To Monsieur Frankville.
Tho’ nothing proves the value of our Presence, so much as the Pangs our absence occasions, and in my last I rashly wish’d you might be sensible of mine, yet on examining my Heart, I presently recall’d the hasty Prayer, and found I lov’d with that extravagance of Tenderness, that I had rather you return’d it too little than too much, and methinks cou’d better bear to represent you to my Fancy, careless and calm as common Lovers are, than think, I saw you, Burning,--Bleeding,---Dying, like me, with hopeless Wishes, and unavailing Expectations; but Ah! I fear such Apprehensions are but too un-necessary----You think not of me, and, if in those happy days, when no cross Accident interven’d to part me from your Sight, my Fondness pleas’d, you now find nothing in Camilla worth a troubled Thought, nor breath one tender sigh in memory of our Transports past.----If I wrong your Love, impute it to Distraction, for Oh! ’tis sure, I am not in my Senses, nor know to form one regular Desire: I act, and speak, and think, a thousand Incoherent things, and tho’ I cannot forbear Writing to you, I write in such a manner, so wild, so different from what I wou’d, that I repent me of the Folly I am guilty of, even while I am committing it; but to make as good a Defence as I am able for these, perhaps, unwelcome Lines, I must inform you that they come not so much to let you know my Sentiments, as to engage a Discovery of yours: Ciamara has discharg’d one of her Servants from her Attendance, who no longer courting her Favour or regarding her Frowns, I have prevail’d upon, not only to bring this to you, but to convey an Answer back to me, by the help of a String which I am to let down to him from my Window, therefore, if you are but as Kind, as he has promis’d to be Faithful, we may often enjoy the Blessing of this distant Conversation; Heaven only knows when we shall be permitted to enjoy a nearer. Cittolini is this Evening return’d from his Villa, and nothing but a Miracle can save me from the necessity of making my Choice of him, or a Monastery, either of which is worse than Death, since it must leave me the Power to wish, but take away the means, of being what I so oft have swore to be
Eternally Yours, and,
Yours alone,
Camilla.
The Count could not forbear lifting up his Eyes and Hands in token of Amazement, at the unexampled Falshood this Woman appeared guilty of, but perceiving Monsieur Frankville was about to read the following Answer, wou’d not Interrupt him, by asking any Questions ’till he had done.
To Donna Camilla.