And where will the raging fit end? I die with that thought, my guilty
pen slackens in my trembling hand, and I languish and fall over the
un-employ'd paper;----oh help me, some divinity,----or if you did,--I
fear I should be angry: oh _Philander_! a thousand passions and
distracted thoughts crowd to get out, and make their soft complaints
to thee; but oh they lose themselves with mixing; they are blended in
a confusion together, and love nor art can divide them, to deal them
out in order; sometimes I would tell you of my joy at your arrival,
and my unspeaking transports at the thought of seeing you so soon,
that I shall hear your charming voice, and find you at my feet making
soft vows anew, with all the passion of an impatient lover, with all
the eloquence that sighs and cries, and tears from those lovely eyes
can express; and sure that is enough to conquer any where, and to
which coarse vulgar words are dull. The rhetoric of love is
half-breath'd, interrupted words, languishing eyes, flattering
speeches, broken sighs, pressing the hand, and falling tears: ah how
do they not persuade, how do they not charm and conquer; 'twas thus,
with these soft easy arts, that _Sylvia_ first was won; for sure no
arts of speaking could have talked my heart away, though you can speak
like any god: oh whither am I driven? What do I say? 'Twas not my
purpose, not my business here, to give a character of _Philander_, no
nor to speak of love; but oh! like _Cowley_'s lute, my soul will sound
to nothing but to love: talk what you will, begin what discourse you
please, I end it all in love, because my soul is ever fix'd on
_Philander_, and insensibly its biass leads to that subject; no, I did
not when I began to write, think of speaking one word of my own
weakness; but to have told you with what resolv'd courage, honour and
virtue, I expect your coming; and sure so sacred a thing as love was
not made to ruin these, and therefore in vain, my lovely brother, you
will attempt it; and yet, oh heavens! I gave a private assignation, in