As I was going to send away this enclos'd, _Dorillus_ came with two letters; oh, you cannot think, _Philander_, with how much reason you call me fickle maid; for could you but imagine how I am tormentingly divided, how unresolved between violent love and cruel honour, you would say 'twere impossible to fix me any where; or be the same thing for a moment together: there is not a short hour pass'd through the swift hand of time, since I was all despairing, raging love, jealous, fearful, and impatient; and now, now that your fond letters have dispers'd those demons, those tormenting counsellors, and given a little respite, a little tranquillity to my soul; like states luxurious grown with ease, it ungratefully rebels against the sovereign power that made it great and happy; and now that traitor honour heads the mutineers within; honour, whom my late mighty fears had almost famish'd and brought to nothing, warm'd and reviv'd by thy new-protested flames, makes war against almighty love! and I, who but now nobly resolv'd for love, by an inconstancy natural to my sex, or rather my fears, am turn'd over to honour's side: so the despairing man stands on the river's bank, design'd to plunge into the rapid stream, 'till coward-fear seizing his timorous soul, he views around once more the flowery plains, and looks with wishing eyes back to the groves, then sighing stops, and cries, I was too rash, forsakes the dangerous shore, and hastes away. Thus indiscreet was I, was all for love, fond and undoing love! But when I saw it with full tide flow in upon me, one glance of glorious honour makes me again retreat. I will----I am resolv'd----and must be brave! I cannot forget I am daughter to the great _Beralti_, and sister to _Myrtilla_, a yet unspotted maid, fit to produce a race of glorious heroes! And can _Philander_'s love set no higher value on me than base poor prostitution? Is that the price of his heart?--Oh how I hate thee now! or would to heaven I could.--Tell me not, thou charming beguiler, that _Myrtilla_ was to blame; was it a fault in her, and will it be virtue in me? And can I believe the crime that made her lose your heart, will make me mistress of it? No, if by any action of hers the noble house of the _Beralti_ be dishonour'd, by all the actions of my life it shall receive additions and lustre and glory! Nor will I think _Myrtilla_'s virtue lessen'd for your mistaken opinion of it, and she may be as much in vain pursu'd, perhaps, by the Prince _Cesario_, as _Sylvia_ shall be by the young _Philander_: the envying world talks loud, 'tis true; but oh, if all were true that busy babbler says, what lady has her fame? What husband is not a cuckold? Nay, and a friend to him that made him so? And it is in vain, my too subtle brother, you think to build the trophies of your conquests on the ruin of both _Myrtilla_'s fame and mine: oh how dear would your inglorious passion cost the great unfortunate house of the _Beralti_, while you poorly ruin the fame of _Myrtilla_, to make way to the heart of _Sylvia_! Remember, oh remember once your passion was as violent for _Myrtilla_, and all the vows, oaths, protestations, tears and prayers you make and pay at my feet, are but the faint repetitions, the feeble echoes of what you sigh'd out at hers. Nay, like young _Paris_ fled with the fair prize, your fond, your eager passion made it a rape. Oh perfidious!--Let me not call it back to my remembrance.--Oh let me die, rather than call to mind a time so fatal; when the lovely false _Philander_ vow'd his heart, his faithless heart away to any maid but _Sylvia_:--oh let it not be possible for me to imagine his dear arms ever grasping any body with joy but _Sylvia_! And yet they did, with transports of love! Yes, yes, you lov'd! by heaven you lov'd this false, this perfidious _Myrtilla_; for false she is; you lov'd her, and I'll have it so; nor shall the sister in me plead her cause.