_Impatient adorer_,

PHILANDER.

_My page is ill, and I am oblig'd to trust_ Brilliard _with these to
the dear cottage of their rendezvous; send me your opinion of his
fidelity: and ah! remember I die to see you_.

_To_ PHILANDER.

Not yet?--not yet? oh ye dull tedious hours, when will you glide away?
and bring that happy moment on, in which I shall at least hear from my
_Philander_; eight and forty tedious ones are past, and I am here
forgotten still; forlorn, impatient, restless every where; not one of
all your little moments (ye undiverting hours) can afford me repose; I
drag ye on, a heavy load; I count ye all, and bless ye when you are
gone; but tremble at the approaching ones, and with a dread expect
you; and nothing will divert me now; my couch is tiresome, my glass is
vain; my books are dull, and conversation insupportable; the grove
affords me no relief; nor even those birds to whom I have so often
breath'd _Philander_'s, name, they sing it on their perching boughs;
no, nor the reviewing of his dear letters, can bring me any ease. Oh
what fate is reserved for me! For thus I cannot live; nor surely thus
I shall not die. Perhaps _Philander_'s making a trial of virtue by
this silence. Pursue it, call up all your reason, my lovely brother,
to your aid, let us be wise and silent, let us try what that will do
towards the cure of this too infectious flame; let us, oh let us, my
brother, sit down here, and pursue the crime of loving on no farther.
Call me sister--swear I am so, and nothing but your sister: and