reproach me, or tell me that my reputation depends on the feeble
constancy of a wife, persuade me it is honour to fight for an
irretrievable and unvalued prize, and that because my rival has taken
leave to cuckold me, I shall give him leave to kill me too;
unreasonable nonsense grown to custom. No, by heaven! I had gather
_Myrtilla_ should be false, (as she is) than wish and languish for the
happy occasion; the sin is the same, only the act is more generous:
believe me, my _Sylvia_, we have all false notions of virtue and
honour, and surely this was taken up by some despairing husband in
love with a fair jilting wife, and then I pardon him; I should have
done as much: for only she that has my soul can engage my sword; she
that I love, and myself, only commands and keeps my stock of honour:
for _Sylvia_! the charming, the distracting _Sylvia_! I could fight
for a glance or smile, expose my heart for her dearer fame, and wish
no recompense, but breathing out my last gasp into her soft, white,
delicate bosom. But for a wife! that stranger to my soul, and whom we
wed for interest and necessity,--a wife, light, loose, unregarding
property, who for a momentary appetite will expose her fame, without
the noble end of loving on; she that will abuse my bed, and yet return
again to the loathed conjugal embrace, back to the arms so hated, and
even strong fancy of the absent youth beloved, cannot so much as
render supportable. Curse on her, and yet she kisses, fawns and
dissembles on, hangs on his neck, and makes the sot believe:--damn
her, brute; I'll whistle her off, and let her down the wind, as
_Othello_ says. No, I adore the wife, that, when the heart is gone,
boldy and nobly pursues the conqueror, and generously owns the
whore;--not poorly adds the nauseous sin of jilting to it: that I
could have borne, at least commended; but this can never pardon; at
worst then the world had said her passion had undone her, she loved,
and love at worst is worthy of pity. No, no, _Myrtilla_, I forgive