_Philander_? What happy place contains you? If in heaven, why does not
some posting angel bid me haste after you? If on earth, why does not
some little god of love bring the grateful tidings on his painted
wings? If sick, why does not my own fond heart by sympathy inform me?
But that is all active, vigorous, wishing, impatient of delaying,
silent, and busy in imagination. If you are false, if you have
forgotten your poor believing and distracted _Sylvia_, why does not
that kind tyrant death, that meagre welcome vision of the despairing,
old and wretched, approach in dead of night, approach my restless bed,
and toll the dismal tidings in my frighted listening ears, and strike
me for ever silent, lay me for ever quiet, lost to the world, lost to
my faithless charmer! But if a sense of honour in you has made you
resolve to prefer mine before your love, made you take up a noble
fatal resolution, never to tell me more of your passion; this were a
trial, I fear my fond heart wants courage to bear; or is it a trick, a
cold fit, only assum'd to try how much I love you? I have no arts,
heaven knows, no guile or double meaning in my soul, 'tis all plain
native simplicity, fearful and timorous as children in the night,
trembling as doves pursu'd; born soft by nature, and made tender by
love; what, oh! what will become of me then? Yet would I were
confirm'd in all my fears: for as I am, my condition is more
deplorable; for I'm in doubt, and doubt is the worst torment of the
mind: oh _Philander_, be merciful, and let me know the worst; do not
be cruel while you kill, do it with pity to the wretched _Sylvia_; oh
let me quickly know whether you are at all, or are the most impatient
and unfortunate

SYLVIA's.

_I rave, I die for some relief._