_To_ Sylvia.

My soul's eternal joy, my _Sylvia_! what have you done, and oh how
durst you, knowing my fond heart, try it with so fatal a stroke? What
means this severe letter? and why so eagerly at this time? Oh the day!
Is _Myrtilla's_ virtue so defended? Is it a question now whether she
is false or not? Oh poor, oh frivolous excuse! You love me not; by all
that's good, you love me not; to try your power you have flatter'd and
feign'd, oh woman! false charming woman! you have undone me, I rave
and shall commit such extravagance that will ruin both: I must upbraid
you, fickle and inconstant, I must, and this distance will not serve,
'tis too great; my reproaches lose their force; I burst with
resentment, with injur'd love; and you are either the most faithless
of your sex, or the most malicious and tormenting: oh I am past
tricks, my _Sylvia_, your little arts might do well in a beginning
flame, but to a settled fire that is arriv'd to the highest degree, it
does but damp its fierceness, and instead of drawing me on, would
lessen my esteem, if any such deceit were capable to harbour in the
heart of _Sylvia_; but she is all divine, and I am mistaken in the
meaning of what she says. Oh my adorable, think no more on that dull
false thing a wife; let her be banish'd thy thoughts, as she is my
soul; let her never appear, though but in a dream, to fright our solid
joys, or true happiness; no, let us look forward to pleasures vast and
unconfin'd, to coming transports, and leave all behind us that
contributes not to that heaven of bliss: remember, oh _Sylvia_, that
five tedious days are past since I sigh'd at your dear feet; and five
days, to a man so madly in love as your _Philander_, is a tedious age:
'tis now six o'clock in the morning, _Brilliard_ will be with you by
eight, and by ten I may have your permission to see you, and then I
need not say how soon I will present myself before you at _Bellfont_;