LETTER IIFrom a Nun to a Cavalier
Alas! it is impossible to tellTh’ afflicting Pains that injur’d Lovers feel.And if my Flame, by what I write, you rate,Then have I made my self unfortunate.Blest should I be, cou’d your own Breast defineThe raging Passion that I feel in mine;{But I must ne’er enjoy that happy Fate:{And if I ’m always doom’d to bear your Hate,{’Tis base to use me at this barb’rous rate.Oh! it distracts my Soul when I reflectUpon my slighted Charms, and your Neglect:And ’twill t’ your Honour as destructive be,As ’tis conducive to myMisery.——It now is come to pass what then I fear’d,When you to leave me in such haste prepar’d.Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true,True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you!T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline;To make me wretched is your whole Design.Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow,If only grounded on my Love for you:But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence,Six Months are past since you departed hence;Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone,And I’ve not been so much as thought upon:Blind with the fondness of my own Desire,Else might have found my Joys wou’d soon expire.How cou’d I think that you’d contented beTo leave your Friends and Native Place for me?Alas! Remembrance of my former JoysAdds to the Number of my Miseries.Will all my flatt’ring Hopes then prove in vain?Must I ne’er Live to see you here again?Why may not I once more behold your Charms,Once more enfold you in my longing Arms?Why may not I, as heretofore, receiveThose sweet transporting Joys which none but you can give?——I find the Flame that set my Soul on FireIn you was nothing but a loose Desire.I should have reason’d ere it was too late,And so prevented my approaching Fate:My busie Thoughts were all on you bestow’d,I for my own repose not one allow’d:So pleas’d was I, whilst in your Lovely Arms,I thought myself secure from future Harms:But yet you may remember, oft I’ve said,You’d be the Ruin of a harmless Maid;But those were Notions that abortive dy’d,And I upon your flatt’ring Oaths rely’d.Cou’d I cease loving you, I shou’d have Ease,But that ’s a Cure far worse than the Disease;And ’tis (alas) impossible, I find,To raze your Image from my tortur’d Mind;And it ’s a thing which I did ne’er design,For your Condition is far worse than mine;You ’d better share what my poor soul endures,Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours.So far am I from envying your Fate,I rather pity your unhappy State.I all your false dissembling Arts defie:I know I ’m rooted in your Memory,And am perhaps the happiest of the Two,In that I now am more employ’d than you.They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door,Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before;It is an Office I ne’er thought t’ have had;All who discourse me think that I am mad.Our Convent too must be as mad as I,Or they might have perceiv’d my Incapacity.Oh! how I wish to be as blest as theyWho, as your Servants, your Commands obey.I shou’d be Proud, like one of them, to waitOn you, tho’ ’twere ev’n in the meanest State.My Love for you I don’t at all repent;That you ’ve seduced me, I am well content.Your Rig’rous Absence, tho’ ’twill fatal prove,Yet lessens not the Vigour of my Love.My Passion I to all the World proclaim,And make no Secret of my raging Flame.Some Things I ’ve done irregular, ’tis true,And glory’d in them, ’cause they were for you;My Fame, my Honour, and Religion, areAll made subservient to the Love I bear.Whilst I am writing, I have no intentThat you shou’d Answer what I now have sent:Force not your self, I ’ll not receive a WordYou send, that comes not of its own accord.If not by writing you do Ease receive,So ’t too to me shall Satisfaction give,To Pardon all your Faults I ’m much inclin’d,And shall be pleas’d to prove you ’re not unkind.{I’m told that France has made a Peace; if so{A Visit here then sure you might bestow,{And take me with you wheresoe’er you go,That must alone at your disposal be,I fear (alas) it is too good for me.Since you first left this sad forsaken Place,I ’ve not enjoy’d a Moment’s Health or Ease:The Accent of your Name my Cares abate,Which I a thousand times a Day repeat.{Within our Convent some there are who know{From whence the Source of all my Sorrows flow,{Who strive to Ease me and Discourse of you.I ’m constant to my Chamber, which is dearTo me, because you ’ve been so often there:Your Picture as unvaluable I prize,And have it always fixt before my Eyes:The Counterfeit does Satisfaction give;But when I think that I must never liveTo see the Bright, the Fair Original,Great are the Horrors, great the Pains I feel,Oh! how I ’m wrack’d and torn with endless PainTo think I ne’er must see you here again!But why shou’d it be possible to beThat I your lovely Form no more must see?For ever! are you then for ever gone?For ever must I make my fruitless Moan?No, Mariane, thou wilt soon have Peace;Kind Death approaches, he will give thee Ease.Ah me! how fast my fainting Spirits fail!—Farewel, Oh, pity me!—Thou lovely Man,Farewel.——
Alas! it is impossible to tellTh’ afflicting Pains that injur’d Lovers feel.And if my Flame, by what I write, you rate,Then have I made my self unfortunate.Blest should I be, cou’d your own Breast defineThe raging Passion that I feel in mine;{But I must ne’er enjoy that happy Fate:{And if I ’m always doom’d to bear your Hate,{’Tis base to use me at this barb’rous rate.Oh! it distracts my Soul when I reflectUpon my slighted Charms, and your Neglect:And ’twill t’ your Honour as destructive be,As ’tis conducive to myMisery.——It now is come to pass what then I fear’d,When you to leave me in such haste prepar’d.Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true,True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you!T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline;To make me wretched is your whole Design.Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow,If only grounded on my Love for you:But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence,Six Months are past since you departed hence;Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone,And I’ve not been so much as thought upon:Blind with the fondness of my own Desire,Else might have found my Joys wou’d soon expire.How cou’d I think that you’d contented beTo leave your Friends and Native Place for me?Alas! Remembrance of my former JoysAdds to the Number of my Miseries.Will all my flatt’ring Hopes then prove in vain?Must I ne’er Live to see you here again?Why may not I once more behold your Charms,Once more enfold you in my longing Arms?Why may not I, as heretofore, receiveThose sweet transporting Joys which none but you can give?——I find the Flame that set my Soul on FireIn you was nothing but a loose Desire.I should have reason’d ere it was too late,And so prevented my approaching Fate:My busie Thoughts were all on you bestow’d,I for my own repose not one allow’d:So pleas’d was I, whilst in your Lovely Arms,I thought myself secure from future Harms:But yet you may remember, oft I’ve said,You’d be the Ruin of a harmless Maid;But those were Notions that abortive dy’d,And I upon your flatt’ring Oaths rely’d.Cou’d I cease loving you, I shou’d have Ease,But that ’s a Cure far worse than the Disease;And ’tis (alas) impossible, I find,To raze your Image from my tortur’d Mind;And it ’s a thing which I did ne’er design,For your Condition is far worse than mine;You ’d better share what my poor soul endures,Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours.So far am I from envying your Fate,I rather pity your unhappy State.I all your false dissembling Arts defie:I know I ’m rooted in your Memory,And am perhaps the happiest of the Two,In that I now am more employ’d than you.They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door,Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before;It is an Office I ne’er thought t’ have had;All who discourse me think that I am mad.Our Convent too must be as mad as I,Or they might have perceiv’d my Incapacity.Oh! how I wish to be as blest as theyWho, as your Servants, your Commands obey.I shou’d be Proud, like one of them, to waitOn you, tho’ ’twere ev’n in the meanest State.My Love for you I don’t at all repent;That you ’ve seduced me, I am well content.Your Rig’rous Absence, tho’ ’twill fatal prove,Yet lessens not the Vigour of my Love.My Passion I to all the World proclaim,And make no Secret of my raging Flame.Some Things I ’ve done irregular, ’tis true,And glory’d in them, ’cause they were for you;My Fame, my Honour, and Religion, areAll made subservient to the Love I bear.Whilst I am writing, I have no intentThat you shou’d Answer what I now have sent:Force not your self, I ’ll not receive a WordYou send, that comes not of its own accord.If not by writing you do Ease receive,So ’t too to me shall Satisfaction give,To Pardon all your Faults I ’m much inclin’d,And shall be pleas’d to prove you ’re not unkind.{I’m told that France has made a Peace; if so{A Visit here then sure you might bestow,{And take me with you wheresoe’er you go,That must alone at your disposal be,I fear (alas) it is too good for me.Since you first left this sad forsaken Place,I ’ve not enjoy’d a Moment’s Health or Ease:The Accent of your Name my Cares abate,Which I a thousand times a Day repeat.{Within our Convent some there are who know{From whence the Source of all my Sorrows flow,{Who strive to Ease me and Discourse of you.I ’m constant to my Chamber, which is dearTo me, because you ’ve been so often there:Your Picture as unvaluable I prize,And have it always fixt before my Eyes:The Counterfeit does Satisfaction give;But when I think that I must never liveTo see the Bright, the Fair Original,Great are the Horrors, great the Pains I feel,Oh! how I ’m wrack’d and torn with endless PainTo think I ne’er must see you here again!But why shou’d it be possible to beThat I your lovely Form no more must see?For ever! are you then for ever gone?For ever must I make my fruitless Moan?No, Mariane, thou wilt soon have Peace;Kind Death approaches, he will give thee Ease.Ah me! how fast my fainting Spirits fail!—Farewel, Oh, pity me!—Thou lovely Man,Farewel.——
Alas! it is impossible to tellTh’ afflicting Pains that injur’d Lovers feel.And if my Flame, by what I write, you rate,Then have I made my self unfortunate.Blest should I be, cou’d your own Breast defineThe raging Passion that I feel in mine;{But I must ne’er enjoy that happy Fate:{And if I ’m always doom’d to bear your Hate,{’Tis base to use me at this barb’rous rate.Oh! it distracts my Soul when I reflectUpon my slighted Charms, and your Neglect:And ’twill t’ your Honour as destructive be,As ’tis conducive to myMisery.——
Alas! it is impossible to tell
Th’ afflicting Pains that injur’d Lovers feel.
And if my Flame, by what I write, you rate,
Then have I made my self unfortunate.
Blest should I be, cou’d your own Breast define
The raging Passion that I feel in mine;
{But I must ne’er enjoy that happy Fate:
{And if I ’m always doom’d to bear your Hate,
{’Tis base to use me at this barb’rous rate.
Oh! it distracts my Soul when I reflect
Upon my slighted Charms, and your Neglect:
And ’twill t’ your Honour as destructive be,
As ’tis conducive to myMisery.——
It now is come to pass what then I fear’d,When you to leave me in such haste prepar’d.Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true,True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you!T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline;To make me wretched is your whole Design.
It now is come to pass what then I fear’d,
When you to leave me in such haste prepar’d.
Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true,
True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you!
T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline;
To make me wretched is your whole Design.
Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow,If only grounded on my Love for you:But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence,Six Months are past since you departed hence;Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone,And I’ve not been so much as thought upon:Blind with the fondness of my own Desire,Else might have found my Joys wou’d soon expire.How cou’d I think that you’d contented beTo leave your Friends and Native Place for me?Alas! Remembrance of my former JoysAdds to the Number of my Miseries.Will all my flatt’ring Hopes then prove in vain?Must I ne’er Live to see you here again?Why may not I once more behold your Charms,Once more enfold you in my longing Arms?Why may not I, as heretofore, receiveThose sweet transporting Joys which none but you can give?——
Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow,
If only grounded on my Love for you:
But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence,
Six Months are past since you departed hence;
Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone,
And I’ve not been so much as thought upon:
Blind with the fondness of my own Desire,
Else might have found my Joys wou’d soon expire.
How cou’d I think that you’d contented be
To leave your Friends and Native Place for me?
Alas! Remembrance of my former Joys
Adds to the Number of my Miseries.
Will all my flatt’ring Hopes then prove in vain?
Must I ne’er Live to see you here again?
Why may not I once more behold your Charms,
Once more enfold you in my longing Arms?
Why may not I, as heretofore, receive
Those sweet transporting Joys which none but you can give?——
I find the Flame that set my Soul on FireIn you was nothing but a loose Desire.I should have reason’d ere it was too late,And so prevented my approaching Fate:My busie Thoughts were all on you bestow’d,I for my own repose not one allow’d:So pleas’d was I, whilst in your Lovely Arms,I thought myself secure from future Harms:But yet you may remember, oft I’ve said,You’d be the Ruin of a harmless Maid;But those were Notions that abortive dy’d,And I upon your flatt’ring Oaths rely’d.
I find the Flame that set my Soul on Fire
In you was nothing but a loose Desire.
I should have reason’d ere it was too late,
And so prevented my approaching Fate:
My busie Thoughts were all on you bestow’d,
I for my own repose not one allow’d:
So pleas’d was I, whilst in your Lovely Arms,
I thought myself secure from future Harms:
But yet you may remember, oft I’ve said,
You’d be the Ruin of a harmless Maid;
But those were Notions that abortive dy’d,
And I upon your flatt’ring Oaths rely’d.
Cou’d I cease loving you, I shou’d have Ease,But that ’s a Cure far worse than the Disease;And ’tis (alas) impossible, I find,To raze your Image from my tortur’d Mind;And it ’s a thing which I did ne’er design,For your Condition is far worse than mine;You ’d better share what my poor soul endures,Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours.So far am I from envying your Fate,I rather pity your unhappy State.I all your false dissembling Arts defie:I know I ’m rooted in your Memory,And am perhaps the happiest of the Two,In that I now am more employ’d than you.They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door,Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before;It is an Office I ne’er thought t’ have had;All who discourse me think that I am mad.Our Convent too must be as mad as I,Or they might have perceiv’d my Incapacity.
Cou’d I cease loving you, I shou’d have Ease,
But that ’s a Cure far worse than the Disease;
And ’tis (alas) impossible, I find,
To raze your Image from my tortur’d Mind;
And it ’s a thing which I did ne’er design,
For your Condition is far worse than mine;
You ’d better share what my poor soul endures,
Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours.
So far am I from envying your Fate,
I rather pity your unhappy State.
I all your false dissembling Arts defie:
I know I ’m rooted in your Memory,
And am perhaps the happiest of the Two,
In that I now am more employ’d than you.
They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door,
Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before;
It is an Office I ne’er thought t’ have had;
All who discourse me think that I am mad.
Our Convent too must be as mad as I,
Or they might have perceiv’d my Incapacity.
Oh! how I wish to be as blest as theyWho, as your Servants, your Commands obey.I shou’d be Proud, like one of them, to waitOn you, tho’ ’twere ev’n in the meanest State.My Love for you I don’t at all repent;That you ’ve seduced me, I am well content.Your Rig’rous Absence, tho’ ’twill fatal prove,Yet lessens not the Vigour of my Love.My Passion I to all the World proclaim,And make no Secret of my raging Flame.Some Things I ’ve done irregular, ’tis true,And glory’d in them, ’cause they were for you;My Fame, my Honour, and Religion, areAll made subservient to the Love I bear.
Oh! how I wish to be as blest as they
Who, as your Servants, your Commands obey.
I shou’d be Proud, like one of them, to wait
On you, tho’ ’twere ev’n in the meanest State.
My Love for you I don’t at all repent;
That you ’ve seduced me, I am well content.
Your Rig’rous Absence, tho’ ’twill fatal prove,
Yet lessens not the Vigour of my Love.
My Passion I to all the World proclaim,
And make no Secret of my raging Flame.
Some Things I ’ve done irregular, ’tis true,
And glory’d in them, ’cause they were for you;
My Fame, my Honour, and Religion, are
All made subservient to the Love I bear.
Whilst I am writing, I have no intentThat you shou’d Answer what I now have sent:Force not your self, I ’ll not receive a WordYou send, that comes not of its own accord.If not by writing you do Ease receive,So ’t too to me shall Satisfaction give,To Pardon all your Faults I ’m much inclin’d,And shall be pleas’d to prove you ’re not unkind.
Whilst I am writing, I have no intent
That you shou’d Answer what I now have sent:
Force not your self, I ’ll not receive a Word
You send, that comes not of its own accord.
If not by writing you do Ease receive,
So ’t too to me shall Satisfaction give,
To Pardon all your Faults I ’m much inclin’d,
And shall be pleas’d to prove you ’re not unkind.
{I’m told that France has made a Peace; if so{A Visit here then sure you might bestow,{And take me with you wheresoe’er you go,That must alone at your disposal be,I fear (alas) it is too good for me.Since you first left this sad forsaken Place,I ’ve not enjoy’d a Moment’s Health or Ease:The Accent of your Name my Cares abate,Which I a thousand times a Day repeat.{Within our Convent some there are who know{From whence the Source of all my Sorrows flow,{Who strive to Ease me and Discourse of you.
{I’m told that France has made a Peace; if so
{A Visit here then sure you might bestow,
{And take me with you wheresoe’er you go,
That must alone at your disposal be,
I fear (alas) it is too good for me.
Since you first left this sad forsaken Place,
I ’ve not enjoy’d a Moment’s Health or Ease:
The Accent of your Name my Cares abate,
Which I a thousand times a Day repeat.
{Within our Convent some there are who know
{From whence the Source of all my Sorrows flow,
{Who strive to Ease me and Discourse of you.
I ’m constant to my Chamber, which is dearTo me, because you ’ve been so often there:Your Picture as unvaluable I prize,And have it always fixt before my Eyes:The Counterfeit does Satisfaction give;But when I think that I must never liveTo see the Bright, the Fair Original,Great are the Horrors, great the Pains I feel,
I ’m constant to my Chamber, which is dear
To me, because you ’ve been so often there:
Your Picture as unvaluable I prize,
And have it always fixt before my Eyes:
The Counterfeit does Satisfaction give;
But when I think that I must never live
To see the Bright, the Fair Original,
Great are the Horrors, great the Pains I feel,
Oh! how I ’m wrack’d and torn with endless PainTo think I ne’er must see you here again!But why shou’d it be possible to beThat I your lovely Form no more must see?For ever! are you then for ever gone?For ever must I make my fruitless Moan?No, Mariane, thou wilt soon have Peace;Kind Death approaches, he will give thee Ease.Ah me! how fast my fainting Spirits fail!—Farewel, Oh, pity me!—Thou lovely Man,Farewel.——
Oh! how I ’m wrack’d and torn with endless Pain
To think I ne’er must see you here again!
But why shou’d it be possible to be
That I your lovely Form no more must see?
For ever! are you then for ever gone?
For ever must I make my fruitless Moan?
No, Mariane, thou wilt soon have Peace;
Kind Death approaches, he will give thee Ease.
Ah me! how fast my fainting Spirits fail!—
Farewel, Oh, pity me!—Thou lovely Man,
Farewel.——