DURING the passage of the present work through the press, Mr. York Powell was fortunate enough to acquire by purchase in Oxford a book not mentioned in any bibliographical dictionary, nor possessed by any of the chief English libraries, containing a translation into verse of the five Letters of the Portuguese Nun. On account of the rarity of the book, of which this is probably a unique copy, as well as of the curious rendering of the famous Letters, it seemed advisable to transcribe here all that concerned the love-lorn Marianna, which has therefore been done. It should perhaps be mentioned that every inquiry as to the author of this translation and the date of its first edition has proved fruitless. The following is a description of the book in question—
New Miscellaneous
POEMS
With Five
Love-Letters
FROM
A Nun to a Cavalier. Done into Verse. Nil dulcius est istoc amare aut amari, prÆter hoc ipsum amare & amari. The Second Edition. London, Printed for W. Mears, at the Lamb without Temple-bar. 1713.
One vol. in 16mo. First comes the Preface, then a Table of Contents, and the title-page to the Letters, which runs, Five " Love-Letters " From a " Nun " to " A Cavalier " Done into Verse " London " Printed in the Year 1713. " The Letters take up pp. 3-43, after which is another title-page to the Miscellaneous Poems, then the Poems themselves follow, occupying pp. 47-129. The frontispiece to the volume shows the Nun seated at a table in the act of writing; upon the table is a lighted candle, rosary and ink-pot, while the portrait of her lover hangs over some book-shelves. The engraving is unsigned, and seems to be different from any of those hitherto recorded.
LOVE-LETTERS
FROM
A NUN TO A CAVALIER LETTER I Oh! the unhappy Joys which Love contains, How short the Pleasures, and how long the Pains! Curs’d be the treach’rous Hopes that drew me on, And made me fondly to my Ruin run. What I the Blessing of my Life design’d Is now become the Torment of my Mind: A Torment! which is equally as great As is his Absence that doth it create. Heav’ns! must this Absence then for ever last, This Absence! which does all my comfort blast? Must I no more enjoy the pleasing Light That charm’d my Heart with Rapture and Delight? Must I no more those lovely Eyes behold Which have so oft their Master’s Passion told? {Nor was I wanting in the same intent; {A thousand times my Eyes in Flashes sent {The Dictates of my Heart, and shew’d you what they meant. But now they must be other ways employ’d: When I reflect on what I have enjoy’d Tears of their own accord in Streams will flow, To think I ’m scorned, and left by faithless you. {And yet my Passion does so far exceed {A vulgar Flame, that I with Pleasure bleed, {And doat upon the Torments which from you proceed. From the first moment I beheld your Face, To you I dedicated all my Days: Your Eyes at first an easie Conquest gain’d, Which since they have but too too well maintain’d. Your Name each Hour I constantly repeat; But what’s (alas!) the Comfort which I meet? Nought but my wretched Fate’s too true Advice, Which whispers to me in such Words as these: Ah! Mariane, why do’st hope in vain To see thy lovely Fugitive again? The dear, false, cruel Man ’s for ever gone, And thou, unhappy thou! art left alone: Gone is the Tyrant, slighting all thy Charms, And longs to languish in another’s Arms. In vain you weep, in vain you sigh and mourn, For he will never, never more return. To fly from thee, he left his Downy Ease, And scorn’d the Dangers of the raging Seas. In France, dissolv’d in Pleasures, now he lies, And for new Beauties every moment dies; {The Joys which once he with such Ardour sought {Are now (alas!) all vanish’d and forgot; {Nor art Thou ever present in his Thought.—— But hold! my Passion hurries me too far, And makes me think you falser than you are. You’ve, sure, more Honour than to use me so For what I have endur’d and done for you, Forget me! ’tis impossible you shou’d; Nay, I believe you cannot if you wou’d. My Case is bad enough without that Curse, I need not find fresh Plagues to make it worse. And when I think with how much care you strove To let me see at first, your dawning Love; When I reflect upon the Bliss it brought, The Pleasure is too great to be forgot; And I shou’d think I were ungrateful grown, Should I not love you, tho’ by you undone.—— Yet oh! the Mem’ry of my former Joys, So hard’s my Fate, my present Ease destroys. ’Tis strange that what gave such delight before, Shou’d serve to make me now lament the more.—— A Thousand Passions, not to be exprest, Your Letter rais’d in my distracted Breast; {My vanquish’d Senses from their Office fled, {A long time stupid on the ground I laid, {And since I’ve often wish’d I had been dead. But I unhappily reviv’d again To suffer greater Torment, greater Pain; A Thousand Evils I each Day endure, Which nothing but the Sight of you can cure; Yet I submit, without repining too, Because the ills I bear proceed from you.—— And ’tis because you know the Pow’r you have, You use me thus, and make me such a Slave. Oh! give me leave to speak—— Is this the Recompense you think is due, To those that sacrifice their Lives for you? Yet use me as you will, to my last Breath, Tho’ loath’d by you, I’ll keep my plighted Faith.—— And did you understand what Pleasure lies In being constant, you wou’d Change despise. You’ll never meet with one will prove so kind, Tho’ in another you more Beauty find. Yet I can tell the time, tho’ now ’tis gone, (Poor as it is) when mine has pleas’d alone.—— You need not bid me keep you in my Mind, I’m too much of myself to that inclin’d. I can’t forget you, nor those Hopes you give Of your return, in Portugal to live. Cou’d I from this unhappy Cloister break, You thro’ the Perils of the World I’d seek. I’d follow where you went, without Regret, And constantly upon your Fortune wait, Think not I keep these Hopes to ease my Grief, Or bring to my despairing Soul Relief; No, I’m too well acquainted with my Fate, And know I’m born to be unfortunate.—— {Yet while I write, some glimmering Hopes appear {That yield a respite to my wild Despair, {And some small Ease afford amidst my Care. Tell me, what made you press my Ruin so? Why with your Craft a harmless Maid undo? Why strove t’ ensnare my too-unguarded Heart, When you were sure ere long you shou’d depart? What Injury had I e’er done to you, To make you with such Wiles, my Innocence pursue? But pardon me, (thou Charmer of my Soul!) For I will charge you with no crime at all. Let me hear oft from you, where-e’er you are, For I methinks shou’d in your Fortune share, But above all, I beg you, by the Love Which once you swore shou’d ever constant prove; By all those Vows, which you so often made When on my panting Bosom you have laid, Let me no longer this sad Absence mourn, But bless me, bless me with your kind Return. Adieu—and yet so tender am I grown, I know not how to end these Lines so soon; Oh I that I could but in their Room convey Myself, thou lovely faithless Man, to Thee! {Fool that I am, I quite distracted grow, {And talk of things impossible to do; {Adieu,—for I can say no more—Adieu.— Love me for ever, and I’ll bear my Fate, (Hard as it is) without the least Regret.
LETTER II
From a Nun to a Cavalier Alas! it is impossible to tell Th’ afflicting Pains that injur’d Lovers feel. And if my Flame, by what I write, you rate, Then have I made my self unfortunate. Blest should I be, cou’d your own Breast define The raging Passion that I feel in mine; {But I must ne’er enjoy that happy Fate: {And if I ’m always doom’d to bear your Hate, {’Tis base to use me at this barb’rous rate. Oh! it distracts my Soul when I reflect Upon my slighted Charms, and your Neglect: And ’twill t’ your Honour as destructive be, As ’tis conducive to my Misery.—— It now is come to pass what then I fear’d, When you to leave me in such haste prepar’d. Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true, True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you! T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline; To make me wretched is your whole Design. Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow, If only grounded on my Love for you: But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence, Six Months are past since you departed hence; Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone, And I’ve not been so much as thought upon: Blind with the fondness of my own Desire, Else might have found my Joys wou’d soon expire. How cou’d I think that you’d contented be To leave your Friends and Native Place for me? Alas! Remembrance of my former Joys Adds to the Number of my Miseries. Will all my flatt’ring Hopes then prove in vain? Must I ne’er Live to see you here again? Why may not I once more behold your Charms, Once more enfold you in my longing Arms? Why may not I, as heretofore, receive Those sweet transporting Joys which none but you can give?—— I find the Flame that set my Soul on Fire In you was nothing but a loose Desire. I should have reason’d ere it was too late, And so prevented my approaching Fate: My busie Thoughts were all on you bestow’d, I for my own repose not one allow’d: So pleas’d was I, whilst in your Lovely Arms, I thought myself secure from future Harms: But yet you may remember, oft I’ve said, You’d be the Ruin of a harmless Maid; But those were Notions that abortive dy’d, And I upon your flatt’ring Oaths rely’d. Cou’d I cease loving you, I shou’d have Ease, But that ’s a Cure far worse than the Disease; And ’tis (alas) impossible, I find, To raze your Image from my tortur’d Mind; And it ’s a thing which I did ne’er design, For your Condition is far worse than mine; You ’d better share what my poor soul endures, Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours. So far am I from envying your Fate, I rather pity your unhappy State. I all your false dissembling Arts defie: I know I ’m rooted in your Memory, And am perhaps the happiest of the Two, In that I now am more employ’d than you. They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door, Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before; It is an Office I ne’er thought t’ have had; All who discourse me think that I am mad. Our Convent too must be as mad as I, Or they might have perceiv’d my Incapacity. Oh! how I wish to be as blest as they Who, as your Servants, your Commands obey. I shou’d be Proud, like one of them, to wait On you, tho’ ’twere ev’n in the meanest State. My Love for you I don’t at all repent; That you ’ve seduced me, I am well content. Your Rig’rous Absence, tho’ ’twill fatal prove, Yet lessens not the Vigour of my Love. My Passion I to all the World proclaim, And make no Secret of my raging Flame. Some Things I ’ve done irregular, ’tis true, And glory’d in them, ’cause they were for you; My Fame, my Honour, and Religion, are All made subservient to the Love I bear. Whilst I am writing, I have no intent That you shou’d Answer what I now have sent: Force not your self, I ’ll not receive a Word You send, that comes not of its own accord. If not by writing you do Ease receive, So ’t too to me shall Satisfaction give, To Pardon all your Faults I ’m much inclin’d, And shall be pleas’d to prove you ’re not unkind. {I’m told that France has made a Peace; if so {A Visit here then sure you might bestow, {And take me with you wheresoe’er you go, That must alone at your disposal be, I fear (alas) it is too good for me. Since you first left this sad forsaken Place, I ’ve not enjoy’d a Moment’s Health or Ease: The Accent of your Name my Cares abate, Which I a thousand times a Day repeat. {Within our Convent some there are who know {From whence the Source of all my Sorrows flow, {Who strive to Ease me and Discourse of you. I ’m constant to my Chamber, which is dear To me, because you ’ve been so often there: Your Picture as unvaluable I prize, And have it always fixt before my Eyes: The Counterfeit does Satisfaction give; But when I think that I must never live To see the Bright, the Fair Original, Great are the Horrors, great the Pains I feel, Oh! how I ’m wrack’d and torn with endless Pain To think I ne’er must see you here again! But why shou’d it be possible to be That I your lovely Form no more must see? For ever! are you then for ever gone? For ever must I make my fruitless Moan? No, Mariane, thou wilt soon have Peace; Kind Death approaches, he will give thee Ease. Ah me! how fast my fainting Spirits fail!— Farewel, Oh, pity me!—Thou lovely Man, Farewel.——
LETTER III
From a Nun to a Cavalier What will become of miserable me? What will th’ Event of my Misfortunes be, How can I hold, now all my hopes retire? On them I liv’d, and must with them expire. Where are the cordial Lines to heal my Pain, T’ assure me I shall see you here again? Where are the Letters that should bring Relief, Compose my Soul, and mitigate my Grief? Fool’d with vain Projects, I of late design’d To strive to calm and heal my tortur’d Mind: The slender Hopes I have of seeing you, Joyn’d with the Coldness of your last Adieu; Th’ Improbability of your Return, The many tedious restless Nights I ’ve born, Your frivolous Excuses to be gone, Encourag’d my Design and urg’d me on; Nor did I doubt Success till, ah! too soon, I found I still must love, still doat and be undone. Wretch that I am! compel’d alone to bear The heavy Burthen, which you ought to share. You ’re the Offender, and I undergo The Punishment, which ought to fall on you. ’Tis plain, I never yet enjoy’d your Love, Since all my Torments can’t your Pity move, Feign’d were the Transports, false the Vows you made, And only us’d that I might be betray’d. Your whole Design was to ensnare my Heart Then cruelly to act a Tyrant’s Part. T’ abuse a Love like mine, is highly base, And cannot but redound to your Disgrace. Who would have thought, when of my love possest, ’Twas not enough to make you ever blest? And ’tis for your own sake I ’m troubled most, When I but think upon the Joys you ’ve lost: Nay, did you judge aright,—— The difference soon by you perceiv’d would be, Betwixt abusing and obliging me; Betwixt the Pleasures, which you might have prov’d, Of loving much, and being much belov’d. Such is the Force of my excessive woe, I ’m quite insensible of what I do; Ten Thousand different Thoughts distract my Mind, My rigid Fate can’t be by words defin’d; To Death I love, yet cannot wish that you Should share the Miseries I undergo. To loath, t’ have all things odious in your sight, Receive no Ease by Day, no Rest by Night: Your Soul o’erloaded with continual Cares, Your Eyes still flowing with a flood of Tears; Did you but suffer this my grief for you, ’Twou’d quickly finish what my own can’t do. Why do I write? Shou’d I your Pity move, What good wou’d Pity do without your Love? I scorn it; and my self with equal Scorn I loath, when I reflect on what I ’ve born: My Friends I ’ve lost, and Reputation too, Have ran the hazard of our Laws for you: But what ’s much worse, now I all this have done, False as you are, ev’n you ’re ingrateful grown. Yet, oh! I cannot, cannot yet repent, But rather am with all my Ills content: I cannot grieve at what I’ve done for you, But more for your dear sake wou’d undergo; To you wou’d sacrifice my Life and Fame; They ’re yours, which you (and only you) can claim. In short, I ’m vex’d with every thing I do; Nor can I think I ’m kindly us’d by you. False as I am, why don’t I die with Shame, And so convince you of my raging Flame? If I had lov’d so well as oft I ’ve said, Your Cruelty ere this had struck me dead. No, all this while, ’tis you ’ve deluded been, And have the greatest Reason to complain. {How could I see you go, and yet survive, {out of Hopes of your Return and Live? {I ’ve wrong’d you; but I hope you will forgive. Yet grant it not, treat me severely still, Tell me, that I ’ve abus’d, and us’d you ill. Be harder still to please, encrease my Care. And end my Sufferings with a sure Despair. A Fate that ’s Tragical would doubtless be The Way t’ endear me to your Memory. Perhaps too you ’d be touch’d with such a Death, When you reflect how I ’ve resign’d my Breath. To me I ’m sure, ’twou’d welcome be indeed, And far to be preferr’d before the Life I lead.—— Farewel, I wish your Eyes I ’d never seen, But ah! my Heart, now contradicts my Pen. I find I ’d rather live involv’d in Harms Than once to wish I ne’er had known your Charms. And since you think not fit to mend my State, I ’ll cheerfully (tho’ hard) embrace my Fate. Adieu,—but Promise me when I am dead, Some pitying Tears you ’ll o’er my Ashes shed. At least, let my too-sad Example prove The means to hinder any other Love. ’Twill yield some Ease, since I must lose your Charms, That you ’ll not revel in another’s Arms. Neither can you be so inhumane sure To make my Fate assist a new Amour. I fear my Lines are troublesome to you; But you ’ll forgive my foolery—adieu, Ah me! methinks too often I repeat The Story of my too unhappy Fate; Yet let me pay the Thanks to you I owe For all the Miseries I undergo. I hate the State in which I liv’d before The more my Cares encrease, I ’m pleas’d the more; My Flame does greater every moment grow— And I have still—Ten Thousand Thousand Things to say to you.——
LETTER IV
From a Nun to a Cavalier Ye Gods! the Torments that from Love arise When the dear Object’s absent from our Eyes! I ’m told you ’ve been by raging Tempests toss’d, And forc’d to seek some Hospitable Coast, The Sea, that is the faithless Lover’s Foe, I doubt will hardly e’er agree with you. And oh! my Fears for th’ Dangers you may meet, Make me my own Tormenting Pains forget. But is your Friend then more concern’d to know Than I, the Perils that you undergo? If not, how comes it that you cou’d afford To write to him, whilst I have not a Word?—— Why do I talk? what cou’d I else expect? But base Ingratitude, and cold Neglect? From one who slighting all which once he swore Now seeks new Beauties on a Foreign Shore.—— Yet Heav’n avert its Wrath, nor may’st thou be E’er punished for thy Treachery to me, For faithless as you are, I ’m still inclin’d Not to revenge, but rather to be kind.—— Tis plain, I ’m now the least of all your Care, Else you ’d have some regard to My Despair. But I, tho’ wrack’d and torn with endless Pain, To one relentless as the grave complain. Yet I, fond I! regardless of my Fame, Still Cherish, and Indulge this fatal Flame; {In vain my Reason offers to perswade, {I scorn its Counsel, and contemn its Aid, {And find a Pleasure in my being mad. Had you but with this Coldness been possest, When first you rais’d those Tumults in my Breast: How many plagues had it from me detain’d! How calm! how easie had I now remain’d! But where’s the Woman wou’d not have believ’d Your Arts, and not have been (like me) deceiv’d? Who cou’d your num’rous Oaths and Vows mistrust? Who cou’d have thought that you shou’d prove unjust? The frequent Protestations that you made Wou’d have a Heart more firm than mine betray’d. ’Tis hard to think the Man whom once we love, Shou’d false, shou’d cruel, and ingrateful prove. {Nay, I ’m so easie, I ’ve already made {Excuses for you, and wou’d fain perswade {My too too cred’lous Heart, that I am not betray’d. It was your Converse that at first refin’d My Ignorance, and till then, unpolish’d Mind. ’Twas from your Passion that I caught this Flame That is destructive to my Ease and Fame. In vain ’gainst you I strove my Heart to arm, For you in ev’ry Action had a Charm. Your pleasing Humour, and the Oaths you swore, Made me believe you ever wou’d adore. But now (alas!) those grateful Thoughts are fled, And all my Hopes are with my Pleasures dead: I sigh and weep, a thousand Plagues possess My Soul, and give me not a moment’s Ease. {Great were my past Delights, I must confess, {Excessive were the Joys, and vast the Bliss, {But then, oh, cruel Fate! my Miseries were not less.—— Had I with Artifice e’er drawn you on, And what I most desir’d have seem’d to shun; Had I the cunning Arts of Women us’d, And with feign’d Scorn your gen’rous Love abus’d; Had I my growing Flame with Care supprest When first I felt it rising in my Breast; Nay, when I found I lov’d, had I conceal’d My Passion, nor to you my Soul reveal’d, That for your Hate had been some small Pretence, Which you might now have urg’d in your defence; But—— So far was I from using such Deceit, My Heart was never conscious of a Cheat: And I no sooner of your Passion knew, But frankly I return’d the like to you.—— Yet you, tho’ I was fondly blind, cou’d see, Not ign’rant what the Consequence wou’d be. Why with such Wiles then did you draw me on, To leave me wretched, hopeless, and undone? You knew you shou’d not long continue here, And so did make me love but to despair. Why was I singl’d out alone to be Th’ unhappy Object of your Cruelty?—— Sure in this Country you might those have met Who were for your cross Purposes more fit; Such, who by frequent Use had got the Pow’r To give their Hearts but for the present Hour; Who of your Falshood never wou’d complain, Nor give themselves for you a moment’s Pain. Is ’t like a Lover then to use me so, Me, who ’d give up all I have for you? Is it not rather like a Tyrant done, To ruine and destroy what is your own? Had you but lov’d so truly as you said, You never from me in such haste had fled. But you! how easie did you go away! Nay, e’en seem’d pleas’d you cou’d no longer stay The few Excuses that you made to go, How slight they were! but any thing wou’d do, To fly from one already nauseous grown, That lov’d you but too well, and trusted you too soon.—— ‘My Friends (you cry) and Honour call me hence, ‘And I must now be gone, to serve my Prince,’ Why was not that nice Honour thought on then, When you deluded me to give up mine? This was all Fiction, which you did devise To seem less guilty, and to blind my Eyes. But, ah! should I have too much Bliss enjoy’d, Might I with you have liv’d, with you have dy’d.—— My only Comfort is, I ’ve been to you, Spite of this Absence, constant, just, and true; And can you then, who all my Thoughts controul, And know the earnest Secrets of my Soul, Can you be so regardless of my Pray’r, T’ abandon me for ever to Despair? {You see I ’m mad, but yet I ’ll not complain, {For I ’m so us’d to suffer your Disdain, {That now I find a Pleasure in my Pain.—— But what ’s my greatest Curse, those things no more Can please me now, which I have lik’d before. {My Friends, Relations, and my Convent too, {Are odious all, and all detested grow, {Nay, ev’ry thing that not relates to you. The flitting Hours of each succeeding Day, If not on you bestow’d, I think they ’re thrown away.—— So great ’s my Love, and with such pow’r does rule, It takes up the whole Business of my Soul. {Why then t’ expel this Passion shou’d I strive? {For ’tis impossible I shou’d survive {This restless state, and with Indiff’rence live. So much I now am chang’d from what I was, That all observe and wonder what ’s the Cause: My Mother chides, and urges me to tell What ’tis creates my Grief, and what I ail, I hardly know what Answers I have made, But I believe that I have all betray’d. The most severe and hardest Hearts relent, And are with Pity touch’d at my Complaint. To cruel Thee alone I sigh in vain, For all the World beside compassionates my Pain. ’Tis seldom that you write, and when you do, Your Lukewarmness each Line does plainly shew. ’Tis all but Repetition and Constraint, Dull is each Word, and each Expression faint.—— My kind Companion took me t’ other day To the Balcon’ that looks tow’rds Mertola; The Sight so struck my Heart that, while I stood, Strait from my Eyes a briny Deluge flow’d. I then return’d, and strove to ease my Care, For all my Thoughts brought nothing but Despair. What others do to help me in my Grief, Adds only to my Pains, and brings me no Relief.—— From that Balcon’ I often took delight To see you pass, and languish’d for the Sight. ’Twas there that fatal Day I chanc’d to be When first my Heart resign’d its Liberty: ’Twas there I drew the Poison from your Eyes, ’Twas there this raging Passion had its rise. Methought on me alone you seem’d to gaze, And careless look’d on every other Face; And when you stopt, I fondly thought to me ’Twas meant that I your lovely Shape might see. I call to mind what Trembling seiz’d my Breast, Caus’d by a Leap given by your prancing Beast. I near concern’d in all your Actions was, Flatter’d my self I was of some the cause. What follow’d, to relate I ’ll now forbear, Lest you appear more cruel than you are; And ’twill perhaps your Vanity encrease To find my Labours have no more Success. Fool as I am! to think to move you more By Threats than all my Love cou’d do before! Too well (alas!) I know my Fate to come, And you ’re too too unjust to make me doubt my Doom. Since I am not allow’d your Love to share, All ills in Nature I have cause to fear. I shou’d be pleas’d did all our Sex admire Your Charms, if you did not return the Fire; But there ’s no fear, I by Experience know None ever long will be ador’d by you. You ’ll easily enough forget my Charms Without the taking others to your Arms. By Heav’ns, I love, I doat to that degree, That since I find you ’re ever lost to me, I wish you ’ad some Excuse to hide your Crime, That to the World you might less guilty seem. ’Tis true, ’twould make my Case but so much worse, But then ’twould advantageous be to yours.—— While you are free, in France, perhaps the fear Of not returning Love for Love may keep you there. {But mind not that, if you I sometimes see, {I shall contented with my Fortune be, {To know one country holds my Love and me. Why with vain Hopes do I my Reason blind? To one less doting you may prove more kind. Pride in another may a Conquest gain Greater than mine, with all the endless Pain Of constant Love, which I ’ve endur’d for you: But, oh! from me take Warning what you do; Retract your Heart ere yet (it) is too late, And think upon my too too wretched Fate, Reflect upon my endless Miseries, Despairs, Distractions, and my Jealousies; Think on the Trust that I ’ve repos’d in you, Th’ Extravagance which all my Letters shew. I well remember you in Earnest said, For one in France you once a Passion had. If she ’s the Reason why you don’t return, Be free, and let me thus no longer mourn; For if my Hopes and Wishes are but vain, Tell me the Truth—— And end at once my wretched Life and Pain.—— To me her Picture and her Letters send, They ’ll make me worse, or else my Fate amend; Such is the State of miserable me, That any change would advantageous be Your Brother’s and your Sister’s send me too, All will be dear to me that ’s so to you.—— Methinks I cou’d submit to wait upon The happy Woman that your Heart has won, So humble am I made by all your Scorn, And the ill Usage that from you I ’ve born; Scarce dare I say, I may myself allow To Jealous be, without displeasing you, Fain wou’d I think that I mistaken am, And fain perswaded be, that you are not to blame. The Person that ’s to bear these Lines to you, Wants to be gone, and does impatient grow. I thought in this not to have giv’n Offence, But yet I ’m fall’n into Extravagance. And now methinks ’tis time that I had done, But I ’ve no Pow’r to end these Lines so soon, Nor force the pleasing Vision from my Sight; My lovely Charmer’s present while I write. {Twelve solitary Months are almost past {Since in your trembling Arms you held me last, {And fondly, to my Ruin, me embrac’d. Fierce, and true as mine, I thought your Flame, And, oh! believ’d ’twould always be the same. Ne’er cou’d I think, that when you had enjoy’d My Favours, with them you ’d so soon be cloy’d: {Or that the Dangers of the Sea you ’d run, {Scorn Rocks and Pirates too, that you might shun {A Maid that lov’d like me, and is by you undone. {Reflect, thou faithless Man! and call to mind {What I ’ve endur’d for you, yet not repin’d, {And tell me, can this Treatment then be kind? The Officer now presses me to ’ve done My Letter, or (he says) he must be gone; He ’s as impatient, as if he, like you, Were running from another Mistress too, Farewel—from me you parted with more ease (Perhaps for ever too) than I can do with these. My Mind a thousand pleasing Notions frames, And I cou’d call you many tender Names; More dear than is my Life to me, are you; And dearer far than I imagine too; Sure never any yet so cruel prov’d, To be so barb’rous when so well belov’d. ’Tis hard to end,—See I begin anew, And th’ Officer won’t stay; oh! let him go: I write to entertain my self, not you; And ’tis so long, you ’ll never read it thro’, Gods! how have I deserv’d such Plagues as these? And why was you pick’d out to spoil my Peace? Oh! why was I not born where I might pass In Innocence and Happiness my Days? ’Tis too too much to bear, no Tongue can tell What I endure—Farewel—false Man!—Farewel, See! see! how miserable I ’m made by you, When I dare not so much as ask your Love—adieu.
LETTER V
From a Nun to a Cavalier I hope, by th’ different Ayre of this, you ’ll find That as I ’ve chang’d my Stile, I ’ve chang’d my Mind. The Substance of these Lines will let you know That you ’re to take them for my last Adieu: For since your Love is past redemption gone, I ’ve no Pretence to justifie my own. All that I have of yours shall be convey’d To you, without so much as mention made Of your loath’d Name; the Pacquet shall not bear Those Letters which I now detest to hear. In Donna Brites I can well confide, And whom, you know, I ’ve other ways imploy’d; Your Picture she ’ll (and all that ’s yours) remove, Those once-endearing Pledges of your Love: A thousand Times I ’ve had a strong Desire To tear and throw them in the flaming Fire; But I ’m a Fool too easie in my Pain, And such a generous Rage can’t entertain. Wou’d but the Story of my Cares create The like to you, methinks ’twou’d mine abate. Your Trifles, I must own, went near my Heart, With them I found it difficult to part. To what was yours I bore such mortal Love, Tho’ you yourself did quite indiff’rent prove, They ’ve cost me many a Sigh, and many a Tear, And more Distraction than you e’er shall hear. My Friend, I say, now keeps them in her Pow’r, And I am never to behold ’em more; She them will secretly to you convey, Without my Knowledge hasten them away: Tho’ for a sight I on my Knees shou’d lie, The more I pray, she must the more deny. Ne’er had I known the Fury of my Flame Had I not try’d my Passion to reclaim; Nay, to attempt a Cure I ’d ne’er begun, Cou’d I ’ve foreseen the Hazards I must run: For sure I am, I cou’d with greater Ease Support your Scorn, as rig’rous as it is, Rather than to retain the dreadful Thought, That Absence must for ever be my Lot. I shou’d be happy if I cou’d be Proud, And with the Nature of our Sex endow’d: Cou’d I despise you, and your Actions scorn, And be reveng’d for all the Ills I ’ve born. Fool as I am, to let my hopes rely On one who strives t’ encrease my Misery! You talk of Truth and Sincerity; They both are what you never shew’d to me. To tell you what I ’ve born ’tis now too late, (For th’ most obliged, and yet the most ingrate) Let it suffice I all your Falsehood know; And all I ask for what I ’ve done for you, Is, Write no more, but some Invention find To tear your Image from my Tortur’d Mind. {I too must now forbear to write to you, {Lest a Relapse shou’d by that means ensue; {And the Event of this I ’ve no Desire to know. Methinks you shou’d enough contented be With th’ Ills you have already brought on me: Sure now you need no more molest my Ease, Or shake the Structure of my future Peace. Do you but leave me in Uncertainty, I hope in time I shall at quiet be: ’Tis not impossible but I may find A Love as true as you have been unkind. But what will Love that any Man shall shew Afford to me, without I love him too? Why shou’d his Am’rous Passion more incline To move my Heart, than yours was mov’d by mine? And I perceive by what I now endure, That the first Wounds of Love admits no Cure; All sorts of Remedies then prove in vain, W’ are ne’er recover’d to our selves again; So fixt, and so immutable is Fate, We ’re doomed to Love, though w’ are repaid with Hate. I ’m sure I cou’d not so hard-hearted be, To treat another as you ’ve treated me: Provided you was to another chang’d, Of you I cou’d not that way take revenge. I ’d fain perswade my self a Nun shou’d ne’er Confine the Passions of a Cavalier; But if a man wou’d by his Reason move, A Mistress in a Convent is most fit for Love; Those in the World do all their Thoughts employ On Balls, on Visits, and their Finery, Encrease their Husbands’ Jealousies and Cares, Whilst those who favour us have no such Fears. Alas! we ’ve nothing here to change Desire, But by Reflection daily fan the Fire. I wou’d not have you think that I maintain These Arguments, in hopes I may regain Your Love; too well I know my Destiny; I always was, and still must wretched be. {When you was here I did no Rest enjoy: {Present, for fear of infidelity; {When distant, Absence did my ease destroy. I always trembled while you was with me, Lest you shou’d be found, and come to Injury: While in the Field, both Lives in Danger were; Fear of my parents did encrease my Care. So that ’tis plain, ev’n at the best, my Mind Was as disturb’d as I at present find: Since you left me, had you but once seem’d kind, I shou’d have follow’d, and not been confin’d. Alas! what wou’d have then become of me, T’ have brought a Scandal on my Family; T’ have lost my Parents and my Honour too, And, after all, to be despis’d by you? What Thoughts soever you of me retain, I reconjure you ne’er to write again: Methinks you shou’d sometimes reflect upon The base ungen’rous Injuries you ’ve done. No woman sure did e’er so easy prove; What did you ever do to gain my Love? You was the first that to the Army went; To stay the longest there, the best content. Did you more careful of your Person grow, Altho’ upon my knees I begg’d you wou’d do so? Did you e’er strive to fix in Portugal, A Place where you was well belov’d of all? Your Brother’s Letter hurry’d you away, On the receipt of it you ’d not a moment stay; And I ’m inform’d you ne’er was pleased more Than when on board a making from our Shore. You can’t deny but you deserve my Hate, And I may thank my self for all my Fate; I was too free, and gave my Heart too soon, And brought upon my self the Ills I ’ve undergone. Alas! from Love alone Love ne’er will rise, It must be rais’d by Skill and Artifice. Your first Design was to ensnare my Love, And nothing wou’d have spar’d that might successful prove: Nay, I believe, if it had needful been, Rather than failed, you wou’d have lov’d again; But you found easier ways to work upon, And thought it best to let the Love alone.—— Perfidious Man! which way can you atone For th’ base and treach’rous Affronts you ’ve done? The blinding Passion now is vanquished quite, That kept the foulness of them from my sight: Must my tormented Soul never have Ease? When shall I be, thou cruel Man, at Peace? Within a while you yet perhaps may hear, Or have a Letter, from your injur’d Fair, To let you know that she is at repose, Freed of the Torments that from you arose. Oh! what a Pleasure it will be to me, Without concern t’ accuse you of your Treachery! When I ’ve forgot the wracking Pains I ’ve born, And able am to talk of you with Scorn! You ’ve had the better, it is plainly prov’d, Because I you have out of Reason lov’d; But by the Conquest you small Honour won, For I was young, and easily undone. I, whilst a Child, was cloister’d, knew no hurt, Discours’d with none but of the vulgar Sort, And what belonged to Flatt’ry never knew, Till I unhappily was taught by you: You ’d a good Character of every one, Which you made use of to entice me on. My Indignation, and your Falsehood too, Makes me at present much disorder’d grow; But, I assure you, I will shortly find Some Means or other for to ease my Mind. Perhaps may take a way to quit my Care Which, when ’tis acted, you ’ll be pleas’d to hear. Fool as I am, to say thus o’er and o’er The same that I ’ve so often said before! Of you a Thought I must not entertain, And fancy too I ne’er shall write again? For what occasion ’s there that I to you Shou’d be accountable for all I do? THE END OF THE NUN’S LETTERS.
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