of thy dear shape, nor heard no amorous sigh that could direct me--I asked the wood and springs, complained and called on thee through all the groves, but they confessed thee not; nothing but echoes answered me, and when I cried 'Philander'--cried-- 'Philander'; thus searched I till the coming night, and my increasing fears made me resolve for flight, which soon we did, and soon arrived at Paris, but whither then to go, heaven knows, I could not tell, for I was almost naked, friendless and forlorn; at last, consulting Brilliard what to do, after a thousand revolutions, he concluded to trust me with a sister he had, who was married to a Guidon of the Guard de Corps; he changed my name, and made me pass for a fortune he had stolen; but oh, no welcomes, nor my safe retreat were sufficient to repose me all the ensuing night, for I had no news of Philander, no, not a dream informed me; a thousand fears and jealousies have kept me waking, and Brilliard, who has been all night in pursuit of thee, is now returned successless and distracted as thy Sylvia, for duty and generosity have almost the same effects in him, with love and tenderness and jealousy in me; and since Paris affords no news of thee, (which sure it would if thou wert in it, for oh, the sun might hide himself with as much ease as great Philander) he is resolved to search St Vincent's Wood, and all the adjacent cottages and groves; he thinks that you, not knowing of my escape, may yet be waiting thereabouts; since quitting the chariot for fear of being seen, you might be so far advanced into the wood, as not to find the way back to the thicket where the chariot waited: it is thus he feeds my hope, and flatters my poor heart, that fain would think thee true-- or if thou be'st not--but cursed be all such thoughts, and far from Sylvia's soul; no, no, thou art not false, it cannot be, thou art a god, and art unchangeable: I know, by some mistake, thou art attending me, as wild and impatient as I; perhaps you thinkest me false, and thinkest I have not courage to pursue my love, and fly; and, thou perhaps art waiting for the hour wherein thou thinkest I will give myself away to Foscario: oh cruel and unkind! To think I loved so lightly, to think I would attend that fatal hour; no, Philander, no faithless, dear enchanter: last night, the eve to my intended wedding-day, having reposed my soul by my resolves for flight, and only waiting the lucky minute for escape, I set a willing hand to every thing that was preparing for the ceremony of the ensuing morning; with that pretence I got me early to my chamber, tried on a thousand dresses, and asked a thousand questions, all impertinent, which would do best, which looked most gay and rich, then dressed my gown with jewels, decked my apartment up, and left nothing undone that might secure 'em both of my being pleased, and of my stay; nay, and to give the less suspicion, I undressed myself even to my under-petticoat and night-gown; I would not take a jewel, not a pistole, but left my women finishing my work, and carelessly and thus undressed, walked towards the garden, and while every one was busy in their office, getting myself out of sight, posted over the meadow to the wood as swift as Daphne from the god of day, till I arrived most luckily where I found the chariot waiting; attended by Brilliard; of whom, when I (all fainting and breathless with my swift flight) demanded his lord, he lifted me into the chariot, and cried, 'a little farther, Madam, you will find him; for he, for fear of making a discovery, took yonder shaded path'--towards which we went, but no dear vision of my love appeared--And thus, my charming lover, you have my kind adventure; send me some tidings back that you are found, that you are well, and lastly that you are mine, or this, that should have been my wedding-day, will see itself that of the death of
SYLVIA.
Paris, Thursday, from my bed, for want of clothes, or rather news from Philander.