Do I only esteem you, my Rivers? can my eyes have so ill explained the feelings of my heart?
You accuse me of not sharing your impatience: do you then allow nothing to the modesty, the blushing delicacy, of my sex?
Could you see into my soul, you would cease to call me cold and insensible.
Can you forget, my Rivers, those moments, when, doubtful of the sentiments of your heart, mine every instant betrayed its weakness? when every look spoke the resistless fondness of my soul! when, lost in the delight of seeing you, I forgot I was almost the wife of another?
But I will say no more; my Rivers tells me I have already said too much: he is displeased with his Emily’s tenderness; he complains, that I tell him too often I love him.
You say I can give but one certain proof of my affection.
I will give you that proof: I will be yours whenever you please, though ruin should be the consequence to both; I despise every other consideration, when my Rivers’s happiness is at stake: is there any request he is capable of making, which his Emily will refuse?
You are the arbiter of my fate: I have no will but yours; yet I entreat you to believe no common cause could have made me hazard giving a moment’s pain to that dear bosom: you will one time know to what excess I have loved you.
Were the empire of the world or your affection offered me, I should not hesitate one moment on the choice, even were I certain never to see you more.
I cannot form an idea of happiness equal to that of being beloved by the most amiable of mankind.