_Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following answer; wherein she seems at first to chide him for his presumption in writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion of her virtue; then owns herself to be sensible of the passion which he had expressed for her, though she much suspected his constancy; and at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him; the whole letter shewing the extreme artifice of womankind._
When loose epistles violate chaste eyes, She half consents, who silently denies. How dares a stranger, with designs so vain, Marriage and hospitable rights prophane? Was it for this, your fleet did shelter find From swelling seas, and every faithless wind? For though a distant country brought you forth, Your usage here was equal to your worth. Does this deserve to be rewarded so? Did you come here a stranger, or a foe? Your partial judgment may perhaps complain, And think me barbarous for my just disdain; Ill-bred then let me be, but not unchaste, Nor my clear fame with any spot defaced. Though in my face there's no affected frown, Nor in my carriage a feigned niceness shown, I keep my honour still without a stain, Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain. Your boldness I with admiration see; What hope had you to gain a queen like me? Because a hero forced me once away, Am I thought fit to be a second prey? Had I been won, I had deserved your blame, But sure my part was nothing but the shame. Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear, I 'scaped unhurt by any thing but fear. Rude force might some unwilling kisses gain; But that was all he ever could obtain. You on such terms would ne'er have let me go; Were he like you, we had not parted so. Untouched the youth restored me to my friends, And modest usage made me some amends. 'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed; Did he repent, that Paris might succeed? Sure 'tis some fate that sets me above wrongs, Yet still exposes me to busy tongues. I'll not complain; for who's displeased with love, If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove? But that I fear; not that I think you base, Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face; But all your sex is subject to deceive, And ours, alas! too willing to believe. Yet others yield; and love o'ercomes the best; But why should I not shine above the rest? Fair Leda's story seems at first to be A fit example, ready formed for me. But she was cozened by a borrowed shape, And under harmless feathers felt a rape. If I should yield, what reason could I use? By what mistake the loving crime excuse? Her fault was in her powerful lover lost; But of what Jupiter have I to boast? Though you to heroes and to kings succeed, Our famous race does no addition need; And great alliances but useless prove, To one that comes herself from mighty Jove. Go then, and boast, in some less haughty place, Your Phrygian blood, and Priam's ancient race; Which I would shew I valued, if I durst; You are the fifth from Jove, but I the first. The crown of Troy is powerful, I confess; But I have reason to think ours no less. Your letter, filled with promises of all That men can good, and women pleasant call, Gives expectation such an ample field, As would move goddesses themselves to yield. But if I e'er offend great Juno's laws, Yourself shall be the dear, the only cause; Either my honour I'll to death maintain, Or follow you, without mean thoughts of gain. Not that so fair a present I despise; We like the gift, when we the giver prize: But 'tis your love moves me, which made you take Such pains, and run such hazards for my sake. I have perceived, though I dissembled too, A thousand things that love has made you do. Your eager eyes would almost dazzle mine, In which, wild man, your wanton thoughts would shine. Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disordered stand, And with unusual ardour press my hand; Contrive just after me to take the glass, Nor would you let the least occasion pass; When oft I feared, I did not mind alone, And blushing sate for things which you have done; Then murmured to myself,--he'll for my sake Do any thing;--I hope 'twas no mistake. Oft have I read within this pleasing grove, Under my name, those charming words,--I love. I, frowning, seemed not to believe your flame; But now, alas! am come to write the same. If I were capable to do amiss, I could not but be sensible of this. For oh! your face has such peculiar charms, That who can hold from flying to your arms! But what I ne'er can have without offence, May some blest maid possess with innocence. Pleasure may tempt, but virtue more should move; O learn of me to want the thing you love. What you desire is sought by all mankind; As you have eyes, so others are not blind.