THE
SECRETARY
OF LADIES.
OR,
A new collection of
Letters and Anſwers,
compoſed by Moderne
Ladies and Gentlewomen,
Collected by Mounſieur
Du BOSQƲE. Tranſlated out of French by I. H.
LONDON,
Printed by Tho. Cotes, for William
Hope, and are to be ſold at the
ſigne of the Vnicorne in Cornehill
neere the Royall Exchange.
1638.
TO MY LADY
the Counteſſe of
DORSET,
Governeſſe to the DVKE
of YORKE.
Madam,
YOur pardon, if it bee
preſumption, my
ſelfe but newly admitted,
to preferre
others to your ſervice. 'Tis a
ſinne I could not be drawne to
commit, but to avoyd a greater.
So I conceive each Caſuiſt
rankes the breach of
vowes: which would bee my
obliquity, ſhould I offer at any
other Altar theſe firſt fruites of
my poore endeavours. The
French Collector (ſo hee ſ
•
iles
himſelfe) preſents theſe Letters
to the world with a
French familiar confidence:
Ra
•
ing them ſufficiently accompliſht
to merit entertainement.
His courage cannot cure
my feare, knowing they muſt
paſſe the cenſure (at leaſt if
you daigne them a view) of
one (then hee conceits his
worke) far more accompliſht:
and not being ignorant, that
this Engliſh habit, made by a
ſtranger to the tongue, more to
the Courtly dreſſe, may much
blemiſh their native beauty:
My comfort is without wracke
of reputation, they may want
ſome of their originall ornaments;
but could I hope your
approbation to trifles hardly
worth your eye, I durſt bee
bold, this would procure them
more grace, than they have
loſt by their Tranſlator. But,
Madam, tis too much, I dare
not begge it; my moſt ambitious
prayer ſhall bee, regarding
my unworthy ſacrifice,
you would vouchſafe not to
diſdaigne i
•
. Reſerve your acceptation
for more deſerving
ſtraines; your prayſe for thoſe
that more directly tend to ki
•
dle
flame of piety: Your not
r
•
j
•
cting thoſe will proove a
ſufficient paſport, and helpe
them travel the Brittiſh world
without affront, or enemy:
where I am confident there
does not breath ſuch a ſchiſmaticke
to civility, that, in ſo
triviall a point, will not wave
his opinion, to one that governes
his hopes. In which beleefe
I devote theſe papers to
the fate you pleaſe decree
them. My onely intent in expoſing
them was, to give ſome
teſtimony of a thankfull heart:
If I have miſt the way, it cannot
bee denied I had a will to
finde it; and miſt nothing but
fit meanes to informe the
world that I am,
Madam,
Your moſt humble, and
devoted ſervant,
Ierome Hainhofer,
Patritius Auguſtanus.
The Authors Dedication
TO
MADAM
DE
PISIEVX.
Madam,
I Should peradventure
have made
ſome difficulty to
offer you any booke
but this, fearing to
demand an unjuſt protection, or
to make you a preſent unworthy
of your ſelfe: But th
•
ſe Ladies
which I tender you are ſo accompliſht.
I could not cheriſh the
leaſt feare to produce them, without
ſinning againſt their merit,
and the judgement you know to
make in things of valew. Nevertheleſſe
how perfect ſoever they
be, they acknowledge a neceſsity
of your approbation to appeare in
the world: And, that if this good
fayle them, all their faire dreſſes,
and ornaments can gaine them a
reputation but imperfect. Behold
them then in poſture to doe
the homage they owe you, and to
learne from your mouth what
credit they may hope from others.
Behold the wonders of our
age, which come to reverence the
rare qualities that France admires
in you: And to conſult the
oracle which muſt declare their
good, or bad fortune. Confident
they are to diſp leaſe none, if they
be but ſo happy to pleaſe you, and
that by the generall eſteeme you
are in, your judgement ſhall bee
the rule to all others. Receive
them Madam, as creatures
whom the report of your name
and vertue hath acquired, And
that will not ſhew themſelves abroad
with your paſſe: Refuſe
not your favour to theſe faire
unknowne, which enter not into
the world, but to vindicate the
honour of dames, and to make it
appeare that Letters are not the
peculiar heritage of one ſexe;
and that men are out, when they
va
•
t themſelves ſole Monarchs
in the Empire of the ſciences.
For my ſelfe, Madam, who doe
but lend a hand to their enterpriſe,
I confeſſe I am raviſht to
ſee them fall into your armes,
and that beſides the luſtre of
their owne beauty, they ſhall borrow
that of yours, to render them
pleaſing as your ſelfe, to all that
have eyes, and reaſon. I cannot
ceaſe to commend their choyſe,
ſeeing it muſt be imagined, Noble
as you are, you will be taken
with their courage: and while
they travaile in a deſigne ſo glorious,
I aſſure my ſelfe you will
ſecond their endeavours, And
that your countenance, approbation,
and ſpirit, ſhall bring them
more than halfe their victory,
and triumph, Thus hopes
Madam,
Your moſt humble, and
moſt obedient ſervant,
Du Boſque.
An advertiſement to the
Reader, by a friend of the
Collector.
BE not aſtoniſht to ſee this
Collection come out in
print, hee that hath tane
the paines, to make it had
reaſon to thinke that after
you had read the letters of
ſo many ingenious men, you would take it
well to ſee theſe offers of women. There
is no colour to ſay it will becomes their
ſexe: for i
•
it be not amiſſe that they are
able to m
•
ke a complement, you muſt not
thinke it ſtrange that they can write one.
Tis the principall ſubject of theſe Letters,
which are not confuſed nor ſhufled
together, as many others which the vulgar
eſteeme good. They are not treatiſes,
nor orations; they are no deepe diſcourſes
wherein there is nothing ſmels of a
Letter, but Sir your ſervant. But it is not
needfull
•
to witneſſe theſe good, that I
make others appe
•
re ill. I will onely ſay
that if the
•
e bee any who cannot yet conſent
that Gentlewomen ſhould write, I aſſure
my ſelfe this book will convert them▪
where they ſhall
〈◊〉
ſo many things of
worth, they ſhall
〈◊〉
•
ompeld to renounce
their ignoranc
•
〈◊〉
•
nvy, for by one of
theſe names I
〈◊〉
call the cauſe of their
error, which I would farther oppoſe if
theſe Ladies had need of my Apology, but
they defend themſelves better by neglect,
than thoſe
〈◊〉
deſerve. And
I will content my ſelfe to ſay, that if this
age hath ſeene many that write with approbation
of all the world upon the moſt
important matters Religion, and morality,
wee need not make it ſuch a marvell that
they can endite good letters, ſeeing they
can make good bookes. But it is time to
finiſh this advertiſement; and I vow I am
to blame to detaine the reader from the
booke it ſelfe, where he ſhall receive much
more ſatisfaction, than I am able to promiſe.
THE
SECRETARY
of LADIES.
The firſt Letter.
She prayes her to returne to Pari
•
,
and bring her in diſlike
with the Country.
MAdam, provided
you have a juſt opinion
of your
owne merit, you
cannot faile in
that you o
•
ght to have of our
griefe: Remember your ſelfe
onely of the pleaſure your
preſence brings us, to comprehend
what your abſence takes
from us; and you will eaſily
averre that the loſſe of ſo great
a good is no leſſe worthy of
our teares, than the poſſeſſion
of our joy. Thoſe that have
the knowledge of your rare
qualities, cannot be ignorant of
our cōplaints: they may judge
the effects by their cauſe. Conſider
next, if there bee any among
us, that doe not make
vowes for your returne, ſince
it muſt reſtore alacrity to all
your acquaintance. And to tell
you of our feare as well as our
deſire, would it not be a wonderfull
change, if you ſhould
accuſtome your ſelfe to live among
Barbarians, and being
capable of the beſt company,
confine to perpetuall ſolitude,
Remember, tis two months
ſince we have loſt you; and if
this terme ſeeme long to us at
Paris, it cannot be ſhort to you
in the Country. But this is not
enough: weigh in your minde
that theſe two moneths you
have not ſeene this faire City,
whereof the ſole remembrance
is ſufficient to render
other places undelightfull. I
thinke you doe not ſo much
love the deſerts, that though
our happineſſe conſiſt in your
returne, wee ſhould have no
ground to hope it: After all
this if you have loſt the deſire
to come backe to Paris, it is becauſe
you have loſt your memory,
for not to affect a returne,
you muſt wholly forget
that you have beene there. Finally,
never was promiſe better
kept, than that wee made
you, not to take collations in
our walkes: Your faire
Dutcheſſe is ſo exact in the
point, ſhee would make a conſcience
in the hotteſt ſeaſon to
drinke fountaine water; ſhee
hath no minde to quench her
thirſt, being afraid to bee refreſht:
Albeit ſhee might leſſe
incommodate herſelfe without
breaking promiſe, ſhee
dares not ſo much as thinke of
it without ſcruple. To bee entirely
fai
•
hfull to you, ſhe will
admit neither interpretation,
nor diſpenſation. Haſten then
your returne, and if you have
yet any feeling of pitty, ſhew it
to ſo many that doe petition
you. Write ſo much as you
pleaſe, your letters may aſſwage
our evill, but never cure
it; our ſadneſſe is meaſured by
your abſence. Nevertheleſſe,
we can aſſure you, that if it diminiſh
our delight, it doth not
our affection: eſpecially that
which I have to be
Madam,
Your moſt humble, &c.
The firſt Anſwer.
She Anſwers, that beſides the loſſe
of their converſation, ſhe is vext with
that of the Country: and that ſhe will
never make vow of ſolitude while ſhe
can hope the honour of their company.
MAdam, I muſt begin my
Letter where you end
yours, to aſſure you that I have
too great an opinion of your
good will to thinke it can diminiſh
in my abſence. I beleeve
that my returne will not
augment your friendſhip, but
your joy: And that it will render
you more contented, not
more affectionate: do not imagine
I ſpeake this out of the
good opinion I have of my
ſelfe, but for that I conceive
of your conſtancy; if I
ſhould judge your deſire by
my merit, I ſhould have little
cauſe to lament you: And if
you had no other apprehenſion
of mee, than I have of my
ſelfe, you ſhould bee without
regret, as I am without vanity,
I muſt then, that I may beleeve
you, ſurveigh my ſelfe by another
meaſure: and ought to
thinke that if indeed you have
any greife, tis becauſe I want
the bleſſing of your company
and not you mine; your charity
doubtleſſe gives you this
feeling, and did I take it otherwiſe,
I ſhould declare no leſſe
preſumption, than you doe
courteſie; ſay what you pleaſe
I am farre more worthy, than
you, but it is of compaſſion▪
and wiſh in that we are ſeparated
the cauſe of our ſorrow
were but equall. The advantage
lies on your ſide in being
at Paris, where the greateſt
diſcontent may finde diverſion,
and the ſickeſt ſoule expect
ſome remedy: I on the
contrary, am in a wilde Country,
where all familiarity is a
puniſhment. I am deprived of
yours, and tired with theirs
who are impertinent, and importune.
I have a double cauſe
of paine, the privation of a
great good, and the ſufferance
of a great ill. You cannot be ſo
unhappy at Paris, where I left
you in company good enough
to make you forget mine:
meane while, that I meete
with none here, which make
me not ſigh for yours. Be it ſo
then, that when you thinke on
mee it bee not without griefe,
this cannot equall what I ſuffer
for ſo many excellent
Dames, I alone looſe many,
and all you but one alone. I
ought to reckon the cauſes of
my ſorrow ſo many as you are
moſt accompliſhed Ladies: or
rather ſo many as are the lovely
qualities which each of you
poſſeſſeth. Now if we meaſure
the greatneſſe of diſpleaſure
by that of the object, judge
how much I ſuffer, by what I
have loſt, And you will grant
that I have reaſon to ſeeke my
conſolation where you are. Is
there then any appearance to
feare that I ſhould enure my
ſelfe to the Country, or to
thinke that I can forget you.
Never imagine I meane to
make a vow of ſolitude, while
I dare hope the honour of
your company. I entertaine
my ſelfe but too much with
this good fortune, whereof having
at preſent loſt the poſſeſſion,
I thinke it would bee advantagious
to have alſo loſt
the memory. Nevertheleſſe,
oblivion is a remedy too injurious:
I have too much courage
to conſent to buy my
content at the price of ingratitude;
I had rather be unfortunate
than faulty, I beſeech you
beleeve it, and continue your
prayers for my returne. It muſt
needs bee, that either you are
not in the ſtate of grace, or that
your petitions are unjuſt, ſeeing
they obtaine ſo ſmall
ſucceſſe. I could wiſh that faſting,
and abſtinence from
your walkes might remedy
this; And that you ſhould bee
depriv'd of every pleaſure,
that I might the ſooner obtaine
that of your company, which I
deſive to poſſeſſe with as much
paſſion, as I have to bee all my
life,
Madam,
Your moſt devoted, &c.
The II. Letter.
She entertaines her with a certaine
ſtupide fellow, who is no otherwiſe
happy, but in being ignorant.
MAdam, I muſt needs entertaine
you with this
fellow of whom you write unto
me. I wiſh he might be content,
I thinke he has no reaſon
ſo to be: hee is not happy but
becauſe hee is ignorant, nor
hath hee a quiet ſoule, but becauſe
it is inſenſible. It is no
great marvell that hee is without
diſturbance, ſeeing hee is
without knowledge. Tis not to
be counted a miracle, if thoſe
that are blinde doe not
•
eare
lightning; If they trembl
•
not
like others, they are not therein
the more happy: On the
contrary I ſuppoſe they would
have a good ſight, yea on condition
to have it ſometimes
dazled. You will tell mee I
have read the booke you eſteeme
ſo much, and that my
Letter bewraies it: well, think
what you pleaſe, I beleeve
there is no more danger to
borrow a good thing from a
booke we like, than to gather
fruite from a tree of our owne:
We do not reade them meerely
for pleaſure, but partly for
uſe. But to returne to our man;
I proteſt I deſire not ſuch a
good fortune; I love better the
reſtleſſeneſſe of your Spirit,
than the tranquillity of his, I
ſpeake of thoſe noble cares
which knowledge bringeth
forth; and of that moderate
feare which ſerves but to awake
the ſoule, and not to trouble
it. The happineſſe of theſe
people whereof you write unto
mee, is like to that of men aſleepe,
their ſpirit is quiet, becauſe
it is not capable of diſturbance.
I muſt make you
laugh as I conclude this Letter
at a compariſon, which perhaps
you will judge a little too
high for mee. It ſeemes that
men may bee ſet ſafe from the
blowes of misfortune, as from
thoſe of thunder, by being very
high, or very low; but in
both theſe, albeit, the ſafety
be equal, the glory is not. I had
rather ſcape a tempeſt being on
the mount Olympus, then in a
cave. And to talke like your
booke (the onely one that can
make mee guilty of theft.) I
would rather chooſe to be above,
then below affliction, and
be thereof uncapeable by reaſon,
rather then ſtupidity. I
conclude this then, beſeeching
you to ſpeake no more of that
matter, & not to pleade againſt
your owne Intereſt, in quitting
that of great Spirits. You have
thereof too great a ſhare to renounce.
And if I defend them,
I doe but praiſe a good which
you poſſeſſe, and I deſire. I wiſh
as many good termes to expreſſe
my thoughts upon this
ſubject, as I have deſires to
ſerve you, and to witneſſe on
all occaſions how much I am,
Madam,
Your moſt affectionate, &c.
The ſecond anſwer.
She endeavours to proove that thoſe
that have the leaſt ſpirit, have alſo
the leaſt moleſtation.
MAdam, write what you
liſt for great ſpirits, it
ſeemes to mee they have more
glory, then happineſſe. And
that it is difficult to have great
ſplendor and little care. It is
true they are much eſteemed
which outſhine others: Notwithſtanding
I thinke that with
all this advantage, they may
be compared to the buſh in holy
Scripture, which had much
brightneſſe, but yet was full of
thornes. There are indeed many
ſharpe points under theſe
glorious rayes: There are many
cares which knowledge
encreaſes, rather then cures.
Let us ſpeake freely, and not
ſuffer our ſelves bee charmed
by this ſame faire appearance.
As thoſe that have a feaver
would willingly be leſſe ſenſible
that they might bee leſſe
tormented, ſo I beleeve the
miſerable would wiſh their
knowledge diminiſhed, for to
diminiſh their affliction. In this
we may ſpeake of ſpirits, as of
the ſenſes, the moſt delicate do
ſooneſt feele. Phiſicke likewiſe,
and Philoſophy doe in
the ſame manner heale the unfortunate
and the diſeaſed. The
one ſtupifies the ſenſe, without
which there is no ſorrow:
the other endeavours to withdraw
the attention, without
which there is no ſadneſſe,
whence you may learne that
the moſt ignorant are the leaſt
unfortunate. I deny not but
there are ſome which lift them
ſelves above miſery, and doe
ſurmount it; but I thinke theſe
are very rare: I ſee few that do
reſemble you. And to tell you
who they are, which put themſelves
to moſt paine, I beleeve
they are neither the great nor
the little, but onely the indifferent.
Mee thinkes diſquiet
formes it ſelfe in the ſoule, as
clouds doe in the Aire: The
Sunne ſometimes drawes up
vapours, which afterwards it
can hardly diſperſe; and theſe
middling Spirits precipitate
themſelves into thoſe cares,
from which they can never get
free, whiles great ſpirits overcome
diſcontent, and the leſſer
know it not, the middle ſort are
intangled therein. So Chriſtianity,
reprobates the Lukewarme,
from hope of Salvation,
and morality rejects them
in point of civill felicity. Theſe
then are they which have cauſe
to complaine. And whoſe underſtanding
ſeemes to mee unlucky,
ſince it onely ſerves to
leade them into many Labyrinthes,
but not to conduct thē
out. Have I not then reaſon to
thinke that thoſe which have
leſſe ſpirit, have leſſe paine? If
there bee ſo few which vanquiſh
affliction, is it not ſufficient
that I follow the path moſt
beaten, and content my ſelfe
by ignorance to be below evil,
not being able by Iudgement
to lift my ſelfe above it. Since
the felicity of the loweſt wits
is true, I care not tho it be leſſe
glorious then that of great ſages.
If it be not as noble, ſure
I am tis no leſſe pure, no leſſe
reall. I ſpeak in this my wiſhes,
not my being, for albeit I am
without wit, I am not without
perturbation. I ſuffer the miſfortune
of thoſe who have but
little knowledg, and am deprived
of their advantage, you
know it well enough, and I
doubt not but if you endure my
diſpo
•
ition, tis for my affections
ſake, and the deſire which
I have to be,
Madam,
Your perfect ſervant.
The third Letter.
Shee complaines that men doe ſometimes
fall in love with thoſe that
deſerve it leaſt, and that the deformed
are very often more happy then
the faire.
MAdam theres no neede
goe into Africke, to arrive
at a Country of Monſters,
our own produces but too many
to ſeeke elſewhere objects
of wonder. In fine this young
man hath marryed the old woman,
Tis a choyce worthy of
ſhame for himſelfe, of envy for
many, of admiration for all, we
are young, and it is to us a
ſtrange thing to ſee that in our
dayes, ſhe hath found a fortune
ſo prodigious, in the decline of
hers, And that any ſhould fall
in love with her, Albeit ſhee
wants the three goods, which
are thereof the ordinary cauſe,
for ſhe is neither faire, nor rich,
nor young. I do not doubt but
ſhe hath experience, ſure I am
ſhe hath age enough to get it:
but I cannot ceaſe to admire
that any man could fancy her
with all her knowledge. If ſhe
deſerved to be ſought unto, it
was like ſome Sibil, I meane to
be conſulted, not beloved, I
thinke ſhe is more fit to teach,
then to pleaſe, and more worthy
to have Schollers then Suiters,
what will they ſay of Lidian?
will it not ſeeme that he
had more charity then love, &
that he tooke her not, but out
of meere pitty to ſuccour oldage.
If ſtrangers finde them together,
they will take her for
his mother, not his wife. I doe
not yet tell you all, I proteſt I
cannot. Nature gave her nothing
amiable, which old age
could take from her. Time cannot
raviſh away thoſe goods
ſhee never poſſeſt. All it could
doe, is onely to make her more
aged, not more ill favoured.
She is rather an old deformity
then, woman. It might well
deprive her of ſtrength, but not
of beauty. It hath toucht nothing
but her haire, and by this
ſhe is a gainer, ſince of red it
is become white, I ſpeake nothing
but truth, although I write
in choller. But I ought ſo to
proceede, and there is no appearance
of reaſon to approve,
that the deformed ſhould be
ſued to, and the faire ſlighted.
Muſt they which want all merit,
enjoy ſo much good fortune,
and our Belinde be forſaken?
I know well the cuſtome
is ancient, and that this diſorder
hath been begunne before
our age. It is no newes that fortune
ſhould be ſparing of her
favors where nature hath been
prodigall of hers, but this imports
not much nor doth it leſſen
my deſpight. The examples
I have read in ſtory affect mee
not ſo much as that of Belinde.
Albeit, we know that death is
inevitable, we omit not to lament
our friends departed.
And tho we be certaine of this
truth, that it is a fate ordinary
to perſons moſt deſerving, It
ceaſes not to be irke ſome to us.
This is the cauſe of my diſtemper:
and I thinke there is none
that hath a thought contrary to
mine, if he know the merit as
well as the misfortune of faire
Belinde. You know the affection
which I beare her, and I
wiſh ſome meanes to teſtifie
unto you, That which I have
to remaine,
Madam,
Your moſt obedient, &c.
The third Anſwer.
Shee ſhewes that this Marriage will
be more happy then is thought. Andſends her a paralell to the newes ſhe
had received.
MAdam I finde the choiſe
of Lydian as worthy of
praiſe, as you depaint it full of
blame. You ought not to be
ſo ſpightfull to him, nor envious
to her he loves. To deſire
Belinde ſhould be happy. It is
not needfull Bumante be not ſo.
You may wiſh good to the one
without harme to the other.
By your diſcourſe it ſhould
ſeeme Fortune hath not wherwith
to pleaſe both, and that
ſhe can give nothing to the old
which ſhee takes not from the
young. You will change your
opinion, If you conſider what
is neceſſary for Lydian. Hee
hath neede of a governeſſe as
well as of a wife: and ſeeing
they are both obliged to enjoy
their goods in common, their
marriage ſhall have of all ſorts.
He hath for her, riches, and
beauty, ſhe hath for him wiſedome,
and age. He looketh upon
that in her, which leaſt periſheth
in al others, I meane the
qualities of the ſoule, rather
then thoſe of the face. It often
happens that time effacing the
faire feature, effaces from our
ſoules affection bred by beauty.
Tis there that he is exempted
from inconſtancy, and ſhall
never be ſubject to repent. But
in what humour did you write
this Letter: you ſay that Numante
is imperfect without
touching the good ſhe injoyes.
Hath ſhee not Prudence, and
Vertue? And without theſe
two qualities, what will all the
reſt availe us? I ſhould like an
Angell better under a viſage
ſomething deformed, then a
devill with all the beauty of
the world. Her converſation
is pleaſing, and profitable, hee
will become an honeſt man in
her company; and if others
ceaſe to be Miſtreſſes after
their marriage, this ſhall then
beginne, ſee the advantage he
ſhall get, and then judge if you
have reaſon to finde fault with
the Wife, or blame the Huſband.
But I muſt returne you
like for like in matter of newes:
and make you ſee by theſe, that
wee alſo are in a Countrey of
Monſters. We have a Woman
in our County, whom all the
world eſteemes lovely: And
which nevertheleſſe is farre
gone in affection to a certaine
man, without any cauſe imaginable,
more then Lydian can
pretend for Numante. Hardly
hath he a face like others, and I
thinke were he found among
a company of Apes he would
be taken for a brother: conſider
well all his p
•
rts, it is impoſſible
to finde any which
merit patience, ſo much does
he want thoſe which may procure
Love; meane time he is
happie, albeit he deſerve it not;
but it is time to finiſh this, wch
is enough to ſhew you, how
many have cauſe to complaine
of fortune, and I eſpecially,
ſince ſhe hath alwayes beene
ſo contrary to me, that till this
preſent I could never finde any
good occaſion to ſerve you, or
to expreſſe how much I am
Madam
Your moſt affectionate, &c.
The fourth Letter.
Being derided by ſome for ſaying to a
greater perſonage then her ſelfe I
Love you: ſhe labours to prove
that this forme of ſpeech is good.
MAdam, I am not afraid
to write unto you againe
that I love you; and thoſe that
accuſe me of ignorance, becauſe
I uſe this word, can never
cleere themſelves, they
know no more the lawes of
Phyloſophy, than thoſe of civility,
the word Love expreſſes
reſpect, better than that of
feare. And I know not why
men take it ill, ſince God himſelfe
is contented with it, when
he ſayes that we ſhould adore
him, he ſayes alſo that wee
ſhould Love him. I ſay more
he contents not himſelfe to
permit, but he commands it.
Tis ſtrange to ſee how farre
the vanity of man extends:
which is not ſatisfied with the
ſame termes that God would
have us employ, to expreſſe
the reſpect we owe him. Are
we equall unto him, if wee ſay
wee Love him? or have men
reaſon to demand more of one
another than God himſelfe
demands of them? but leave
wee theſe divine arguments,
there are enough humane,
feare may well be without
Love, but Love never without
feare; ſlaves may feare and yet
not Love, but children cannot
Love, and not feare: Tis ſhallow
to ſay that the word Love
imports equality; children are
not ſo great as their Parents,
albeit they Love them. The
leaſt may Love the greateſt,
for men may Love God. I
thinke alſo that this manner of
ſpeech doth not diſpleaſe you:
ſince you like to be beloved,
you ſhould not loath to heart
it; finally doe not beleeve that
I honour you the leſſe for ſaying
I Love you. This faſhion
of expreſſion, ſhewes the exceſſe
of my affection, not of
my boldneſſe. I love you then,
and am more than any perſon
of the world,
Madam,
Your honourer,
The fourth Anſwer.
Shee prooves that wee may not ſay to
greater perſons we Love them, but
we Honour them.
MAdam, I ſaw your Letter
in the hands of Celinde,
who hath commanded mee to
anſwer it: otherwiſe I had
hardly beene able to reſolve
upon it. I doe love my opinions
ſo well that I would maintaine
them with diſpute. I abandon
them freely to every
aſſailant, and finde more reliſh
in peace, than glory. If I could
overcome you I ſhould like
better it ſhould be by my reſpects,
than my reaſons, this
victory ſhould be more agreeable
to my duty, and my humour.
If I thought to diſpleaſe
you, I would deſire your Couſin
to diſpenſe me the labour:
and ſhould aſſuredly beleeve
my obedience blameable. I
would not endanger the loſſe
of your friendſhip to defend a
word or a ſillable. I am not ſo
blinde to violate the lawes of
civility to maintaine thoſe of
Grammar. I could likewiſe
tell you that you ſhould not
put your ſelfe in choler againſt
one that hath no intent to diſquiet
you: and which had never
blamed this forme of
ſpeech, if ſhe had thought you
would have undertaken to defend
it, but ſince in your letter
you have toucht ſo neere the
quicke, as to make my opinion
paſſe forridiculous, ſuffer me in
a few words to make it appeare
reaſonable. It ſeemes to me
then that ſpeaking to thoſe above
us; its better to ſay wee
honour them, than to ſay onely
we love them. I thinke it
would make the Court laugh
heartily, if one ſhould ſay to
the Queene in a Complement,
Madam I love you. It may be
this would paſſe in another
Country, or in another age:
but ſeeing we ought to accommodate
our language to thoſe
that live with us, there is no
reaſon to reigle our civility by
that of Pharamond or of China.
I am not much taken with
Proverbes, excepting thoſe of
Solomon, but yet I muſt tell you
I like that which counſels to
live, as few doe, but to ſpeake
with the moſt, wee ought not
to doe as others, but to ſpeake
like them: our actions we muſt
conforme to reaſon, but our
words to cuſtome. Tis a vanity
to play the Philoſopher upon
every name, to ſee if it doe
well expreſſe the nature of the
thing, we ought in this rather
to follow uſe than argument,
but I am content to employ
both the one and the other to
cleere our difficulty; as for uſe
tis plaine enough on my ſide,
and now let us ſee if reaſon be
contrary. Is it not true that
wee ought to entertaine great
perſons with diſcourſe witneſſing
our ſubmiſſion. And I
leave you to thinke if this
word imploying reverence, be
not fitter for this than that of
love, or friendſhip, ſince when
a Nobleman ſayes I love you:
A vaſſall cannot reply as much
without treating him like an equall,
what difference ſhould
there then be betweene the
Complements of the high and
the low, and wherein ſhould
the Language of Authority be
diſtinguiſhed from that of obedience?
that which they
ſay for fathers, may be ſaid
for all others on whom we depend.
Love doth never aſcend
which ſhewes not onely that
Children doe not returne as
much love as they receive
from their Parents; but alſo
that they ought not to ſay they
love them, but when Parents
promiſe affection, Children
muſt offer obedience; this
Complement muſt not remount
to the ſpring, not that
we are not obliged to love
them, but our love in this place
muſt expreſſe it ſelfe by the
mouth of feare. And whereas
you ſay that God commands
we love him, and a word
which pleaſes him ſhould not
diſpleaſe men: I will anſwere
onely, that in the ſame place
he commands alſo that wee adore
him, and that he requires
feare as well as love; or I may
cite one Law for another. If
God will that we love him,
he wils alſo that we honour
our Parents. It ſeemes to me
there is great difference betweene
the honour we owe to
him, and that we render unto
men; he requires our conſciences,
and demands rather the
motions of the heart, then the
words of the mouth: he hath
no neede of any man, but wee
have neede one of another, he
craves the ſervice of the heart,
and men want that of the hand▪
he deſires not our actions, except,
becauſe they proceede
from love; and men oft times
ſeeke not affection, but onely
for the profitable effects which
it produceth, ſay what you liſt
wee draw more ſervice from
ſlaves, which feare without
love, then from thoſe which
love without feare Love doth
often aſpire to equality, but
feare doth alwayes containe
within reſpect. Men therefore
are to ſeeke that which is moſt
aſſured, whileſt God loves nothing
in us, but that which is
moſt noble. This is the reaſon
that ſpeaking to thoſe of higher
degree then our ſelves, tis
better to ſay we honour them,
then, we love them; this Complement
doth more pleaſe, and
the terme of reſpect doth better
expreſſe our dependance
than that of love or friendſhip.
I could purſue this matter, and
bring many other reaſons to
maintaine my cauſe, but it ſufficeth
me to ſhew that it is not ſo
ridiculous as you deſcribe it.
I neede not ſo many proofes,
tis enough that I have cuſtome
on my ſide, ſince our language,
and civility, doe abſolutely depend
thereupon, but to finiſh
this Letter, I muſt make you a
complement according to reaſon,
and not according to your
humour, and while you ſay to
others that you love them, I aſſure
you that I honour you. Never
change your faſhion of
ſpeech: I am well content that
you love mee onely, and ſhall
therefore reſpect you in the
quality.
Madam
Of your moſt humble, &c.
The fifth Letter.
Shee profeſſeth how timorous ſhee is to
displeaſe her, adjoyning that if ſhee
write ſeldome ſhe feares to be deemed
unthankefull; if often, importune.
MAdam, the deſire I have
to pleaſe you, is ſo tyed
to the feare of all ſucceſſe, that
I perceive my ſelfe alwaies obliged
to beg your pardon, be it
that you heare much newes or
very little from me. If I write
rarely to you, I feare to be ingratefull,
if frequently, troubleſome.
Nevertheleſſe, if I
muſt needes be guilty, I ſhould
hope a more eaſie remiſſion of
the firſt then ſecond crime. I
beleeve you will ſooner excuſe
a want of power then of will. It
is true that the deſire depends
upon our liberty, but the effect
commonly upon Fortune, you
know it well enough; and therfore
the conſideration of your
goodneſſe miniſters me more
aſſurance, then my owne defects
doubt. I freely confeſſe
my inability, to write good
Letters; but I thinke tis more
acceptable to have an affection
to doe you ſervice, then eloquence
to offer it. And what
imports it in this occaſion, to
violate the Lawes of Rhetorique,
provided wee obſerve
thoſe of friendſhip. I had rather
paſſe faithfull, then able. It
troubles me little tho your opinion
be bad of my judgment,
ſo it be good of my affection,
and the deſire I have to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The fifth Anſwer.
She replies, that ſhe doth ill to diſtruſt
acceptance whether ſhe write, or not.
MAdam, it muſt needes be,
that you have an ill opinion
of my humour, ſeeing you
are ſo much afraide not to bee
able to ſatiſfy it. Albeit it ſhold
be croſſe to all others, I would
endeavour to render it conformable
to yours. In this my inclination
ſtrayes not from my
duty; and pardon mee if I tell
you, you know mee not, ſince
you feare me. If you were well
acquainted with the opinion I
have of your merit, you could
not faile in that you ought to
have of my obſervance. I can
aſſure you that all the thoughts
of my ſoule are ſo ſubmiſſe to
thoſe of yours, that tis impoſſible
but you ſhould content me.
If you write often, I take it for
an effect of your courteſie. If
rarely, I attribute your ſilence
to your employments and affaires.
Moreover, you cannot
be unthankefull to a perſon that
never obliged you, nor troubleſome
to her which adores
all that you approve, you have
too much courage to want wil,
and too much power, not to
produce the effects may witneſſe
it, but why doe you handle
me in this ſort by your Letter?
you thanke me for a good
turne which I make you but
deſire, and you have not yet received.
And you write to mee
with ſo much civility, that you
make me in caſe not to be able
to returne juſt thanks for yours,
and then you ſay further, that
you want not onely occaſions
to gratifie mee, but words to
ſhew the deſire you have to do
it. Thinke what you liſt, certainely
I ſee none that can expreſſe
themſelves with a better
grace: and if you be not ſatiſfied
with your own diſcourſes,
and writings, beleeve it, your
opinion is ſingular. For my ſelf,
I finde them ſo agreeable that
beſides the content I have to
underſtand by your Letters
that you love mee, I finde my
ſelfe all joy, reading the ſweet
language you employ to aſſure
me thereof. I want an equall
pen to praiſe yours, and therefore
content my ſelfe to averre
the excellence, without endevouring
to deſcribe it: I apprehend
the goodneſſe of it, but
cannot expreſſe it. Iudge then
if your feare bee reaſonable;
ſince mine is onely this, not to
receive newes from you ſo frequently,
as I wiſh, and not to
give you evidence enough how
much I am
Madam,
Your most &c.
The ſixt Letter.
She acknowledgeth that it is ſufficient
to ſuffer her Letters, without doing
her the honour to deſire them.
MAdam, I received no leſſe
aſtoniſhment then joy,
when I learn
•
d by yours, that
you deſire mine. I thought
your ſufferance honor enough,
could not aſpire to be requeſted.
You tell mee that to make
you happy I need doe no more
but write. If it be ſo, I ſhall ſo
overlade you with number,
that you ſhall ſoone have cauſe
to complaine your felicity, inſupportable.
It ſhall not be
long ere you forbid mee that
you now command. If there
be as you ſay no more to doe
to diſpell ſickneſſe, you neede
henceforth never diſtruſt the
loſſe of health, but take heede
the remedy be not more troubleſome
then the diſeaſe. I
know well enough what I
ought thinke of it: if I ſhould
beleeve it, I ſhould be no leſſe
ſimple, then you covetous. I
acknowledge no leſſe kindnes
in your letters then in your entertainement,
but however, it
ſhall not trouble mee to write
unto you, ſince you command
it, provided that you promiſe
me an anſwer, I ſhall be glad
to ſend bad Letters to gaine
good; but if in mine you cannot
finde vivacity enough to content
you, I hope at leaſt that
you ſhall obſerve a great affection
to ſerve you, and to be all
my life
Madam,
Your, &c.
The ſixt Anſwer.
She aſſures her that ſhee cannot heare
from her too oft.
MAdam, I know not why
you ſay the care I have
to heare from you, does no l
•
ſſe
aſtoniſh, then content you.
This deſire in no wiſe deſerves
your admiration, ſeeing tis long
ſince that I have made you underſtand
it: nor your joy, ſince
it can procure you nought but
trouble, you ſhould not marvell,
if I demand ſome witneſſe
of your remembrance: It cannot
be, but you have forgotten
the requeſt I made you, when I
was at Paris, and I acknowledge
that you have yet neede
be ſollicited, to doe a favour
that you have promiſed. Not
able to enjoy your entertainement,
you muſt not wonder, if
I demand your Letters; And
if ſeeing my ſelfe depri
•
ed of
ſo great a good, I have recourſe
to the only remedy of my loſſe
Tis a favour ſo great, that the
poſſeſſion, in ſtead of quenching,
encreaſes the deſire. Finally
let it not trouble you to reſtifie
your friendſhip, and ſeeke
no more proofes for one that is
wholl perſwaded. However I
could ſay in your behalfe, that
you ſhould not be ſimple to
beleeve it, nor I over covetous
to affirme it; for tis a truth,
which is enough to free you
from error, me from flattery. I
delight to ſpeake of what you
wiſh, and I owe you; I have
neither praiſe enough for your
merit, nor thankes enough for
your courteſie, nor can I ever
ſatisfie the one, or the other,
but by the extreame deſire I
have to be
Madam,
Your, &c.
The ſeventh Letter.
She ſaith that the ſociety of the Countrey
is inſupportable, and that ſhee
leſſe feares their contempt, then
their importunity.
MAdam, I can no more, I
am at point to loſe my
reputation, or my health, whether
I ſuffer theſe troubleſome
clownes, or tell them the diſtaſte
their ignorance merits. It
ſeemes my Caſtle is like the
Pallace of Apollidon, where a
world was ſtill ſeene enter, and
goe out by troupes, my reſolution
is ſet, I had rather it
were a Deſert, then a Court. I
wiſh that they who have no
qualities requiſite for ſociety,
had at leaſt an inclination to ſolitude,
but their humor imports
me nothing, I had rather ſatiſfie
my owne, then the civilities
of the Countrey; to what end
ſhould I give them contentment
at my owne coſt, and live
alwaies in conſtraint to acquire
the reputation of being courteous?
I ſee no recompence for
the paines I ſhould take: and
whatever happen, I will no
longer play ſo troubleſome a
part. The compariſon is not
amiſſe, ſince to pleaſe them I
diſeaſe my ſelfe no leſſe, then
thoſe on a Theater to content
the ſpectators, who ſtraine
themſelves both in voyce and
geſture: I muſt renounce this
confuſion, and reading, or dreaming
paſſe the time. I know
there be
•
ad boo
•
es, but tis an
eaſier matter to ſhift a bad Auther
t
•
en bad company Books
doe not importune us againſt
our will, how dangerous ſoeverthey
be, they are unmoving
enemies, which cannot come
at us, if we ſeeke not them. If
they vex us, we may caſt them
away, or teare them (if we liſt)
they cannot complaine; it is
not ſo with theſe petty Sirs,
which never ceaſe prating, tis
not ſo eaſie to make them ſilent
as to ſhut a Booke. I thinke it
bett
•
r not to ſee them at all,
then to ſeek occaſions to ſuffer
them. I am reſolved what to
invent for faſhions ſake to keep
them off: I will make it be noiſed
abroad that I am ſicke. and
and ſo I ſhall quickely be, if I
ſuffer them continue their viſits,
tis better I ſuppoſe to
ſeeme, then to be ſo: better
to deceive then anger them;
to oblige them to lament, then
to complaine of me, but whatever
happen, if my device ſucceede
not, I like their neglect
better then their officiouſnes:
and had rather put them in a
humor of rayling, then complement.
The greateſt ill I
feare, is their company: and I
ſhall alwayes have more patience
for the effects of their hatred,
then for thoſe of their
good will, ſee my reſolution:
which it it ſeeme to you unreaſonable,
give mee the meanes
to vanquiſh it, and you ſhall
quickely perceive, that I have
not yet any deſigne contrary to
that of obeying you, and teſtifying
by all meanes poſſible
that I am perfectly
Madam
Your, &c.
The ſeventh Anſwer.
She counſels her to straine her ſelfe a
little, to ſuffer company leſſe agreeable,
and that ſhee betray no contempt,
for feare of receiving it.
MAdam, never complaine
of the Countrey you are
in: if there be affection without
civility, here is civility
without affection. I ſhould rather
chooſe a freedome ſomewhat
rude, then diſſimulation
with all the ſweeteneſſe of the
world. As there is no paint can
make mee love deformity; ſo
there is no ſupplenes, nor cunning
can make me ſuffer ſcorne.
Change then your reſolution,
if you have taken that not to
be ſeene. Tis better to receive
diſpleaſing complements, then
expoſe your ſelfe to publicke
diſpleaſure. Remember your
ſelfe, that if we muſt ſeeke the
approbation of few, we muſt
flye the detraction of all, wee
owe our opinions to truth, our
countenance to opinion, for
their faſhion of living, or diſcourſe,
you may laugh at them
in your ſleeve, provided outwardly
you ſeeme to approve
them. I beſeech you conſider
that the ſubject of your choller
would ſerve for recreation to
many others; who would goe
to ſeeke in the Countrey that
which you there thinke inſupportable,
without doubt you
will be thought of a bad humour,
if you cannot with patience
ſuffer thoſe that offer you
their ſervice. If they tender
not their duty with a good
grace, take their affection, and
make ſport at their ceremonies
accept their purpoſe, and laugh
at their diſcourſe, otherwiſe
you will paſſe for unthankeful,
and uncivill, know you not alſo
that Chriſtianity bindes us to
ſupport the weakeneſſe of our
neighbours? and ſince they
love you, you ought to tolerate
them, both by reaſon, and religion.
Charity obliges you
thereto as well as Pleaſure.
It is no ſmall matter to
gaine the affections of people;
and therefore wee ſhould be
carefull to leave a good ſmell
where we come. This is my advice,
and ſince you doe me the
honour to demand it, I hope it
ſhall not prove diſtaſtefull, but
you will take it for a teſtimony
of the affection I have to be
Madam
Your, &c.
The eight Letter.
Shee complaines of the diſorders at
Paris, and prefers the dive
•
ſions of
the Country to thoſe of the Court.
MAdam, for the newes I
receive of the change of
ſtates and Provinces, I can returne
you none but that of the
fall of leaves, and change of
ſeaſons, I meane for great matters,
I can only ſend you little.
Thinke not for all this I complaine
of the place where I am,
if the remembrance of your
company occaſions mee ſome
griefe, that of your diſtractions
lends me no envy, when I
conſider you in the diſorders
at Paris, I cannot but lament
you: Perhaps you do as much
for me, and eſteeme my condition
more worthy of pitty then
yours, but I aſſure my ſelfe you
would change your opinion,
had you tarryed ſome while in
the countrey; you ſhould find
that the Country life hath pleaſures
more ſolid, then that of
the Court, & that nature there
gives us true contentments,
whiles Fortune elſewhere
makes us but taſte thoſe that
are imaginary, it happens oft
that the happieſt at Court, reſemble
thoſe that run after an
inchanted Hare, they ſee alwaies
what to hope for, ſeldome
whereof to rejoyce; this
is not to be happy, but to be abuſed.
Inſomuch that taking away
the errour of Courtiers,
you take from them all their
delights. Thoſe which ſhew
them the truth of their miſery,
doe them no leſſe hurt, then if
they awakt them from a pleaſing
dreame. But it is not you
that neede be entertained with
this diſcourſe; I know well enough
you have no thoughts
but very reaſonable: And if
you ſtay at Court, tis not becauſe
you finde much ſweeteneſſe
there; but becauſe you
are enured to ſuffer the troubles,
and incommodities that
are inſeparable, when you call
me back to Paris, tel me not that
it is to enjoy the allurements
there to be found, to make me
returne, it is enough to know
that you are there, but for your
company, which renders every
place delectable, I could ſay
that the Conntrey is the object
of my deſire, Paris of my patience.
I ſtay in the one by inclination,
in the other by conſtraint,
this is as much as I can
ſay of it. And now I thanke you
for all the particularities that
you have taught me, whereof
the exchange will ſtill be after
the old faſhion: I meane inſtead
of good deedes, you get from
mee nothing but bare words,
and a very ſimple aſſurance, but
very true, that I am
Madam
Your, &c.
The eight Anſwer.
She replies that the recreations of the
country are not more ſolid, but more
groſſe, not more innocent, but more
rude.
MAdam, be not ſo violent
againſt the delights of
Paris, they are more worthy of
your deſire, then your contempt,
you are in the wrong to
raile againſt thoſe pleaſures, no
leſſe innocent then reall. And I
can hardly beleeve that you
ſpeake in good earneſt: but rather
to ſhew the goodneſſe of
your wit, then the truth of your
opinion. Tis then to your letter,
not your intent I anſwer. I
eſteeme you too capeable to
give, and take delight in company,
to thinke you have made
a vow of ſolitude, and that this
deſigne would prove contrary
to your owne humour, as well
as our wiſhes. I ſhould thinke
it ſtrange that you ſhould fall
in love with the Countrey, after
you have thereof reſtified
ſo much horrour, you ſay that
the recreations there found are
more ſolid: I ſhould rather ſay
they are more dull. Your pleaſures
are not more innocent,
but more ſalvage. It muſt
needes be that you have no
memory, ſince you have no
ſorrow; but whatſoever you
ſay, I thinke it be not ſo: and
that there is not ſo much conſtancy
in your ſpirit, as in your
letter. What finde you out of
Paris that can ſo much enchant
you? you meane the chanting
of birds; and do you more eſteeme
the note of a Nightingall,
than thoſe of our muſitians?
d'ye love a bagpipe better
than a lute? you ſee the
flocks, you ſee the ſhepherdeſſes
runne, you goe a hunting, all
this may bee called country
pleaſure, and after all this you
have nothing, but wee have
here the ſame. We ſee flowers,
and eate fruites aſwell as you:
you have the onely advantage
to ſee them gathered, or rather
the diſadvantage. I like the
compariſon of thoſe who ſay,
that if the world be a great body,
country villages make the
hands, the feete, the nayles, and
the haire; and that the Cities
are like the ſtomacke, which
receives all, and poſſeſſes thoſe
goods which others provide
for it. Finally, I know not how
you can ſay, you are in a place
of true pleaſures, when you are
among the miſerable. Change
then your opinion, and come
backe to Paris, where all the
world deſites you, but more
than all the reſt of the world,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The ninth Letter.
She complaines of the inconſtancy of a
certaine man, and ſaith it is ordinary
to thoſe of his ſexe.
MAdam, at length my prophecies
are accompliſht,
and what I foreſaw is come to
paſſe. The man is yet alive, and
his affection which ought to
live alwayes, dead for ever. So
many oathes as hee made of
conſtancy ſerve but to encreaſe
his crime; as if hee had
not beene guilty enough to
owne the quality of unconſtant,
except hee added that of
perjur'd. Theſe chances have
not ſurpriſed mee, ſince I alwaies
expected them from the
very birth of his friendſhippe;
and the yeares hee hath worne
out in a will to ſerve me, have
wrought mee to no other beliefe.
I know well that lightneſſe
to their ſexe is like death
to all the world, which arrives
to ſome ſooner, to others later,
but with a little difference of
time is inevitable to all. How
could he, being but a man doe
a miracle, and remaine conſtant?
I ſhould have judged it
impoſſible, if I had hoped it.
The unavoydable neceſſity
which carries all of his ſexe to
change, forbids me to reply, or
to reproach. This is not the deſigne
obliges me to write: but
rather to make him know that
being unable to change humour,
I have not loſt the eſteeme
I made of his love. My
thoughts of him have alwayes
beene reaſonable, conformd to
civility, and vertue, and being
able to conſerve them without
fault, I ſhall keepe them the
reſt of my life, but if I preſerve
ſo good an opinion of thoſe
who have loſt affection, judge
how much I ſhall reſpect thoſe
which love mee as your ſelfe:
and if I am not like to remaine
conſtant in the purpoſe I have
to ſerve you, and to be whilſt I
live,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The ninth Anſwere.
She ſhewes that inconſtancy is no more
naturall to men then women, and reprehends
her overcredulous humor.
MAdam, it is no great glory
to be ſuch a Prophet
as you: it is eaſie to judge that
men may change: they are no
more immoveable then immortall.
Their deſignes are
capeable of alteration, as well
as their life: but what ſay you
in this, that men cannot ſay of
women? Albeit, either Sexe
may invent for their advantage,
I beleeve that inconſtancy
is no leſſe common to both,
then death it ſelfe. I cannot
comprehend, how our reſolutions
ſhould be leſſe light, nor
why the opinions of the weaker
ſex ſhould be more ſtrong.
I ſpeake onely for truth, not againſt
you nor my ſelfe. I know
that there are ſome more conſtant
then many men: but that
which I can ſay of ſome particulars
without flattery, I cannot
ſay of the generall without
error. I doe not offend the conſtant,
to maintaine that ſome
are not, how much this is more
rare, ſo much it is more laudable,
that vertue is moſ
•
glorious
to the practiſe of which we
are leaſt diſpoſed. Many have
no leſſe paine to be conſtant, amidſt
ſo many occaſions to
loſe it, then to carry a torch
lighted, when the winde from
every corner offers to blow it
out, but I will no longer entertaine
you with this ſubject, I
content my ſelfe to ſay, that
we ought not to reproach all
men in general, bnt onely ſome
particulars with inconſtancy,
he of whom you complaine is
of this number, and there is no
colourable reaſon, that finding
one culpable, we ſhould judge
ſo of all the reſt, your complaint
is a little unjuſt, and I find
by reading your Letter, that
an angry woman hardly keepes
moderation, in venting of her
choller: it ſeemes to me notwithſtanding,
that you have
had leaſure to diſpoſe you to
patience: and ſince you alwaies
had ſome ſuſpition, the event
ſhould not ſurpriſe you, your
foreſight ſhould diminiſh your
admiration, and your griefe,
would you know more cleerely
my intention. If you had any
conjecture of his naturall
maladie, you ſhould have interrupted
the tragedy, if I
had foreſeen his deſigne, I had
prevented him by a generous
contempt, not entertained him
with ſufferance. I had remedyed
the ill I knew, not taken
pleaſure to receive offers of
ſervice, which I ſuſpected, I ſee
well enough how you are abuſed;
you had ſome doubt of
his lightneſſe, but no aſſurance,
otherwiſe I ſhould judge you
more worthy to be jeer'd then
pittyed. Finally you will needs
play the conſtant, for thoſe
that meane nothing leſſe. It
ſeemes by your letter that you
doe yet hold him in ſome eſteeme,
but I know not what
merit, you find in a perſon that
does not acknowledge yours.
nor can I imagine him guilty
of wit that hath ſlighted his
owne good fortune, or able to
make a handſome choiſe, that
hath once quitted you. I ſuppoſe
how it goes? you are, it
may be, of the humour of many,
who have the miſfortune
to be inclined to thoſe who
have neither affection, nor deſert,
and who are paſſionate for
them that are neither amorous
nor amiable. I wiſh I be deceived,
and that my prophecies be
alwaies falſe, when they are
not to your advantage, they
may notwithſtanding prove ſo
to you, if you flye the evill I
foretell, and if you give no
more opportunity to have
your goodnes abuſed by thoſe
that know your facility. I ſpeak
according to my heart, aſwell
as according to my duty, and I
thinke you will take nothing ill
of what I write, ſeeing all the
liberty I uſe proceeds but from
the extreame deſire I have to
be,
Madam
Your, &c.
The X. Letter.
Shee tels what the vulgar thinkes of
brave ſpirits.
MAdam, I proteſt, I ſhall
hardly content you, and
albeit all the world diſcourſes
of brave ſpirits, it ſeemes to me
nevertheleſſe, that they agree
not in their deſcription. I will
tell you nothing of my opinion
but that of others: and will rather
aſſure you what they ſay
of them, then what they are in
effect, doe not then abuſe your
ſelfe touching my purpoſe; I
have no other, but to write to
you ſome of the abſurdities
which they attribute to them,
and not to combat them by
reaſon. And I think to ſet them
downe, is enough to confute
them, and to ſhew their extravagancy,
ſufficient to bring thē
in hatred. I will tell you then,
that one of their principall
maximes is to condemne all,
they cannot comprehend: as if
their opinion ought to be the
rule of our actions, and nothing
were reaſonable, but what is
thereto conformable: by their
ſayings, the vertue which wiſe
men follow, is b
•
them accounted,
but a Chimera. Religion
overthrowes their ſenſe, and
with an ignorance and impiety
without paralell, they find not
onely what to reforme in the
providence of men, but alſo in
that of God himſelf; in ſo much
that there is nothing divine, nor
humane, wherein they find no
blemiſh. I leave you to judge,
if it be ſo, how much this ſect
ſhould be abhord by thoſe that
have ſoule or conſcience. Nevertheleſſe,
tis a misfortune
that the novelty of this (with
ſome dexterity, they obſerve
to eſtabliſh it) gaines the beliefe
of ma
•
y, who admire, if
they doe follow them. Theſe
brave ſpirits ſay, that they are
bent againſt none, but bad opinions,
and that their chiefe
aime is to reſtore reaſon, and
vertue to their ancient force.
Howbeit, they are accuſed to
oppoſe both the one, and the
other, to the end they may the
better eſtabliſh licentiouſneſſe,
and vice. I could ſay more but
I would have my words as innocent
as my thoughts. And alſo
I feare to deſcribe them rather
according to the errour of
the world, then according to
the truth of their being. let us
leave then what they ſay of
their conſcience, to ſpeake of
that they ſee in their countenance,
let us quit their actions,
to entertaine our ſelves with
their lookes. If they have not
faults enough to condemne
them, at leaſt they have markes
viſible enough to make them
be knowne. They have certaine
deportments, whereby
when they would demonſtrate
the force, they ſhew but to
much the feebleneſſe of their
ſoules. If their life fright you,
their countenance makes you
laugh; and if they be Atheiſts
in heart, they are Buffons in
converſation. You ſhall ſee
ſome of theſe fellowes retire
from the company, the ha
•
puld downe in their eyes, the
band out of order, and bigger
then ordinary, ſtriking with
their feete againſt the ground.
Inſtead of being aſhamed of
themſelves they perke up and
downe every where, and doe
not onely make private places
the witneſſes of their folly, but
alſo the publicke, as the
•
ourt,
the Exchange, the Walkes,
with all their ſtudyed poſtures
they would paſſe for great perſons,
never thinking that their
apiſh trickes, doe better reſemble
madmen, then ſages. Nevertheleſſe,
they take them for
ſignes of a brave ſpirit, and
would have their ſtupidity,
paſſe for vigour, their coldneſſe
for prudence. They call their
ſilence an effect of that divine
raviſhment, which is the mother
of beautious thoughts,
thus they name their defects,
and would have their ſottiſhneſſe
paſſe for ſageneſſe. This
dazzles but the vulgar, and catches
thoſe onely which love
novelty better then reaſo
•
. But
let us paſſe on. They offend
not onely in the beleife they
hold of themſelves, but in that
they have of others, they
ſeeme diſpleaſed, and are diſtaſted
even with the beſt things.
Although any ſpeak excellent
well in their company, they
give, or deny their approbation
by a nod, or a ſmile. Theſe are
the judges of our diſcourſe, and
our actions. Rarely doe they
give a perfect praiſe: they find
that ſolid ſpirits are groſſe, poliſhed,
light, or ignorant. If any
good word eſcape them, as it
may happen ſometimes by
chance, tis ſtrange to heare
with what accent they pronounce
it. But we have ſpoken
enough of them; that which
they doe to acquire the eſteem
of the world loſes it, they
would paſſe for wiſe, and are
thought extravagant. Never
ſect was leſſe followed th
•
n
theirs: and I thinke they are alone
in their opinion, when
they think well of themſelves.
This is what I have to write
touching the judgement many
make of brave ſpirits. I pray
you beleeve this Letter is none
of the leaſt witneſſes of my
complacency, ſince not being
uſed to ſpeake of what I know
not, I have notwithſtanding
broken my purpoſe, to obey
you without reſerve, and to teſtify
the abſolute power which
you have
Madam,
Over Your, &c.
The X. Anſwer.
Shee defends great ſpirits provided
they be not impious.
MAdam, having well read
your Letter, I am much
aſtoniſht, that a perſon like you
in reputation for a noble ſpirit,
would blame thoſe that reſemble
you, giving no other reaſon,
ſave that their opinions
are not conformable to the
vulgar. Certainely, if I were
to make their apology, I would
begin their praiſe, where you
begin their accuſation. Ought
we not to eſteeme their worth,
if they had rather do well, then
doe like others? They know
that imitation ſhould have ei
•
s
to ſee if the example be good,
or evill; and that it is not enough
to make the blind walke
with aſſurance, that they have
guides, if they know not alſo
that theſe guides know to conduct
them, they have reaſon to
beleeve, that it is better ta
•
e
the right way, with a few wiſe,
then wander with a multitude
offooles. And to ſay, that if
they be reaſonable, it is not after
the common manner, and
that they are but Ieer'd: I anſwer
They doe no more in this
then hath beene done to all the
ancient ſages, hath not philoſophy
it ſelfe appeared ridiculous
to the eyes of many? and
have we not alwayes ſeen, that
people are no leſſe incenſed,
when you reverſe ſome ſottiſh
cuſtome, then if you had beate
downe all their Altars, and
rob'd them of their I dols! Beſides
the cauſe of this hate is
eaſie to be found: It is becauſe
the middle ſpirits cannot ſuffer
what is above them: and being
unable to raiſe themſelves,
they thinke it glory enough to
endeavou
•
the downefall of others.
We love reſemblance,
becauſe we love our ſelves. It
is not miſery alone, but ignorance
alſo that ſeekes comfort
in company, and you know that
ſpirits, no more then the eyes,
can ſuffer brightneſſe, when
themſelves are feeble. I confeſſe
that if they be wicked, tis
reaſon they be hated: and if
they be enemies to religion, I
proteſt, that I am not onely averſe
from their ſect, but alſo
afraid of it. If wee could love
ſpirit without goodneſſe, wee
muſt needes love the devils:
ſeeing they have much more of
it then all the Libertines of the
time, but if you except this, I
am not reſolv'd to hate them,
becauſe others doe not love
them. I muſt ſee whether they
be innocent or guilty, that I
may not abuſe my love nor
hate, whereof are they accuſed?
Tis ſaid they oppoſe ceremony,
and endeavour to baniſh
it from commerce. In this ſure
they are not much in the
wrong, ſince oftentimes tis but
a Mountebank that ſets a falſehood,
for a truth. If they have
nothing to doe, but with her, I
am of their ſide, what is there
oft more troubleſome, then
that we call Complement?
To what end ſo many offers of
ſervice which we never meane
to performe. To what ſerve all
thoſe ſtudied phraſes, but enter
abuſe each other? and what
colour for it, to uſe the ſame
diſcourſe to every impertinent
fellow, & to our honeſt friends
to ſpeake plainely, our civility
hath too much dawbing; and
is but a comaedian: ſhe ſpeakes
the language of the ſtage, and
plaies a fained part, and ſay
what they liſt, we are obliged
to thoſe which would take away
the plaiſter of diſſimulation,
and reſtore freedome to
ſociety, candor to commerce.
They will tell me, that following
the humor of great ſpirits,
we ſhould ſpeake with no leſſe
Sophiſtry, though fewer words:
I anſwer, that if there bee no
leſſe craft, there would be leſſe
diſprofit, and if there be no
more reality, at leaſt there
would be leſſe trouble, wee
ſhould be no more non pluſd
with theſe Complement. flingers,
converſation ſhould be
more free, leſſe importune. I
know tis oppoſite to the humor
of many, to ſpeake after any other
moode: but what imports
the number of thoſe that are in
error? we muſt not give over
combatting this monſter, becauſe
it hath many heads. As
we may condemne ſuperſtition
without offence to piety: wee
may alſo oppoſe unreaſonable
ceremonie, without engaging
true civility; yon will ſay to
me, perhaps, that if the inventers
of theſe faſhions of ſpeech,
and living, were in the wrong;
thoſe that follow them are in
the right; that it is dangerous
to reverſe an eſtabliſhed cuſtome;
and that it is oft harder
to turne the courſe, then that
of a river. I confeſſe it difficult
but you ſhall grant me, that it is
more noble to undertake it,
and more glorious to goe
through with it. If none had
been ſo hardy to change untoward
faſhions, wee ſhould yet
be appareld like thoſe Ladies,
painted in the Galleries at the
Louuer: we ſhould yet weare
great ſleeves, and fardingals,
Let us ſpeake of the cuſtomes
in carriage, and cloathing, as of
that of ſpeech: and let us baniſh,
if we can, from converſation
a thouſand petty toyes, no
leſſe tedious, then ſuperfluous,
chiefly let us not take it ill, that
ſome endeavour it. Let us
march cheerefully in the way
that others have plained for us.
If we have not courage enough
to doe this, let us leave the war
to others, and be content our
ſelves to enjoy the frui
•
es of
victory. Although I would not
enterpriſe to force this enemy
out of the world, notwithſtanding,
I wiſh him expeld. I know
we have neede of civility; but
ſince it depends on our owne
judgement, we erre if we make
it not leſſe irke ſome. And ſeeing
we toucht matter of apparell,
which theſe great Spirits
deſire not ſo over orderly, doe
not you finde it ſtrange, to ſee
many like puppets, habiliate
themſelves, as if they went to
make a ſhew upon the Theatre:
This is enough to put Preachers
in choller, and Phyloſophers
into a laughter. But let us
not forget that which makes
brave ſpirits moſt odious: they
ſay they do ſometimes dream,
inſtead of diſcourſe in company
& that this is aneffect of contempt,
or ignorance: that in
this they cannot be defended,
ſeeing they are either unable
to talke as they ſhould, or jealous
not to be underſtood. Certainely
tis for theſe two reaſons
that I would commend
them: for if they cannot ſpeake
have they not reaſon to hold
their peace? If they can, but
cannot bee underſtood, why
ſhould they diſplay their excellent
conceptions before ſots
that know not the price, take
their ſilence how you will, it is
very reaſonable, ſince holding
their peace, they ſhew at leaſt,
that if they have ſome defect,
they have not that to ſhew it,
and if they have ſome good
qualities, they looke for competent
Iudges, whoſe eſteeme
is worth meriting, ſay what
they will, when our company
is neither fit to diſcourſe, nor able
to apprehend, wee muſt
have recourſe to fancy, ſeeing
there is no ſatisfaction to be
expected in ſpeech, or attention.
All that remaines to ſpeak
of, is their apiſh lookes, which
I will not defend, if they be extravagant:
I will onely ſay that
if this be bad in them, we muſt
not therefore ceaſe to praiſe
that which is good, we doe not
leave the uſe of Moone-light,
for any ſpots we find in her body:
nor doe we feare to gather
flowers, though they dwell in
the neighborhood of thornes.
Finally let them baw
•
e as long
as they will againſt brave Spirits,
I cannot reſolve my ſelfe
to find fault with thoſe perſons
againſt whom nothing can be
ſaid, but that their entertainements
are leſſe ſtrained, their
habits leſſe neate, their opinions
leſſe popular.
The XI. Letter.
Shee rejoyceth that ſhee is reconciled
with her, and confeſſeth freely the
torment ſhee indured, during their
coldneſſe.
MAdam, I am angry that
you have prevented mee
in repairing our old correſpondence,
there is notwithſtanding
ſome juſtice in it: for ſince
you have beene the firſt to
breake it, twas fit you ſhould
be to reſtabliſh it. But if I have
not begunne, I beſeech you beleeve,
it was not want of affection,
but hardineſſe. It ſeemed
to me, that I had no right
to demand a favour done mee
by courteſy, and taken away
by Iuſtice. Tis thus I ſpeake
of the honour of your favour,
aſſuring you that I cannot deſerve
it, that you may have the
more obligation upon mee
when I poſſeſſe it. I will nevertheleſſe
ſay freely, that if there
be nothing in me worth your
friendſhip, I thinke there is nothing
that merits your hate. I
have imperfection, but no malice.
I may be the object of
your compaſſion, but not of
your choller. See in what faſhion,
I feare to looſe your love
ſince yet I juſtifie my ſelfe, as if
I had not already received remiſſion,
being onely unfortunate,
I beg your pardon, as if I
were guilty, which I ſhall never
be in what concernes you,
and provided you fall not into
error, I feare not to fall into
diſgrace. It behoves me to retake
my courage with my good
fortune, and having beene mute
ſo long, that I tel you the paine
aſ well as the cauſe of my ſilence.
I cannot ſay how much
evill I have endured, during
my beleife that you wiſht mee
no good. I will make a free
confeſſion of my thoughts.
How angry ſoever I have bin,
my affection hath not beene
blotted out of my ſoule; it was
but a copy of my countenance.
I thought my honour loſt, if I
had not ſeem'd offended. Never
was vengeance like to that
which animated mee againſt
you: I floted betwixt deſire,
and feare to doe you harme,
and to ſpeake more cleerely, I
never ceaſed to love you, but
onely to expreſſe it. And ſo
much did it want, that my affection
was diminiſhed, that on
the contrary, It was like a ſecret
fire not quencht, but onely
covered; and which became
the more violent, when it had
leſſe liberty to appeare. And I
will make you ſee on all occaſions,
that for what is paſt, I
have never beene leſſe then I
am
Madam
Your, &c.
The XI. Anſwer.
Shee ſhewes her her error to be angry
upon falſe roports, and adviſeth her
not to beleeve too lightly.
MAdam I am very glad
that you have not ceaſed
to love me, but only to tell me
ſo. Notwithſtanding I pray
you beleeve that to make me
happy, it is not enough to doe
me this favour, I muſt alſo believe
that I poſſeſſe it, without
which as I ſhould have reaſon
to doubt of it, ſo alſo to
be ill ſatisfied, we are not rich
in thoſe goods which wee beleeve
not to enjoy: nor may we
be cald contented for a felicity
to us unknowne, tell me not the
error, you were in, tooke not
away your affection, but onely
in appearance not in truth: for
if the opinion of being offended,
was enough to vexe you
what ought I to be, that beleeved
my ſelfe innocent? I received
the greateſt injury, ſince
you judged it poſſible, I ſhould
offer it, you could not be in
choller, except you were in errour,
but I had ground for it,
becauſe you had none. I owe
you but a purgation, but you
owe me a ſatisfaction, you received
wrong, but from my
ſhaddow, but I from your ſelfe
Iudge in this caſe what I might
have done: and nevertheleſſe
I ſought to you alwayes with
the ſame affection: there was
nothing alterd in mee, but the
ordinary alacrity, which I
ſhewed, when we were better
agreed. Your countenance was
chang'd by miſpriſion, mine by
affliction. I complain'd of you,
inſtead of condemning you:
& the extremity of my friendſhip
carryed me to the point, to
offer you the pardon you
ought to ſeeke. I laboured to
vanquiſh you by ſubmiſſion, rather
then by reaſon, and to toſtifie
the exceſſe of my love,
before I ſhewed you the right
of my cauſe. See how farre the
feare to loſe your alliance hath
carryed me; and put your ſelfe
no more in danger, to loſe a
good friend for a bad opinion.
I beſeech you eſteeme more
my affection, then your overſight,
and beleeve when you
ſhall be ſicke again of the ſame
diſeaſe, I have no more to doe,
but undeceive you to make
you whole. Its no great matter
I aske of you, if to inſtruct you,
be to ſatisfie. Remember that
you have never beene ſo cruel,
as when you have been ſo credulous,
doe not imagine but
that there are ſlanderers: and
when you heare ill of me, inſtead
of thinking my actions ſo,
can you not conſider they may
be falſe reports? Is there not
as much reaſon to beleeve mee
innocent, as them true? And
what, muſt I to conſerve your
friendſhip, put all liers to death
and to eloigne you from error,
baniſh all ſeducers? If it were
ſo, your affection would not be
aſſured: it is better finde a remedy
more certaine for mee,
more glorious for you. Chaſe
away credulity, and Ile quit
my feare. your friendſhip will
be ſtable, provided your beliefe
be not too light. We need
not diſarme thoſe that aſſaile
us, when we have bucklers to
to defend their blowes. Let the
Serpents keepe their poyſon,
provided, wee bee provided
wherewith to heale their ſting.
If we cannot take malice from
our enemies, wee can at leaſt
ſtop our eares againſt detraction.
And to contemne them, is
defence enough, this is what I
humbly beg, or I muſt tremble
without ceaſing, or be aſſured
of the integrity of all that talke
with you; that I may be ſo, of
the opinion you ſhould conceive
of my friendſhip. True,
it is you comfort mee a little,
when you aſſure that it was not
without conſtrant, you ſhewed
coldneſſe. I am halfe ſatisfied
to know that when you put me
to paine, it was not without the
firſt taſte, but I ſhall be yet
more glad to ſee you corrected
then puniſhed: and deſire no other
ſatisfaction, then to finde
you free of errour. Abuſe your
ſelfe no more, and thinke it not
generoſity to be pettiſh againſt
a perſon, that knowes not how
to give you ground for it. If
there be not as much courage
in vengeance, as in pardon, yea
when one is offended; how
ſhall wee call the feeling that
tranſports you, upon the bare
opinion of an injury? Thinke
of it well for the future, and imagine
the price I ſet upon
your friendſhip, by the care I
have tane to preſerve it, when
you betrayd an indifferency
for mine. And after this I beleeve
you will not doubt how
deepely I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XII. Letter.
Shee ſhewes that they are to blame,
who blame thoſe that ſt
•
ddy, and
write.
MAdam, I have read her
Letter, who takes it ill
that women ſhould ſtudy. But
it ſeemes to mee that her faire
fancies ſavour nothing of the
ignorance ſhe commends: and
that ſhe appeares knowing, by
blaming thoſe that are. They
ſay wee cannot oppoſe eloquence,
without the helpe of
eloquence: wee may ſay the
ſame of knowledge, which
cannot be aſſaulted but with
her owne weapons. Thus ſhee
does when ſhe contemnes this
divine quality: ſince there is
not one of her words, which
ſhewes not, ſhe poſſeſſes it, doe
not imagine that I meane to
make an Apology for the
knowing, to do it I muſt be ſo:
and as knowledge cannot be
ſet upon, but by thoſe that
have it, ſo muſt the ſame advantage
bee had to defend it,
you know well enough that I
pretend it not, and if I ſpeake
for it, tis rather to witneſſe the
force of my affection, than that
of my ſpirit. At leaſt I am not
of ſo bad a humour as many others,
which contemne a good
quality, becauſe themſelves
want it. Moreover I cannot
ſuffer the injury they doe our
ſexe, to thinke wee cannot be
innocent, except we be ignorant.
It is a great diſpoſition
to doe good, but to know how
it muſt be done: and if knowledge
be capeable of preſumption,
ignorance is not free of error.
•
s it not better to contemne
ill, then not to know it; and to
va
•
quiſh ones enemies, then
not to ſee them? in this the
fable and Philoſophy ſpeake in
the ſame faſhion: Pallas was
not ſo vitious as Venus, and the
Poets that faine the goddeſſe
of love without modeſty, have
fained her alſo without knowledge.
I aſſure my ſelfe you will
laugh when you reade this,
where I cite paſſages, as if I
would ſhew my reading. Tis
zeale tranſports me to defend
a cauſe, wherein it ſeemes to
me your ſelfe have intereſt. I
vafue the learned, and wiſh my
ſelfe to be ſo, if but, to reſemble
you, and to teſtify with
more dexterity how much I
am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XII. Anſwere.
Shee ſpeakes her opinion againſt the
knowing.
MAdam, would you have
me anſwer freely to your
Letter, and tell you roundly
my opinion: I allow a woman
ſo farre knowing, till ſhe come
to writing, & making of books,
but when ſhe ſets upon this, ſhe
is in danger oft times, not to
gaine the reputation of being
eloquent, without loſing that
of being modeſt. It is a great
misfortune when one affects to
become eminent in what ever
it be, one becomes ſo often in
another faſhion then ſhee expects,
or ſhould deſire. I wiſh
that more would thinke of it,
that they might moderate the
deſire of knowledge, which
men ſtudy for neceſſity, women
for glory. I doe not ſay then
that they are unceapable of arts,
or that they cannot penetrate
all their ſecrets, but they ought
not ſeeke a wiſedome contrary
to that of their ſex, nor poſſeſſe
vertues out of faſhion, ſince renowne
depends not on our
owne opinion, we muſt ſeeke it
in the opinion of others, perhaps
if many Ladies of quality
ſhould undertake to write, they
would make the cuſtome bee
received: otherwiſe thoſe that
beginne, are more in danger to
be mockt, then follow'd. Their
deſigne is like to that of thoſe
captaines which caſt themſelves
into the midſt of enemies
to encourage others to fight;
and then remaine ruin'd, without
any ſuccour unfollowed of
any, and to ſay that ignorance
is eaſily ſeduced, and that it is
as capable of errour, as knowledge
of vanity; certainely this
cannot be affirmed, but of the
moſt ſtupid, & the moſt groſſe,
how ignorant ſoever a woman
be, ſhe alwayes knowes ill enough,
to doe it, if ſhe will. Nature
opens her eyes, but too
much for the enjoyment of many
things, which reaſon forbids.
The moſt ſimple have
knowledge enough of vice, and
vertue, to merit glory in flying
the one, and practiſing the other,
but let us leave the vertue
of knowing perſons, to
ſpeake of their converſation.
You know how trouble ſome it
is. It ſeemes that ſcience doth
no leſſe harme to the ſoules of
many then painting does their
faces, this corrupts the naturall
colour, and that enfeebles com
•
mon ſenſe, they rave, when
they thinke to diſcourſe, they
become all memory, and take
paines to amaſſe much goods,
which they know not how to
manage. Tis pitty to ſee how
ſometimes they be bemired,
they are but ſhreds they get;
they ſpeake nothing naturally,
without which the richeſt diſcourſes
are irke ſome. I know
well there are ſome knowing
women, which being withall
faire, or rich doe alwaies finde
approvers: but meane while
that flattery praiſes them in
private, truth doth often condemne
them in publicke.
The XIII. Letter.
She affirmes that the Gentleman commended
to her merits the title of a
good friend, and promiſes to aſſiſt
him in his affaires.
MAdam, the Gallant you
commend to me, ſeemes
ſo worthy of the title you give
him; and tis with ſo much juſtice
you call him a good friend
that in my opinion he muſt invent
ſome other word, more
ſignificant than this friendſhip,
to expreſſe his owne, knowing
him as I doe, you need not petition
me for him; it had been
enough only to have given me
advertiſement, ſince he can ſo
well expreſſe his affection to
thoſe that neede it, I ſhall endeavour
to let him ſee how
much I deſire his affaires ſhold
proſper. I will take as much
paines, as in my own, and more
care, for beſides the diſpleaſure
I ſhould have not to bee
fortunate in his behalfe, I ſhold
likewiſe ſuffer the misfortune,
not to content you, that you
may hope for all effects that lie
in my power, judge onely that
three puiſſant reaſons oblige
me to ſerve him: his owne merit,
the juſtice of his cauſe, and
the force of your recommendation,
which would make me
undertake a meere impoſſibility
to ſhew, in doing him ſome
ſmall ſervice, what I would do
for you, if I could finde any favourable
occaſion, to witneſſe
how much I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XIII. Anſwer.
She replies that albeit the affaire recommended
to her, ſhould uot ſucceede,
the obligation for her paines
could never be the leſſe.
MAdam, I am not ignorant
that you love the perſon
I commended to you, and that
to gratifie him it were enough
to let you know that hee hath
neede of your favour, but if it
be ſufficient for your friendſhip
to be advertiſed, it is not too
much for my duty to beſeech
you, as I doe. If prayers bee
ſuperfluous, becauſe of the
good you wiſh him, they ſeem
to me neceſſary, becauſe that
I demand it. I cannot make
them too humble, if I conſider
your condition, nor too affectionate,
if I regard his merit. The
deſire I have to ſee his matters
proſper, obliges me to employ
all my power of recommendation.
If he be worthy the quality
of a good friend for all others,
I thinke he will eſteeme
that of your ſervant for moſt
honorable. I undertake not to
complement for him, ſince he
hath no neede of my helpe;
and that I have not in my power
too many thankes to tender
you, for which I have cauſe
whatever become of this affaire.
After you have taken all
the paine you can, to give us
content, ſuppoſe it ſhould not
ſucceede, we ſhall not ceaſe to
be extreamely obliged to you,
wee ought not to crave that of
you, which depends upon
chance; but we ſhall alwayes
thank you for the favour which
depends on yourcare, when we
ſhall be deprived of that which
depends upon fortune. After
Phiſitians have don what they
can to cure us, we ceaſe not to
be bound to them, albeit their
potions prove unprofitable, we
muſt conſider that events are
not in our owne power: there
is nothing but the meanes, and
the conduct which is our owne
but what neede we feare while
we have reaſon to hope? there
is no likelihood that our right
ſhould remaine unknowne, and
your paines unſuccesfull, I cannot
beleeve it, and am confident,
that the end of this buſineſſe
ſhall give mee new cauſe
to ſerve you and to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XIIII. Letter.
She ſaith that the greateſt perſons eſteeme
themſelves happy to carry
her Letters, becauſe of her that receives
them.
MAdam, albeit I write often,
I thinke you are not
much troubled with the reading
of my letters, and that the
greateſt part ſtay by the way. I
am reſolved to ſerve my ſelfe
of all occaſions, to prove if any
one ſhall bee leſſe unfortunate
then the reſt. And that I may
ſpeede, I will alſo employ all
ſorts of perſons, and not regard
if they be Knights of the holy
Ghoſt, or Marſhals of France,
provided, I may uſe them to
carry my tidings. The trouble
they ſhall have from me, ſhall
be repaired in the ſatisfaction
to ſee you: And of what quality
ſoever my meſſengers be,
they cannot thinke themſelves
vilified when they know the
merit of her whom they oblige.
I demand not your aſſent
to this, ſince humility forbids
you profeſſe, what truth publiſheth
to all the world. I only
entreate that you ſuffer it from
me, and that you receive it not
amiſſe, if after ſo much paine I
take, & give to ſend you mine,
I have ſome hope to receive
yours. This is that I begge of
you, and to beleeve that my
greateſt contentment is to be
able to give you teſtimonies of
my affection. It is true, they are
but feeble: but in this I ſhall
be more obliged, if I can expreſſe
a great friendſhip by little
proofes: and by my ſmall
ſervices make you ſee a deſire
ſo great as that to be,
Madam
Your &c.
The XIV. Anſwer.
She ſaith that if perſons of quality
bring her letters, tis becauſe of the
ſender, not the receiver.
MAdam, I know not if I receive
all the Letters you
write me. But I can aſſure you
I alwayes receive leſſe then I
deſire. I wiſh you ſuch perfect
health, that I cannot too oft receive
the newes, and if you
have beene ill, and I not know
of it, I ſhould be extreamely
diſpleaſed, for having beene
contented when you were not.
I beſeech you beleeve it: and
to oblige me in this, employ, as
you do all ſorts of meſſengers,
of what condition ſoever they
be. When they deliver mee
your Letters, they all aſſure me
that they are rightglad to obey
you, and I ſhould not much
wonder at their quality, thogh
it were yet greater. I thinke
they eſteeme it little in reſpect
of the ſervice you deſerve, and
they deſire to performe. I meaſure
their deſire by their duty,
and I beleeve that having eies,
and ſoule, they have likewiſe
that ſenſe, and reſpect due to
ſuch a one as your ſelfe. I conceive
they would not take ſuch
paines to bring me letters, if it
were another ſent them. They
regard her that writes, not her
that receives. They oblige me,
but ſerve you. You have reaſon
to forbeare demanding my
aſſent, when you ſay the contrary,
ſince you know well that
duty bids mee deny it, my refuſe
is juſt, becauſe your prayer
is not. And if civility bindes
you to gaineſay, at leſt let truth
make you believe it. Tis a humility
of a high ſtraine, whereof
your Letter is full. You are
not content to attribute to others
the ſervices done onely
to your ſelfe: but you tell me
likewiſe, that all the proofes of
your friendſhip are feeble. If
you thinke ſo, it is rather for
the good you wiſh mee, then
what I merit. You conſider
leſſe what I am worth, then
what I neede. Finally, entreate
me not to ſuffer the importunity
of your Letters: there is nothing
but this forme of ſpeech,
which I cannot ſuffer. You are
the object of my conſolation,
not my patience: entertaine
me no more with this word of
reſpect, and remember rather
the quality of my friendſhip,
then of my fortune. I wiſh that
this might ſerve in any thing,
to teſtify the other, give mee
onely occaſions to ſhew you
the truth of it, and you ſhall
know in what manner I deſire
to meete thoſe, by which I
may be able to make you ſee
how I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XV. Letter.
She tels her that one of her friends intends
to become religious, and that
ſhe is reſolved to follow her.
MAdam, I muſt tell you
news, no leſſe unpleaſing
to your ſelfe then me. Miſtris
Lucinde ſpeakes no more, but
of religion, and the cloyſters:
all her entertainement is the
contempt of the world, and ſhe
reades nothing but introductions
to a devout life. There is
nothing to change but her habit,
her face, and her ſoule are
done already. She carries her
eyes like thoſe that weare the
vaile: not a looke of hers but
preaches penitence. I know not
what her opinion is, but it
ſhould not be very reaſonable.
If ſhe thought it impoſſible to
finiſh her ſalvation, but in the
cloyſters. It may be alſo done
in the world: and as a pearle in
the bottome of the Sea, is not
debarred the dew that formes
it: ſo though we be at Court,
and in company, our ſoule is as
capable of grace. Truely to
forſake the world, wee neede
but retire our thoughts, and
our deſires. Our better part
may be in Heaven, whiles our
groſſer part remaines in earth.
Though we ſometimes ſee the
ſtarres in the bottome of the
water, they ceaſe not to be fixed
to their ſpheares. It is but
their ſhadow here below, really
they are in heaven. Tis ſo
with the juſt, whoſe converſation
is among the Saints, albeit
he live among the profane. But
not to diſſemble, will you that
I tell you the change, which
hers cauſeth in my ſoule. If ſhe
quit not the deſigne ſhee hath
to forſake the world, I ſhall
mine to tarry there. I tooke indeed
ſome delight therein, but
ſince it was for love of her, ſhe
ſhal carry away the effect with
the cauſe, I muſt wholly follow
her to be content, you will
tell me perhaps, this is not to
renounce the world, but to ſeek
the world where it is not, that
it is an effect of friendſhip, not
devotion: and that to run after
her into the cloyſters, is not to
ſeeke God, but Lucinde. It imports
nothing, it may be having
begun to be religious by
complacency, I ſhall be ſo by
affection; God will touch me
more powerfully. A tempeſt
may ſometim
•
s caſt us upon a
countrey, where afterwards
we freely choſe to inhabit. A
beginning full of conſtraint,
may afterwards be followed
by a progreſſe full of liberty.
And what ever come on it, follow
her I will. This is my inviolable
purpoſe, and that to be
all my life,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XV. Anſwer.
She replies that this new
•
s doth leſſe
aſtoniſh, then rejoyce her, and that
ſhe will make on to quit the world.
MAdam, you are deceived
if you thinke your Letter
hath ſurprized mee; it brings
me leſſe aſtoniſhment then joy.
The good newes is double
which I learne, the change of
Lucinde and your owne. As far
as I conceive your friendſhip
would carry you along with
her, aſwell elſe where, as to a
cloyſter. Your reſolution is
good, you neede onely change
the cauſe, doeing that for the
love of God, which you intend
to doe for the creature. But I
bring you newes which perhaps
you looke not for, If you
be two, I promiſe you to make
the third. It is not new to me
to have a great diſtaſte of vanities:
I had not ſtayed ſo long
to abandon them, but for the
great griefe I had to loſe your
company. Now, by Gods
grace, all the cords are broken;
and I perceive nothing that
hinders the effect of my reſolution,
after that you have made.
Never change it, what ever be
ſaid to you. Suffer your ſelfe
to be carryed out of a place
where there is neither felicity
nor vertue. So I ſpeake of the
world, where pleaſures are imaginary,
misfortunes reall,
but grant there be ſome ſolid
goods, they are alwaies ſmall
in reſpect of thoſe in heaven. If
wee believe as wee ſhould, the
joyes of eternity, there would
be many more that would contemne
thoſe of the preſent. Believe
me, and you will avow,
that I ſay, cannot come, but frō
one that honors you infinitely,
and which is in good earnest,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XVI. Letter.
She complaines of the ignorance of the
Countrey, and ſaith that they cannot
judge of good bookes.
MAdam, there was company
with us, when we
received the curious book you
ſent. I wiſh you had been here,
to obſerve the opinions of the
Countrey, they are either
groſſe, or falſe. To praiſe an
excellent peece, they content
themſelves to ſay, tis very
trimme. There was a dame you
know, that would eſteeme no
other book, but the Quadrams
of Hibrac. Another made no
bones to begge that we received,
without giving her ſelf
•
the patience to ſtay till we had
lookt upon it. Tis notwithſtanding
the firſt time that ever we
ſaw her; And judge what wee
ought to feare, or hope from
ſuch an acquaintance, we muſt
uſe our ſelves to this manner of
life, ſince here tis moſt common.
Thinke into what country
you have ſent honeſt F. to
make leſſons of morality.
Count it not ſtrange if they
give him not the approbation
hee deſerves, and if hee be no
better received in this Countrey,
then thoſe that preach the
Goſpell among Turkes. At
leaſt you ought to be aſſured,
that there are two w
•
ll make a
ſpeciall eſteeme of him: wee
will learne him by heart, my
ſiſter, and my ſelfe. And wee
ſhall finde memory enough to
retaine him. If wee have not
judgmēt enough to underſtand
him, for my part I finde him
ſo full of choyſe things, that
not to know all, were to injure
the author. That which I find
there extraordinary, is that in
reading, we meet alacrity with
inſtruction, whereas others do
but make us ſad. Inſomuch that
this advantage is gotten, not
onely to become more knowing,
but more content. This
booke corrects the humour,
aſwell as inſtructs the ſoule.
And we have either of us given
it a name: my ſiſter cals it her
ſchoole, and I, my conſolation.
There is but one misfortune,
which is that we cannot agree,
to reade it one after the other,
we would have it without ceaſing,
at the ſame time, both together.
The meaning is we beg
another; and I hope you will
excuſe our importunity ſince it
proceeds from the eſteeme we
make of an Author, which you
commend ſo much my eager
deſire would ſeeme perhaps
importune if it proceeded not
from that which I have to approve
all that pleaſes you, and
to be in all things,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XVI. Anſwer.
She replies that even at Paris it ſelfe,
there are not many which judge
ſoundly, of good bookes, and praiſes
the Author of that ſhe ſent.
MAdam, tis nothing ſtrange
if in the Countrey they
doe not eſteeme good bookes
as they ſhould: wee have not
indeed many here which can
Iudge of them ſoundly. There
is no body that praiſes not that
you received; and I can aſſure
you, that never was approbation
ſo generall, as that is given
it. I ſpeake of that of the better
ſort, which ſpeake without
paſſion, and without intereſt.
There are ſome people found,
which not being able to know
good things, or to ſuffer their
brightneſſe, ſtraine themſelves
to make them ill, but they
have gained nothing, but repentance,
to have their ignorance,
and malice publickely
appeare, they have beene conſtrained
to change their diſcourſe,
albeit, perhaps they
have not diminiſhed their envy.
But whatever they utter of
it, or would perſwade indifferent
men, it is profitable to all
ſorts of humours, and perſons.
The learned doe there finde
content, and the ignorant inſtruction.
Nevertheleſſe I advertiſe
you of one thing, that
whatever eſteeme you make of
this booke, you ought to prepare
a ſpeciall one for him that
made it, you deſire to ſee him,
and I aſſure my ſelfe, you will
be no leſſe ſatisfied with his
entertainement, then the reading
of his writings. You ſhall
obſerve nothing in his viſage,
nor his diſcourſe, which ſmels
of that, we call an Author. And
you ſhall not finde in him that
•
aturall or affected dulneſſe of
many, which dreame in the
beſt company, and give no other
reaſon of their ſilence, but
that they compoſe. Theſe are
fitter for a cloſet, then ſociety,
they cannot expreſſe themſelves,
but by the pen. He, you
ſhall ſee, is not of this humour:
he ſpeakes yet better then hee
writes, and gives the lye to
thoſe, who maintaine that the
ſame temperament cannot be
proper to both. There is no
leſſe force in his diſcourſe then
judgement in his writings. And
above all you may marke in
both an extraordinary facility.
I ſpeake not of that vitious eafineſſe
which proceedes from
lightnes orindiſcretion. I know
well that the earth doth eaſily
produce ſuperfluous things,
and that of her ſelfe ſhe beares
thornes, and thiſtles enough. I
praiſe that excellent facility
which comes from the ſtrength
of ſpirit, when a man is maſter
of the ſubject he handles, and
good words are joyned with
rich thoughts. I will uſe a ſacred
example to explaine a
profane matter. If holy Scripture
ſaith of the covetous that
they are the men of riches, inſtead
of ſaying that tis the riches
of men; wee may ſay of
certaine Brokers, that they are
the men of ſcience, not that
they have the ſcience of men,
the one, and the other be the
ſlaves of their wealth, & know
not how to diſtribute it with
reaſon. The Authour you ſhall
ſee is in no wiſe of this number,
let him ſpeake or write, he expreſſes
himſelfe with an advantage
extraordinary, try him
and you will affirme without
doubt, aſwell as many others
that know him, that readineſſe,
and ſtrength of Spirit, are in
him both equall. He is prompt
without being light, ſolid, with
out being dull. I will ſay no
more of him, and indeede, it
would alwaies be leſſe then he
deſerves, and I beleeve, however
more then hee deſires. In
effect tis a modeſty without
paralell, but his owne. Never
have I heard him ſpeake of his
workes, or of himſelfe with the
leaſt appearance of vanity, you
ſhall judge of him then, when I
ſhall have the honour to preſent
him to you, and that I ſhall
aſſure you from my owne
mouth, how that I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XVII. Letter.
She thankes her for her approbation,
and complaines that her Letters are
too ſhort.
MAdam, I intend never to
preſent my ſelfe there
where you have ſpoken of me,
nor put my ſelfe in danger to
ſpoile my reputation, by my
preſence. You delight to ſpeak
to my advantage, and to give
me exceſſive praiſes: you will
get no blame by this, you ſhall
acquire the reputation of one
that obliges, if you looſe that
of ſpeaking truth, my Letter
ſhould end here, if I meaſured
him by the length of yours I
have beene no longer reading
the contents then the ſuperſcription.
Never feare that
yours ſhould be trouble ſome
to me: make them as long as
you pleaſe, I ſhall alwayes eſteeme
them too ſhort. I ſpeake
according to the meaſure of
my affection, not of my merit.
Since I have nothing worthy
of your good will, I cannot receive
ſo ſmall teſtimonies therof,
that I be not for them extreamly
obliged, and that they
give me not ſufficient cauſe to
be all my life,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XVIII. Letter.
Shee aſſures her that ſhee has alwaies
been melancholy ſince her departure
and that ſhee ſhall never be merry
till her returne.
MAdam, I beſeech you beleeve
that loſing you, at
the ſame time I loſt my good
fortune: and that the day I parted
from Paris, was the laſt of
my life, ſince which time I have
ſcarce had leaſure to breathe:
& if I have ſpoken, twas only to
complaine. After the perſecutions
of the Countrey people,
ſickneſſe challenged mee the
combat; as if the torments of
the ſoule, cauſed by your abſence,
were not ſufficient to overcome
me. I muſt needs confeſſe
to you the error I lived in,
in times paſt, aſwell as my diſpleaſure
at the preſent. I
thought the countrey would
yeeld charmes to drive away
my heavineſſe; and that the
converſation of the Dames of
Burgundy, and Forreſts would
make me forget thoſe I left at
Paris, but I have beene fairely
deceived. My diſeaſe followes
me every where, with ſo
great a diſpleaſure at what I
ſee, that I can finde nothing
that contents me. It may be, if
I thought leſſe on you, I ſhould
be more happy. The remembrance
of your entertainement
renders me that of others unpleaſant.
and I may ſay the remembrance
of a paſt good, is
to me a preſent misfortune. In
the diſtaſte I am in, whileſt I
poſſeſſe you not, the moſt able
people here, ſeeme not to me
to have common ſenſe. Iudge
then how unhappy I am, ſeeing
I am in a Countrey where
ſhe that has the beſt ſtomacke,
can hardly find victuals, where
of ſhe would be willing to eate.
Wee muſt not ſeeke for ſuperfluities,
where neceſſaries are
ſcarſe to be found, ſo farre are
wee from procuring ought for
pleaſure, we can hardly meete
with enough to ſatisfie nature.
This is the cauſe of my misfortune,
which afflicts me ſo much
the more, as I know it perfectly,
above all when I thinke that
at your departure, you promiſed
your ſelfe ſomewhat from
our province, but it is ſo unfruitfull
that in a whole age it
produceth not ſo much as one
good thought, much leſſe a
good Letter, you will accuſe
mee of little affection to my
Countrey, ſince I doe thus aver
her imperfections; but I had
rather confeſſe them to
•
ne
that hath the goodneſſe to diſſemble
them, then to ſacrifice
her defects to the pittiles publicke.
I had rather tell a particular
perſon that ſhe is barren,
then let the world ſee ſhee can
produce nought but monſters.
however, I aſſure you ſhee furniſhes
mee with no better reaſons
to defend her, and I ſhould
eſteeme her farre more fertile
then I ſay, if ſhee could afford
mee any occaſion to ſhew you
how I am heartily,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XVIII Anſwer.
Shee thankes her for her praiſes
and remembrance, and wiſhes her
yet leſſe contentment then ſhe hath
in the Countrey, that ſhe may come
and take it at Paris.
MAdam, after the complaints
you make in your
Letter, I muſt either yeeld no
faith to your words, or ſome
compaſſion to your misfortune
I doubt not but you wiſh for
Paris, but I cannot beleeve that
you put the loſſe of my company
in the ranke of afflictions.
I have too good an opinion of
your ſpirit, too bad of my own,
to think you write of me. Your
error would be as exceſſive, as
my good fortune ſhould you
ſpeak of me according to your
opinion. And to anſwer this according
to mine, I aſſure you
that reading your letter, I am
not ſo much aſtoniſht at the extraordinary
teſtimonies of
your friendſhip, as at thoſe of
your approbation, & eſteeme.
This would occaſion me ſome
vanity, if, to humble me, I did
not conſider, tis your affection
ſpeakes, not your opinion, or,
to uſe better termes, your judgement hath beene corrupted by
your will. I know thoſe, that
doe me the honor to know me,
finde freedome, and ſimplicity
enough to merit ſome part of
their favour: but I know likewiſe
there are not good qualities
enough in my ſoule, to deſerve
ſo many praiſes. Iudge
then how far I ought to thinke
my ſelfe your obliged, ſince
you are not content to wiſh me
well, and doe me good above
my worth, but that moreover
you take the paines to ſpeake
every where a thouſand fold
beyond my expectation. If I
muſt pitty you, it ſhall be more
for the ill you ſuffer in the
country, then for the good you
left at Paris. I ſpeake of what
concernes my ſelfe, for I doubt
not but you have there ſeene
rarities enough, to ſad you in al
your voyages, but to change
diſcourſe I will end this letter
in another faſhion then I began.
If at firſt I promiſed you
pitty, it ſeemes to me at preſent
I ought to refuſe it, be as melancholly
as you liſt, I wiſh you
more. I ſhall be very glad that
you never find ſweetenes in the
place where you be able to leſſen
the ſorrow you ſuffer for
Paris, & that you have cauſe to
be diſpleaſed at the country, to
the end you may be conſtraned
to returne hither for your contentment,
aſwell as ours. I
ſweare to you that after I had
read your excellent Letter; I
miſt there, but onething, which
is, that you give mee no aſſurance
of your returne. I ſhould
anſwere you to other matters,
but I am conſtrained to remit
this till another occaſion. The
meſſenger haſtes mee to cloſe
this, and affords mee no more
time, but to aſſure you that I
am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XIX. Letter.
She complaines thrt ſhe hath not heard
from her ſo oft as ſhe expected, and
ſaith that all her boldneſſe proceeds
from affection.
MAdam, if I had hoped
leſſe of your affection, I
ſhould have received too much
of your courteſie: but I am ſo
much your ſervant that I finde
you owe me more, not having
written mee but one Letter in
three moneths abſence. It is
not as you promiſed me, when
I had the honour to bid you
farewell. I had parted from
you with leſſe ſatisfaction, but
for the aſſurance you gave, to
ſend mee more frequent tydings.
I ſpeake boldly: but you
may without much paine, put
me in ſtate to write you thanks,
rather then imputations, which
will be, when I ſhall receive
the effects of my expectation,
and your promiſe. I meane,
when you ſhall no longer be
covetous of your Letters. It
muſt needes be that either you
have an ill opinion of mee, or
that you beleeve my griefe
leſſe then it is, ſince you contribute
ſo little to my conſolation,
in ſo great a loſſe as that of
your converſation. If you think
there are other remedies for
this beſides your Letters, you
are in an errour; if you thinke
them the ſole remedy, you are
without pitty. blame my preſumption
as long as you liſt, it
is certainely true, that when I
conſider the affection I beare
you, it ſeemes to me, I cannot
too much preſume the effects
of yours. You delight to gratifie
me, but I proteſt, you ſhall
never doe me ſo much good, as
I wiſh you, but if you deſire to
know the cauſe of ſuch extraordinary
boldnes, as mine, not
being able to returne you
ought, but wiſhes for effects; I
beſeech you beleeve, there is
no other then the great affection
I have to ſerve you, and to
be,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XIX. Anſwer.
She anſwers that ſhe is in the wrong, t
•
to call her covetous of her Letters,
ſince to ſerve her, ſhe would be prodigall
of blood, and life.
MAdam, it muſt needes be
that you have but a weak
opinion of my friendſhip, if you
think that I ſeeke not occaſions
to witneſſe the truth of it. If
you judge I neglect the meanes
to write to you, you offend againſt
my affection: if you beleeve
I have none, you doe not
complaine but blame me. True
it is, our will depends on our
ſelves; but oft times the effects
we employ to ſhew it, depend
on fortune. Any miſſeadventure,
or chance may arreſt my
Letters by the way: and if it
be in my liberty to write to
you, it is not alwayes in my
power to cauſe my Letters be
delivered. You vexe your ſelfe
againſt me without reaſon, and
give me cauſe to be in choller,
ſince you have none, how
ſhould I be covetous of my letters,
that would not be ſo of
my life, and my blood. I beſeech
you beleeve this, or the
judgement you make of mee,
will give mee liberty to make
the ſame of you. And when I
receive no Letters from you, I
ſhall be able to thinke, you
want not occaſion, but memory.
If you had a true feeling of
my friendſhip, you would not
judge ſo ill of my remembrance.
I never thought you
could have deemed ſo ſiniſterly
of my humour. So while you
call me covetous of Letters, I
ſtile you prodigal of reproaches
I doe not accuſe your boldnes,
but your errour. I ſuffer your
freedome, albe it I condemne
your choller. Handle me more
ſweetely another time, and
whatever happen, never entertaine
an opinion contrary to
the reſolution I have made to
ſerve you, and to be all my life,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XX. Letter.
She ſtiles her her goddeſſe, prayes her
to pierce into her heart, and ſee the
affection ſhe cannot expreſſe.
MAdam, though I pray
you to thinke of me, yet,
I aſſure you, I have more need
of your judgement, then memory
to keepe any part in your
favour, becauſe your memory
repreſents things, but as they
appeare, but your judgement
can diſcover them as they are,
doe not content your ſelfe to
be able to gaine hearts, but get
the way to enter into them, and
ſee there the affection you produce,
be not like the ſun, whoſe
heat goes farther then his light
and produces gold, and mettals
in the earth, where notwithſtanding
the brightneſſe of his
rayes, did never pierce, you
will ſay this is a gallant language,
and that my friendſhip
ſpeakes like love, but what
ſhold bar it the ſame diſcourſe,
that hath the ſame exceſſe? It
knowes no difference, but by
the end, not by the vigour: take
it not ill then, if I entreate your
aide to diſcover the violence
of my affection: and ſince I title
you my goddeſſe, I beſeech
you ſhew ſome effect of this
faire name, regarding my heart
more then my hands, my intention,
then my ſacrifice. Certainely
I ſhould be the moſt
unfortunate of the world, ſhold
you judge my friendſhip by
my workes or my words. I
have neither power, nor eloquence,
but had I the one, and
the other, both in a perfect degree,
I ſhould not yet be able
to ſhew you as I ought, the deſire
enflames me to ſerve you,
and to be,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XX. Anſwer.
She ſaith that ſhe hath more love then
knowledge, and that after the effects
of her friendſhip, ſhe does ill to employ
words.
MAdam, I doe not thinke
thoſe who have given
you their approbation, can deny
you their remembrance.
The excellency that is in you
begets at the ſame time deſire
to conſerve, aſwell as acquire
your favour. I have but one
griefe, tis, not to have ſoule enough
to judge the perfections
of yours. They ſay wee muſt
meaſure love by knowledge,
and nevertheleſſe, albeit I beleeve
not to know you perfectly,
I cannot imagine that any
can love you better, but were
it ſo, It would ſad me much, to
have no more judgement, that
I might have more affection. I
thinke I am quite contrary to
that you ſay of the Sunne, my
hea
•
e outgoes my light, my
love, my knowledge. Call me
no more your goddeſſe, if you
will not have mee call you my
idolatreſſe, you erre to tender
ſo much honour to her that
merits ſo little. Straine not for
words to ſhew you love mee,
your deedes have made mee
know it; I ſhall never ſee better
by the brightneſſe of a Torch,
then that of the Sunne it ſelfe.
So I compare deeds, and words
which doe not equally expreſſe
friendſhip, tis of the laſt
notwithſtanding I muſt ſerve
my ſelfe, not having power enough
to ſhew you otherwiſe
how much I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXI. Letter.
She makes a ſcruple to write, fearing
that if her Letters pleaſe her, ſhee
ſhould be leſſe impatient to returne.
MAdam, whatever commandement
you make me
to write, I proteſt, I feele a repugnancy
to obey. I feare if I
give yon any content in abſence,
leſt I ſlow that which I
hope by your returne. I have
heard you ſay, that you finde
unparaleld delights, reading
my Letters, which albeit, I doe
not wholly beleeve, I cannot
ceaſe to feare. I imagine with
my ſelfe, that if there you take
ſo much pleaſure, you wil have
the leſſe impatience to ſee me.
And I doubt, leaſt thinking to
diminiſh your griefe I augment
my owne. I would not willingly
contribute any thing to
make my abſence leſſe unſupportable:
yours is to me ſo,
that I cannot enough lament
it. And I can tell you, that if
your Letters pleaſe me, they
diminiſh my ſorrow. without
diminiſhing the deſire I have
to enjoy you. Rather they augment
it; and the contentment
I take to reade them, making
me thinke on that of your company,
increaſes the deſire I
have to poſſeſſe it. If ever I
have the good lucke, I will
make my ſelfe inſeparable,
that I may no more be obliged
as at preſent, to write to you
that which I would more willingly
proteſt, with my tongue,
that I am perfectly
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXI. Anſwer.
She anſwers that the Letters ſhee receives,
augments her joy, without
decreaſing the deſire to ſee her.
MAdam, albeit without
ceaſing I demand newes
from you, if you write to me,
becauſe I deſire it, this is not to
obey, but oblige me, not an
effect of your duty, but onely
of your courteſie, however never
feare that this ſhould hinder
mee to wiſh your returne,
ſince the entertainment diſtant
friends doe give, and take by
Letters, is but a picture of that
betweene perſons preſent: you
ſhould imagine that though
your Letters did yet give
me greater content, they would
not hinder me to deſire that of
your preſence, to ſpeake truth,
A Letter is but a copy, which
makes us curious of the originall,
a table which augments
the deſire to ſee the perſon repreſented.
This is the effect of
yours; and I can aſſure you,
that if thoſe you write mee be
delightfull, there is nothing ſo
true, as that augmenting my
joy, they augment the paſſion
I have to bee neere you, and
to finde occaſions to teſtifie
in what manner I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXII. Letter.
She tels her that nothing can keepe her
from writing; no, not the feaver it
ſelfe, though violent.
MAdam, imagine the deſire
I have to receive
your Letters by the care I take
to ſend you mine, having a fit
of the feaver to ſuffer, and ſeeing
the Poſt ready to part, I
reſolved my ſelfe, ſpight of my
diſeaſe, to write to you, you
neede not demand if my hand
ſhaked, tis not with feare, but
with a ſhivering cold. In this
eſtate I have not beene carefull
to write you a long letter, becauſe
the Poſt preſſeth mee on
the one ſide, the feaver on the
other. I muſt therefore finiſh,
and put of what I have to tell
you, till another time. I am
threatned my paine will bee
more violent, but it matters not
I ſhall endure it patiently, ſince
tis a labour too praiſe worthy,
which I undergoe, to take occaſion
to teſtifie to you, how I
am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXII. Anſwer.
She feares least for receiving a ſmall
ſatisfaction, ſhe loſe a greater, and
that having forced her ſelf to write
ſhe encreaſe her d
•
ſeaſe.
MAdam, I have not received
the joy I expected,
by the returne of this Bearer,
learning your indiſpoſition by
the Letter you did me the honour
to write me. I feare leaſt
the paines you have taken augment
your diſeaſe, and that being
willing to give mee this ſatisfaction,
you deprive me not
of a greater then I can have
elſewhere. It is certainely true
that the two moſt happy newes
I can receive, are that you love
me, and are well. And that I
feare moſt in the world, is the
alteration of your health, or
friendſhip, the leaſt ſuſpition
of the one, or other, would
make mē hate my life. I proteſt
never was Letter ſo deare
unto me, as that you ſent maugre
your fit: but yet I like better
you ſhould take care of
your health, then writing. Albeit
your tidings extremely re
•
oyce
me, I love your life, better
then your letters, I beſeech
you beleeve it, and employ me
in all you pleaſe, as,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XXIII. Letter.
Shee recommends to him the cauſe of
her friend.
SIr, if I had as much ability
to ſerve you, as occaſion to
trouble you, you ſhould eaſily
judge I valew not my owne intereſts
in reſpect of yours. But
I muſt in this accōmodate my
ſelfe rather to the condition of
•
y fortune, then my diſpoſition:
and if you have no proofes
of my thankefulneſſe, you ſhall
at leaſt of my confidence, paſt
examples doe make me more
and more hardy for the future,
and inſtead, that the continuation
of your favours ought to
oblige mee to a modeſty, leſſe
audacious, I finde they give me
more liberty. So it is, Sir, that
I have once more neede of the
accuſtomed teſtimonies of
your good will: but to begge
with more dexterity, I wil joyn
your owne intereſt with mine,
and convince you by your own
charity, as well as by the favor
you have promiſed me. I aſſure
my ſelfe, that the vertue you
practiſe with ſo much praiſe,
and the juſtice you exerciſe
with ſo much integrity, will
eaſily obtaine of you, all I ſhall
demand in behalfe of this bearer.
He is no leſſe worthy your
compaſſion, then his adverſaries
your chaſtiſement: I know
you will do in this buſineſſe all
that juſtice requires, but beſids
this. I moſt humbly beſeech
you to adde yet for my ſake,
that ſweeteneſſe wherewith
you are wont to receive all
thoſe, I recommend to you,
and that obliging quality,
which intereſſes you in all that
I affect. The obligation I ſhall
beare you in this reſpect ſhall
hold the place of one of your
moſt ſpeciall favours; and I
ſhall remember it all my life,
aſwell as the promiſe I have
made to remaine,
Sir,
Your, &c.
The XXIV. Letter.
She writes to her, that her ſadneſſe i
•
extreame during her abſence.
MAdam, I take no care
how to expreſſe the
griefe I ſuffer by your abſence,
for it were to aſpire to an impoſſibility;
and as I cannot
ſpea
•
e my contentment when
I have the honour to ſee you,
ſo can I not teſtify the diſpleaſure
I feele, when I am deprived
of ſo great a good fortune,
my griefe is as mute as my joy.
I wiſh you could ſee it; you
ſhould judge my affection by
my ſorrow, ſince the one is the
cauſe of the other, and both
are extreame. In this caſe I
have no other comfort, but
that I receive by reading
your Letters. If I had no
memory, I ſhould be the moſt
unfortunate of the world.
And that which more afflicts
me is, that I have no more opportunity,
to receive the aſſurances
of your friendſhip, but
onely to ſend you thoſe of my
duty, & the deſire I have to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXIV. Anſwer.
She anſwers that ſhee hath not merit
enough to cauſe joy in the poſſeſſing,
or ſorrow in the loſing.
MAdam, your letter makes
me more aſhamed, then
my abſence, you melancholly.
I have more cauſe to bluſh at
your praiſes, then you to be ſad
at my ſeparation. I cannot beleeve
you, without miſtaking
my ſelfe, for another; and
to credit your words, I muſt
renounce the knowledge of
my ſelfe. That which you have
of mee is very different from
your diſcourſe, or at leaſt from
truth. I doubt not but you feele
ſome ſorrow; but I care not to
meaſure it by my merit. I have
too little to equall the favour
I poſſeſſe: and I ſhould be no
leſſe ignorant, then unthankefull,
if I ſhould not avow, that
you have much more affection
to me, then I good qualities to
deſerve it. If I have any one
that makes me ſo hardy to beg
the continuation, tis onely this
ſimplicity you love in me, and
which renders you my defects
the more ſuppo
•
table. Tis the
only advantage I have to think
you love me, and that you permit
me to call my ſelfe,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XXV. Letter.
She deſires to enter into a Monaſtery,
and prayes her to aide her therein.
MAdam, I muſt needs confeſſe
you my error, I feare
that you forget me: I beleeve
you wiſh me well, but I know
not, if you thinke on doing it;
and in the number of great affaires,
which take up your
thoughts, I feare you dreame
not on any ſo ſmall as mine. I
have more neede to ſollicite
your memory, then your will,
and am more in paine for your
•
emembrance, then your affection,
but that I may touch you
where you are moſt ſenſible,
•
he pleaſure you ſhall doe me,
may be cald an effect of your
charity, aſwel as of your friend
•
hip,
I perceive well the endea
•
ours
of my calling: but I can
•
ot
follow it perfectly without
•
our favour. I have yet neede
•
f humane things, to arrive at
•
ivine: and albeit I be neere a
•
onaſticke life, as the cripple
••
the poole, I want ſome bo
•
y
to caſt me in, upon this occaſion.
Without which I ſhall
but languiſh in my deſires, and
remaine alwaies in a place,
where long ſince I faſtned no
more hopes. I call the world
ſo, which I ſhould quit with
griefe, becauſe I leave you
there, did I not conſider that
one day by Gods grace, wee
ſhall enjoy a longer converſation,
then that is promiſed here
below. In which I place all
my expectation: and ſince it is
the greateſt good of all, I content
my ſelfe to wiſh it you, to
ſhew the true affection I have
to ſerve you, and to be,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XXV. Anſwer,
She praies her to employ her with more
••••••
ence, approves her deſigne to
enter into that courſe, and offers her
aide.
MIſtris, if you thinke I have
forgotten you, never was
faith ſo faulty as yours. It is an
injury to both, ſeeing you muſt
have a bad opinion of my
friendſhip, or I not that I ought
to have of your merit. Iudge
the conſequence, for to want
memory, I muſt want knowledge.
We cannot in this ſeparate
ingratitude from ignorance.
And to examine all
things well, I underſtand not
how I can wiſh you good,
without remembring to doe it.
this ſhould be rather a ſicke deſire,
then mine; I have too
much affection, to remaine unmooveable:
and I can aſſure
you that occaſions ſhall rather
be wanting to my wil, then my
will to occaſions. This would
be a thought very vnprofitablē
to our friends, if we ſhould remember
them alwayes, except
at thoſe times they have neede
of us. Be then leſſe fearefull,
and if you will that I aſſure my
ſelfe of your affection, doubt
not of mine. I thinke on you,
and you have no neede to ſollicite
my memory, more then
my affection, the firſt is an effect
of the laſt. True friendſhip
is alwayes attended with
remembrance, and thoſe which
can forget: were never truely
in love, when wee fixe upon a
worthy object, wee reſemble
the covetous, who have no leſſe
care to conſerve then heape up
treaſure. Inſomuch that to beleeve,
I entertaine my ſelfe
with you, is to beleeve I love
and yet however you conſent
to the laſt, you tell mee you
doubt the firſt. In this I know
not how to make your faith,
and your feare friends. Be for
the future more bold to employ
me, and think that if ever
I want memory, I muſt be very
ſicke, the alteration, ſhould be
in my temperament, not my
friendſhip. If any diſeaſe ſhould
take away this faculty of my
ſoule, which onely renders me
happy in your abſence; I aſſure
you, I would alwayes have
your picture before my eyes. I
would employ this remedy every
moment, and refreſh your
Idea at the table. But I hope I
ſhall have no neede of this, to
entertaine my ſelfe without
ceaſing, with a perſon that had
no defect; if ſhe had not this to
employ mee with ceremony.
Its enough to know that our
friends want us, to gaine our aſſiſtance:
we muſt not be entreated
when tis ſufficient to be
advertiſed. I have then reaſon
to complaine of you; and it
ſeemes to me that you have an
opinion ſcarce good enough of
my friendſhip, ſince you begge
the effects with ſo little confidence.
I am very unhappy not
yet to have given you cauſe enough
to rely on me, and to uſe
me with more aſſurance. Remember
your ſelfe onely that
if I ſeek occaſions to ſerve you,
you ſhould not feare to give
them, my intereſts are tyed to
yours; and I ſhall be no leſſe
obliged when you preſent mee
the meanes to doe you a good
turne, then if I had received
one. All that troubles mee in
this, is that I cannot benefit
you, but by depriving my ſelfe
of your company. But it is better
my inclination diſpoſe it
ſelfe to yours, and that humane
things give place to divine. I
love you ſo, that I have more
regard to what you gaine, then
that I loſe. Inſomuch that ſince
you deſire this holy ſolitude,
you ſhall no longer ſtay here,
but with repugnancy, follow
the voyce that cals you, and
hearken not to that which laments
you, or yet ſpeake to
you of the world, I approve
your deſire, and offer you all
the helpe I can bring. It is in
this occaſion onely, that I will
bid you farewell, without daring
to complaine, and without
expreſſing other griefe, then
for that I cannot follow you. I
wiſh I had the liberty ſo to do:
and I would not onely offer
you the favour, but the company,
Miſtris,
Of Your, &c.
The XXVI. Letter.
She deſires her to beleeve, that if ſhe
write not, tis want of opportunity
not will.
MAdam, never feare that I
forget you, my ſoule may
ſooner be without thoughts,
then my thoughts without
you, but albeit I employ the
better part of my time, to entertaine
my ſelfe about you, I
cannot finde any favourable enough
to write to you. It ſeems
that fortune is jealous that I
beſtow all my contemplation
upon you; and that not being
able to divert me, at leaſt ſhee
hinders mee to teſtifie you the
truth by my Letters. I moſt
humbly beſeech you to beleeve
it, and to lament me, rather
then accuſe me, It is occaſion
I want, not will. I am
more worthy of your compaſſion,
then your anger. Ceaſe
not then to ſend me your news,
albeit, you can but rarely receive
mine, my ſilence is no effect
of oblivion, but misfortune
handle me like a priſoner, on
whom we beſtow viſits, without
hope to receive any. If I
had more liberty, you ſhould
have more proofes of my affection.
If you doe but a little remember
the paſt, you cannot
doubt it, and during all my ſilence,
I am no leſſe then I have
beene, though I cannot proteſt
it you ſo often,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XXVI. Anſwer.
Shee anſwers that ſhee can eaſily hope
the honour of her remembrance,
ſince ſhe poſſeſſes that of her affection,
and that ſhee is aſſured of her
friendſhip whatever happen.
MAdam, I agree to yours:
and ſince you will have
it ſo, I beleeve that you paſſe
ſome part of your time, to entertaine
your ſelfe with our
friendſhip, I can eaſily beleeve
the favour of your remembrance,
ſince you deny me not
that of your love. We do more
oblige perſons by affection,
then memory, we may thinke
indeed on troubleſome things,
but love only delightfull, ſince
I have ſome part in your good
grace, I beleeve you will give
me ſome in your memory. After
a great favour, I may well
expect a little one. And if my
imperfections cannot hinder
you to love me, they ſhal never
hinder you to remember mee.
This is my faith, and my conſolation.
I am none of thoſe who
are alwayes in alarme, when
people faile of what they owe,
or what themſelves deſire. I
doe not regard if you write to
me or not, I beleeve that you
faile not to ſerve your ſelfe of
all occaſions, whereby I may
receive any aſſurance, I feare
more the change of your
health, then of your friendſhip:
and wiſh you were no more
ſubject to ſickneſſe, then inconſtancy.
And when I deſire you
more liberty, It is for your
owne ſatisfaction, and that I
might receive more frequent
teſtimonies of your affection.
Albeit I ſhould, this would not
augment the beleife I have, but
onely the pleaſure I take to underſtand
it. Your Letters render
me more content, but not
more conſtant, nor more then I
am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXVII. Letter.
She complaines of her diſtance, that ſhe
cannot hope for newes: that ſhee
can neither remember her without
griefe, nor forget her without ingratitude.
MAdam, ſince for the future,
I dare ſcarſe hope
to have newes from you, I muſt
at leaſt ſend you mine, that you
may have compaſſion on mee,
and not render my evill extreame
by oblivion. Tis that I
feare, if your promiſes did not
give me that courage, which
my want of merit entirely takes
away. Excuſe me if I write thus
unto you, ſince the ſoveraigne
remedy of my ſolitude, is to
thinke that you have promiſed
to love me. I hardly know my
ſelfe, when I conſider that
which not long ſince I poſſeſt.
I ſpeake thus according to your
meaſure, and not according to
my owne; ſince tis but eight
dayes for yov; but a whole age
for me; ſee to what I am reduced;
I can neither forget you
without crime, nor thinke of
you without griefe. I muſt be
either faulty, or unhappy. You
have too much merit, to let me
be able to forget you, and I too
little to imagine you thinke on
me. Inſomuch that I can neither
hope without temerity,
nor cure my ſelfe without ingratitude:
but my Letter muſt
be confuſed like my thoughts.
I tell you once more, that I
know not where I am, when I
thinke on your converſation. It
hinders me to taſte any ſweetneſſe
in all others. And therefore
quickely to reapproach
you, I intend to give ſuch order
to my affaires that in few daies
I ſhall ſee an end. I ſhall ever
hold them happy enough, provided
they be ſhort, and albeit
there were crownes to hope
for, I would freely quit the pretenſion,
if I muſt be long deprived
of your company, or
conſtrained farther to deferre
my returne. There is nothing ſo
true as this, and you ought no
more doubt of it, then of the affection
I have to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXVII. Anſwer.
Shee replies that if ſhe have not confidence
enough, ſhe hath not a juſt opinion
of her friendſhip, and that ſhe
hath n
•
ither power enough to ſerve
her, nor merit to be worthy of her
choiſe.
MAdam, I know not why
you have ſo much deſire
to hope for my newes: it is
leſſe difficult for mee to ſend,
then profitable for you to receive.
You entreat me in this
to doe a thing, whereof I had a
purpoſe to begge your permiſſion.
I am much more happy,
then I beleeved. I thought my
letters troubleſome to you, and
you tell me they are neceſſary.
I know not how it goes, but
aſſure your ſelfe, you ſhall not
faile being happy, if your felicity
depend on me. You ſhall
never be poore of thoſe goods
which I can heape upon you.
You muſt hope
•
i
•
with more
aſſurance, otherwiſe your feare
will produce that of ſome alteration
in your friendſhip. If you
be without confidence, you
muſt needes beleeve me without
affection, ſeeing we ought
to expect all of that perſon
which hath power, and will, to
doe us the good to which wee
aſpire; can you beleeve that I
have neither the one nor the
other, either to ſend you tydings,
or to ſerve you in what
ever it be? For the tediouſnes
you ſuffer in my abſence, I conjecture
it is not ſmall, no more
then the affection you beare
me: but I cannot imagine that
tis like mine. As I give place to
you in merit, you ſhould give
place to mee in diſpleaſure,
when wee are ſeparated one
from the other. If wee ought
to meaſure the greatnes of the
loſſe by that of the cauſe, It is
eaſie to judge my griefe extreame;
meane while that
yours cannot be great, no more
then her merit, which is the
cauſe of it. I know not why
you tell mee that you cannot
hope without being raſh, nor
cure your ſelfe, wi
•
hout being
unthankefull, It muſt either be
that I had more perfections to
oblige you to remembrance: or
you more obligation to have
ſome ground of thankfulneſſe;
I have receiv'd no advantage
from nature, or fortrne, or
if they have obliged mee in
ought, tis that the firſt hath given
me a diſpoſition to honour
you, the other hath given me
occaſions to know you. Iudge
then if you ought to handle as
you doe a perſon that is in caſe
rather to ſeeke your
•
favours,
then doe you any. And hath
no other advantage but this,
that ſhe can perfectly honour
you. If you be confuſed, it muſt
needs be for ſome other griefe,
then that of my loſſe, And if
the remembrance of my converſation,
renders all others unagreeable,
tis becauſe it troubles
you, and puts you into a
bad humour. This is that which
the
••
nowledge of my defects
ought to perſwade me, whiles
that of your goodneſſe ſhall
make mee beleeve what ever
you will to my advantage. It is
time to finiſh this letter. Put an
end to yonr affaires, if you deſire
an end of my unquiet, It
will laſt til your returne, which
cannot bee ſo ſoone as all the
world deſires, and among others,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXVIII. Letter.
Shee promiſes to publiſh every where
the effects of her courteſie.
MAdam, as one of your
greateſt pleaſures is to
oblige your friends, ſo one of
the greateſt I have is to ſpeake
of thoſe I have received. I
would be no leſſe generous, to
publiſh your favours, then you
to doe them. I proclaime them
every where, ſo loudly, that
there is no body which does
not inſtantly judge, the reſent I
have of them, and the extream
griefe I take, not to be able to
teſtifie you the truth of it, no
more then the affection I have
to be all my life,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXVIII. Anſwer.
She replies that inſtead of deedes, ſhe
can onely have good intentions, and
deſires.
MY deare ſiſter, how much
would you deeme your
ſelfe bound to mee for effects,
ſeeing you beleeve your ſelfe,
ſo much only for deſires? truely
you muſt needs have power
to pierce into the affections, as
well as to gaine them, to thank
me in this manner. I am very
glad you have this particular
gift, to judge the intention,
without helpe of ordinary appearances
which may ſhow it.
I ſhould hardly be able to ſhew
you mine, by my workes: and
I rejoyce you know that by
prophecy, which I ſhould be
able to demonſtrate by experience,
without doubt, you had
leſſe regard to the ſervice you
have receiv'd from me, then to
•
he will I have to ſerve you. It
is great enough to content
thoſe, which can come to
know it, like you; and I thinke
it might oblige my friends to
doe mee good, if they ſhould
conſider what I deſire them, tis
this which obliges you to doe
mee ſo many civilities; and
which renders mee confuſed,
when I thinke that I have yet
done nothing, which may evidence
to you as I would, in
what faſhion I am,
My Siſter,
Your, &c.
The XXIX. Letter.
She comforts her touching the death of
M. and ſhewes that teares are unprofitable
for thoſe, that have loſt
life, dangerous for thoſe that yet poſſeſſes
it.
MAdam, to ſee how melancholly
you be, one
would thinke you no more regard
your life, then as a thing
in which you have no intereſt.
Since you lament thoſe have
loſt it, why doe you put your
owne in danger? how comes
it to paſſe, you have not as
much feare for your ſelfe, as
ſadneſſe for others? tell mee
not that there are accidents in
which teares, and griefe are a
juſt effect of duty. Surely there
is more of cuſtome, then reaſon:
and I cannot comprehend
why our friends ſhould take
pleaſure to ſee that we doe our
ſelves an evill, from whence
they can draw no advantage.
So I call that of our exceſſive
ſorrow, for ſince wee beleeve
them content in the other
world, if wee weepe for them
in this, our teares are injurious:
if it be for our ſelves, they are
mercenary: and for what ever
it be, they are ſuperfluous, but
if a wiſe man ought not to have
unprofitable paſſions, how ſhall
hee have any ſo dangerous?
Pardon me, if I tell you freely,
that if you diminiſh not your
griefe, I ſhall the beleife I had
of your ſpirit, what difference
is there betweene you, and one
that wilfully precipitates himſelfe,
onely you kill more cruelly,
then ever any did wee accuſe
of their owne death, take
heede leaſt to ſhew too much
pitty to others, you ſhew too
little to your ſelfe. Remember
what you were wont to ſay
touching the death of Lucretia:
you thought men could not juſtifie
her murther. And what
did ſhe to her body, you doe
not to your ſoule? doe you
thinke that one is leſſe homicide
that kils himſelfe in five
dayes, then in an houre? doe
not that with voluntary griefe,
ſhee did with her owne hand.
And what is it to purpoſe, if the
weapons wee uſe to take away
life, be viſible or not? if the
ſhorteſt death bee ſweeteſt,
judge what is that, you cauſe
your ſelfe by a ſadneſſe too affected?
I know well the loſſe
of our friends doth touch us, I
would not remove the ſenſe,
but the errour: and if we muſt
give any thing to nature, wee
muſt yet give more to reaſon,
but I correct my ſelfe, it is not
ſo much nature th
•
t makes us
to weepe exceſſiuely, as opinion,
ſince there is no time wherin
noble ſpirits ſhold not aſpire
to felicity, what ſhew of reaſon
is there, that to gaine the glory
of loving well, a man ſhould
racke, and torment himſelfe.
True it is that paſſions there
are, whereof we forbid but the
exceſſe: but for ſorrow, wee
ſhould take away the very uſe
it ſelfe: and not ſerve our ſelves
of it, but for repentance. In all
things elſe, it is ſuperfluous, and
indeede perilous. I doe notwithſtanding
much admire, if
ſhee bee often Miſtreſſe of our
ſoule, ſince no body doth reſiſt
her: I ſay more, ſince wee detaine
her ſpight of thoſe, that
offer remedy. Call to minde
that ſhee is unprofitable to the
dead, dangerous to the living:
and may take life from thoſe
that have it, not reſtore it, to
thoſe have loſt it: ſhee puſhes
into the grave, but never draws
back any. And to behold theſe
lamentable effects, take onely
your glaſſe, you may gueſſe the
ill it does your ſoule, by that it
does your face. Never did ſorrow
doe ſo much miſchiefe as
yours, ſeeing it ruines at once
two of the faireſt things in the
world, your diſpoſition, and
your beauty; judge now if we
have cauſe to complaine, and
if your melancholly ought not
to be a juſt cauſe of ours, think
on this, and conſider how many
you make weepe, whileſt
you lament but one. You ſee
what I might write, and yet account
not my letter neceſſary.
I ſpeake rather to your memory,
then your judgement, and
this is not to inſtruct, but call to
mind thoſe leſſons you give to
others, and would be at preſent
uſefull to your ſelfe. I muſt now
ſay to your ſoule, as to ſicke
Phiſitians, that ſhee heale her
ſelfe. But I feare leaſt it be ſpoken
as unprofitably to you, as
them, for if the ſickneſſe of the
body takes away knowledge,
much more that of the ſoule.
Nevērtheleſſe I will hope better,
and beleeve you will not
alwayes take pleaſure to hug
an ill, whereof you may heale
your ſelfe. At leaſt I thinke you
will interrupt a little your
teares, if you open your eies to
conſider her that prayes you, it
is
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXX. Letter.
She rejoyces at the newes of her returns,
and profeſſes no leſſe feeling
for her then her owne ſister.
MAdam, to judge with
what con
•
entment I
learnt the newes of your returne,
you neede but thinke
with what paſſion I deſired it.
Chorinde ſhall witneſſe it, and I
beleeve that ſhe will not boaſt,
to have ſhed more teares, or
made more prayers then I, during
your abſence. Let her ſay
what ſhe will, if ſhe be nearer
to you by reaſon of blood, I
am, then her, by inclination; the
one is aſwell a linke of nature
as the other, this is it you ſhold
conſider, if you will not make
me as unhappy, as I am affectionate
in what concernes you.
Let her eſteeme that quality of
ſiſter, I rather love that of my
Miſtris. I am very glad to be
leſſe o
•
kin, and more diſtanced
in blood, to be more neare by
our alliance. I rejoyce that nature
obliges you to have more
friendſhip for her, that there
may remaine more love for
me. I have ſpoken enough of
my affection, let us now ſpeake
of the griefe it produceth. Verily,
if I had not learnd the
newes of your returne, my miſfortune
could no longer linger
the poſſeſſion of this good,
without advancing the end of
my life. If you againe make
ſuch voyages, I will make my
will, before I bid you farewel,
•
nd, ceaſing to ſee you, will
practiſe the ſame ceremonies,
•
hey doe in ceaſing to live. I
•
ſſure you of it, and this is no
eſſe true, then the affection
which I have to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXX. Anſwer.
She aſſures her of her remembrance,
and her returne.
MAdam, the onely conſolation
I have amongſt a
thouſand occaſions of ſufferance,
which preſent themſelves
but too much in the
Countrey where I am, is the
hope I have to ſee you. And
if you aske me of my entertainement,
I aſſure you the
beſt, and moſt ordinary I have,
is the remembrance of yours.
Tis this which ſerves me for a
counter poyſon, after that of
many troubleſome gueſts,
whom one cannot put off,
without making them enemies,
nor ſ
•
e without enduring a
thouſand incommodities. You
will ſay, perhaps, I not oblige
you much to thinke on you at
preſent. And that if the company
here were a little leſſe inſupportable,
I would never
dreame of yours. I aſſure you,
there is nothing ſo ſweete in
the world can make me forget
it, and that I have no leſſe ſorrow
when I am deprived of it,
then joy when I poſſeſſe it. It is
to this happineſſe I aſpire with
extreame paſſion, and doe all I
can to ſet forward my returne.
I hope it ſhall be no leſſe
chearefull, then my departure
was penſive. You ſhall be the
firſt to ſee the effects, as you
are to receive the menaces. I
ſay the menaces, not the promiſes,
ſince all my viſits are
more worthy your feare, then
your hope. It may be you are
of another opinion: but if this
were not mine, I ſhould yet
leſſe merit, then I doe the honor
of your favour, and the
quality,
Madam,
Of Your, &c.
The XXXI. Letter.
She profeſſeth that the courſe diſpleaſeth
her, and that ſhee cannot imagine
what delight may therein be
found.
MAdam, I am in deſpaire
that my opinion is not
conformable to yours: and
that the ſame thing is the object
of your pleaſure, my anger.
I ſpeake of the courſe
which you cal the faireſt houre
of the day, and I the moſt troubleſome.
This is my opinion
which yet I love not, becauſe
yours is contrary, give mee
reaſons to combat it; there is
nothing I deſire ſo much, as to
learne thoſe which make you
love it, that I may renounce
thoſe which make mee hate it.
I much feare not to be perſwaded:
and albeit your ſpirit be
very powerfull over others,
leaſt mine in this occaſion, oppoſe
her averſion to your eloquence.
I ſay an averſion, not
blinde, like that of many others,
who content themſelves
to ſay, they are not enclined to
ſuch a thing, and will not open
their eyes to ſee the truth they
know not. I doe not ſhut mine,
rather I ſtraine my ſelfe
to finde ſome reaſons to make
it pleaſing. I pry into every
corner, without diſcovering any
thing faire, or agreeable.
We goe there to ſee, or to be
ſeene: and for that matter, I
have neither vanity enough,
nor curioſity, we turne, we behold,
we ſalute three things in
my judgement unprofitable enough,
or enough trouble ſome
I will not ſay dangerous, eſpecially
ſpeaking to a perſon that
knowes how to preſerve her
ſelfein a greater contagion, and
which runs no other perill in
this adventure then that of being
importuned. Tis to you
then an innocent diverſion, albeit,
it may be, it be not ſo to
many others, but ſuppoſe it be
to all: have we not many better,
wherin there is more pleaſure,
leſſe trouble? is it not
better to ſpend that houre in
entertaining of our friends,
then to make ſo many turnes in
the midſt of noyſe, and duſt?
This is neither converſation,
nor walking, ſeeing there is too
little familiarity for the one,
too much confuſion for the other.
This is my opinion, which
perhaps is not conformable to
that of many others: but it matters
not, I ceaſe not to beleeve
it reaſonable, although I have
not many of my ſide. I know
there are more bad, then good
how ever I think the beſt may
be of diverſe opinions in ſuch a
matter. Howbeit leaſt I make
me to many enemies, I had rather
ſay, I take no pleaſure
therein, then that there is none
at all. I would not have my humour
ſerve as a rule for others.
I am not vaine enough to
claime conformity, nor eaſie enough
to yeeld it. I am not
careful to frame my ſelfe a particular
wiſedome. And I let
you thinke if I deſire my averſion
overcome, ſince it deprives
me of publicke pleaſure,
and makes mee hate what you
love. I will therefore tell you
that I have found the meanes
to draw ſome profit from the
courſe, and to recrea
•
e my ſelf,
albeit it be not in the ſame faſhion
with others, it is, that
obſerving the paſſages there,
they put me into an extraordinary
veine of laughing, not that
this folly is not worthy of
compaſſion; but I would not
make ſo auſtere a reflexion, and
had rather make ſport with it,
then complaine, you ſee how
all my mirth conſiſts in deriding
that of others; but I muſt
confeſſe you the truth, the
pleaſure which I thus take,
does not laſt long; I enter inſenſibly
into
•
holler: I flote
betweene a good, and a bad
humour; I ſee whereat to be
angry, and whereat to laugh,
and am betwixt ſnight, and
ſcorne. And this is the ſtate I
fi
•
de my ſelfe in, during the
courſe. I know not if reaſon be
of my ſide, or yours; but in
which ſoever it be, free mee
from errour, or leave it your
ſelfe. It is no great matter
which of us change her opinion,
ſo our opinions be reconciled.
I cannot endure they
ſhould be different, and am reſolved
to loſe, or gaine the victory:
At leaſt I promiſe you
to ſuffer my ſelfe to be perſwaded
by your reaſons, if you
bring me any ſtrong enough. If
I am ignorant, I am not indocible.
And it is eaſie enough to
cure mee, if I be ſicke. I am
wholly diſpoſed to beleeve
you, as well as to obey you,
and to be,
Madam,
Your &c.
The XXXI Anſwer.
Shee anſwers that her averſion from
the courſe is without reaſon, and
that ſhee hath nothing to vanquiſh
but her opinion to take delight therin,
as well as others.
MAdam, ſeeing it muſt be
(as it ſeemes by your letter)
that one of us, renounce
her opinion: to obſerve ſome
juſtice therein, it will be good
to have regard to her that ſhall
loſe leſſe by the change; and
ſince there is one houre in the
day that diſpleaſes you, you
ſhal gaine much if you can find
the meanes to make it agreeable.
You ought to contribute
what you can, to free your ſelfe
from a beleife that hurts you,
and makes you find a loathing,
where all the world takes a recreation.
Let us not diſpute ſo
much the nobleneſſe of our
thoughts, as their utility. Let
us be happy, if wee cannot be
wiſe: and if it be hard to diſcover
whether our opinions be
contrary to reaſon, let us at
leaſt take care they be not contrary
to our owne good fortune.
To what end ſhould we
affect that which oppoſes our
felicity? tis a misfortune, that
inſtead of correcting we adore
our owne imagination. And are
to our opinions, as mothers to
their children; loving to thoſe
that merit it leaſt. Tis a great
increaſe of miſery, to ſee that
our thoughtsare not only ſalſe,
but likewiſe ſullon, did our
dreames depend upon our
ſelves, wee would have none
but pleaſant. And yet though
our thoughts bee at our owne
liberty, wee ceaſe not to have
them importune, nor loſe them
without difficulty, for my part
I deſire not that errour ſhould
abridge my pleaſures, I had rather
it encreaſed them, and if
I muſt be deceived, I wiſh it
might be pleaſingly, doe as
much for the courſe, and ſtrive
to finde delight, where your imagination
depaints nothing
but importunity. I know not
why you ſay, tis neither walking,
nor conver
•
ing: it is both
the one and the other, or rather
a third pleaſure compounded
of both, ſee how many
contentments are found therein
at the ſame time. Wee take
the aire, wee entertaine, wee
mu
•
e, we may there pleaſe the
eye, and the eare, and finde the
pleaſures both of diſcourſe and
ſilence, but there is enough
ſaid of this matter, if reaſon
cannot convince you, I hope
you will yeeld to experience. I
had rather make you taſte that
which is delightfull in the
courſe, then to deſcribe it. We
will carry you thither, and if
you yet go there with your errour,
doubtleſſe you ſhal come
home ſound. You ſhall be vext
at your antipathy to this houre,
and grieve the time you employed,
not in ſo pleaſing an
exerciſe, I aſſure my ſelfe you
will thanke me for undeceiving
you, and that you will ta
•
e my
care, for one of the leaſt effects
of the affection I have to ſerve
you, and to be alwayes,
Madam,
Your▪ &c.
The XXXII. Letter.
Sh
•
wiſheth her much wealth, and ſaith
ſhe is rich in the goods of nature, if
poore in thoſe of fortune.
MIſtris, after the letter you
wrote unto mee, I know
not what to begge of heaven
for you, or what prayers to
make, may give you ſatisfaction.
I ſeare leaſt mine be contrary
to yours, and that you
ſhould complaine of the felicity
which I deſire you, tell mee
your minde in this, that my
prayers may be more confident,
and profitable, but whiles
I lo
•
ke to heare from you, I
muſt tell you what I feare, as
wel as what I deſire. Although
you cannot chooſe but be content,
if fortune does her duty
for you; I feare not withſtanding
leaſt wee have cauſe to
complaine of her blindneſſe,
who without doubt would averre,
ſhe is not rich enough to
equall your perfections with
her preſents, if ſhe had eyes to
conſider what you are. In
which this ſhall alwayes be
your great conſolation, to be
able to thinke, if ſhee doe you
no good, ſhee knowes not your
worth, how liberall ſoever ſhe
be towards you, ſhee cannot equall
nature, which will alwayes
make you merit more
favours, then the other can
give. I beleeve you will never
be ſo happy as you are perfect,
by my advice you ſhould
uſe this thought to ſweeten
that which makes you melancholly,
when you doe not ſo
much conſider what you have,
as what you want. And indeed
if you take but a little paine to
regard what you are, your
glaſſe, and your conſcience,
will hinder you to complaine,
the one ſhewing you the greateſt
beauty, the other, the pureſt
vertue of the age. Your
humility forbids it not, ſince
after you have well knowne
your owne extraordinary qualities;
you can conclude no other
thing, but that you are
ſpecially obliged to him, without
whoſe favour there is nothing
faire, nor in the ſoule, nor
face: it will be ſaid I preach,
in ſtead of Complement, but
you are ſo good you will tolerate
the liberty of my diſcourſe,
becauſe of the affection
I have to ſerve you, and to
be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXII. Anſwer,
She maintaines that no body ſhall diſoblige
her, by deſiring her more goods
then ſhe hath.
MAdam, I am glad that fortune
hath no eyes: if ſhe
had I ſhould looke for leſſe by
her election, then now by her
blindneſſe, and I thinke if men
had given her eyes, they had
taken away all my hope. If we
muſt meaſure her favours by
the merit of thoſe that receive
them, I ſhould yet be poorer
then I am. It may be ſome will
ſay, that if you meane to pray
for me, it muſt be to make mee
more wiſe, and not more rich;
becauſe that having acquired
vertue, I ſhall poſſeſſe a good
greater then all others, and
which fortune can neither give
nor take away, but I will not
diſſemble I will freely tell you
what I thinke, I am not of their
number which deſpiſe riches
in appearance, and deſire them
in effect. It ſeemes to me that
I may wiſh a little more then I
have: and becauſe in this my
deſignes are juſt, I thinke my
deſires are ſo. Tis a misfortune
to be neceſſitated: and to be
poore with honour wee muſt
vow i
•
. I ſuffer poverty, but deſire
it not. I know well enough
what they ſay of this ſubject,
touching the contempt of riches:
but tis onely diſcourſe,
practiſed by no body. Philoſophy
it ſelfe in our age would
be better lodged then in a tub,
and better cloathed then in the
dayes of the Cynickes. This is
not ſtrange: for as the ſoule
albeit faire hath need of a faire
body, becauſe of the Organs
whereunto ſhe is tyed, ſo how
eminent ſoever a vertue be, ſhe
hath ſometimes neede of the
goods of fortune, to make up
all her brightneſſe. Otherwiſe
though ſhee hath all her price,
ſhe hath not all her luſter. You
will ſay that the vertue of the
poore breedes compaſſion, like
a faire, miſerable; and indeed
it ſeemes we cannot commend
it without complaining. I wiſh
we had not this opinion; that
this errour were not in the
ſoule of ſo many perſons, and
that wee lived not in an age,
wherein they give more to a
perſon of quality, then a perſon
of merit, but tis better we
accōmodate our ſelves to this
error, then oppoſe it: this will
prove to us a wiſedome, leſſe
troubleſome, and leſſe dangerous.
At leaſt for my ſelfe, I
aſſure you, I ſhall never fret againſt
thoſe, which deſire mee
more wealth then I have. If
you make prayers for this, they
are not contrary to mine. I
thanke you for the good you
wiſh mee, and I beſeech you
beleeve that though I may become
more rich, I can never be
more then I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXIII. Letter.
She prayes her to bring her acquainted
with a certaine Lady of worth.
MAdam, albeit naturally I
have an extreame repugnancy
to make requeſts, I aſſure
you I feele no effect of this
averſeneſſe, when I am obliged
to beg your favours, you
do them with ſo good a grace,
they leave no other ſhame,
then that of impotency to returne
the like. Tis the ſole diſpleaſure
I have in receiving a
good turne from you, not to be
able to render it. You will
thinke I doe not ſpeake this to
no purpoſe, and that I doe not
praiſe your goodneſſe, but the
more eaſily to obtaine the effects:
but I can aſſure you, I
deſire not to handle you in that
ſort: I have too good an opinion
of your friendſhip, to uſe
the leaſt fineneſſe in ſolliciting,
when any occaſions preſent
themſelves to oblige m
•
e. I
hope more in the force of my
prayers, then my perſwaſions,
I make my requeſts with more
affection, then art. You know
it, and I thinke I tell you nothing
you beleeve not, when I
aſſure you I am naturall, there
lies my advantage: and if the
faire Dutcheſſe you ſo much eſteeme,
be taken with ſimplicity,
I hope mine will pleaſe
her. I have but this charme
can touch her. You ſee the ſubject
of my Letter, and of the
prayer I make you: you promiſed
mee to give mee her acquaintance,
and if I demand
you this favour, tis onely after
you have done me the honour
to offer it. When I thinke on
the eſteeme you make of it, it
ſeemes to mee it ſhould be to
miſprize your approbation, not
to be willing to know a perſon,
which you repute ſo worthy.
Albeit ſhe had but this advantage
to be eſteemed by you, I
could not have a ſmall opinion
of a ſpirit which yours approves.
There are many others
might help me to this acquaintance:
but among al the meanes
which preſent themſelves, I
ſhall bee glad to employ the
moſt noble, and for my ſelfe
the moſt advantageous. If I
had more merit; I ſhould have
leſſe neede of your favour: but
I thinke ſhee will not examine
my defects, and that ſhee will
beleeve what I am by your eſteeme.
And to ſay that this
is to feare for you, and that ſhe
will wonder to finde in mee ſo
few qualities worthy her
knowledge, or your recommendation:
never imagine that
this can hurt you, the opinion
ſhee hath of your merit, ſhall
not diminiſh by that ſhee ſhall
have of my imperfections. If
the perſons of whom you
ſpeake to her, have any good
qualities, ſhee takes this for an
effect of your choyſe, if they
have none, ſhee attributes it to
your goodneſſe. She can make
no interpretation diſadvantageous
to you. That which ſhe
cannot referre to one vertue,
ſhe will beſtow upon another.
You may employ your reputation
for great ſpirits, your
compaſſion for ſmall. Tis in
this ranke I muſt place my
ſelfe, albeit to ſay true, I ought
to ſurpaſſe the moſt excellent,
if I had as much brightneſſe, as
affection to ſerve you, and to
teſtifie that I am entirely,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXIII. Anſwer.
She faith, that ſhe ſhall be thanked on
both ſides, for bringing them acquainted
and after ſhewes that ſhe
is no way counterfeit.
MAdam, you are not a little
faulty, if you doe with
paine employ me: you cannot
deprive me of the occaſions to
ſerve you, without taking from
me thoſe of contentment. And
judge if you ought to have any
repugnancy, ſince I am tyed to
you, by the two ſtrongeſt
chaines of the world, inclination,
and obligation. The deſire
I have to doe you ſome ſervice
is aſwell an effect of my ſympathy,
as my duty. I beſeech
you bel eve it, and eſpecially
in an occaſion, where my labor
will be more honorable to me,
then profitable to you. You
deſire I ſhould bring you acquainted
with Mel
•
ante, and I
thinke you demand mee nothing,
which to her may not be
very pleaſing. I ſhall receive
thankes on both ſides, and you
both ſhall have a better opinion
of my ſpirit, becauſe of the
intereſt I have in perſons that
are ſo rare. Iudge not of her
by my report, but by her merit,
which is the cauſe of it,
when you have ſeene her, you
will not accuſe me to have ſpoken
more then truth: And likewiſe
you ſhall judge mee worthy
of excuſe, if I have not expreſt
all her good qualities,
ſince there is too great a number.
I muſt make her the ſame
complement for you, and refer
you both to a more particular
acquaintance, which you ſhall
get in time. But you are in the
wrong, to ſay there is nothing
amiable in you, but ſimplicity,
if you are ſimple tis by reaſon,
rather then nature. And if you
be without fineneſſe, tis not by
ignorance, but contempt, yours
is a noble ſimplicity, which
comes not from want of ſpirit,
like that of many, but onely
from an averſion you have to
impoſtures. I hate them ſo
much, that it is impoſſible for
me to ſuffer them. There is nothing
I deſire ſo much, in thoſe
I love as a ſolid honeſty, which
ſerves for foundation to al vertues;
and without which there
ſhall never be aſſurance in ſociety,
nor commerce. I ſeldome
ſee thoſe that are cunning
to have much ſoule, or
vertue: if they were really
good, or prudent, they would
leſſe affect the appearance.
There are which conceale
their vertues by modeſty,
meane while that others conceale
their defects by vanity.
But in the end, men take away
the vizards, and diſcover in
time what is worthy of blame,
or praiſe. This is my opinion,
which I eſteeme ſo much the
more reaſonable, as it is conformable
to yours. Finally,
you know if I have cauſe to
make warre with thoſe that are
leſſe ſincere, ſince there is nothing
ſo contrary to my humor
as deceit, and nothing ſo pure,
and naturall as my affection;
but eſpecially that I have to be
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXIV. Letter.
Shee rejoyces that ſhe is not forgotten,
and feares leaſt the number of her
Letters be troubleſome.
MAdam, I muſt needs ſay,
in the feare I was in, to be
blotted from your memory, I
have beene very glad to know
that your long ſilence was rather
an effect of diſtance, then
oblivion. You will that I interpret
it ſo; and I aſſure you I am
of the number of thoſe who
beleeve eaſily what they deſire.
I will not examine if it be
truth or civility that ſpeakes. I
make no more doubt there
hath wanted occaſion, not wil,
if I have not received your letters.
As for mine, I had cauſe
to deſire that ſome had ſtayed
by the way: ſince if you have
received them all, you ſhould
have no leſſe reaſon to complaine
for the teſtimonies of
my remembrance then I for
the ſilence of yours. Our
plaints had been very different
you perhaps had leſſe deſired
my Letters, I yours more. But
I doe not repent; I thinke you
be not angry at my writing, and
ſince you ſuffer my affection,
your patience will ſtretch to
thoſe effects which ſhew it: I
wiſh ſtronger, better to merit
what you be to me, and better
to teſtifie what I am to you,
that is,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXIV. Anſwer.
Shee aſſures her that her Letters
ſhall never bee troubleſome,
and expreſſes diſpleaſure, that hers
were not all received.
MAdam, you do me wrong
to thinke I can ever forget
you, you muſt have leſſe
merit, or I leſſe knowledge of
it. There is nothing ſo true as
the aſſurances I give you of my
remembrance. And you ſhall
have better reaſon to beleeve,
then deſire it. This is more true
then profitable to you. You
are my example, and my remedy:
I thinke on you alwayes
to comfort and inſtruct my
ſelfe. You tell me that I have
not received all your Letters;
if it be ſo, I have reaſon to
complaine with thankes, and
to eſteeme my ſelfe unfortunate,
at the ſame time, I beleeve
my ſelfe obliged. I ſhould be
leſſe worthy of this favour, if I
had leſſe feeling of ſuch a loſſe.
I ſee my ſelfe enforced to agree
to contrary paſſions for
the ſame cauſe, joy, and ſadnes.
If I rejoyce to know you remember
me, it afflicts me, not
to have ſeene all the evidences,
as for my Letters you have receiv'd
them all in the ſame day
as I conceive, albeit, as you
may well ſee, I write them one
after another. I am ſorry they
were not given you in the time
that I deſired: But ſeeing it is
thus happened, at leaſt I ſhall
thence draw one great advantage;
It is that henceforth, if
you receive none, you will attribute
it to my misfortune,
which elſe perhaps you would
to my oblivion, never then entertaine
an opinion contrary
to the purpoſe I have to honour
you: and whether I write
to you, or not, beleeve that I
am perfectly,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XXXV. Letter.
She praies her to aſſiſt a friend of hers
in ſome affaire.
MAdam, I beſeech you at
the entrance of this, to
remember the command you
made mee, when I had the honour
to bid you farewell: and
you will finde it leſſe ſtrange,
if I have rather ſuffered my ſelf
to be tranſported with feare to
diſobey you: then to importune
you by my Letters. I can
write you none but ill-compoſed,
but I forbeare not to hope
you will ſuffer them, and after
having had patience for a bad
converſation, you will not deny
it me for a bad Letter, that
which yet makes me hope this
favour with more aſſurance, eſpecially
in this occaſion, is
that I write for one who hath
wiſedome, and vertue. They
are two qualities you love, and
poſſeſſe in a degree ſo eminent,
that even thoſe who have them
but in the meane, finde eaſie
acceſſe, when any occurrent
preſents it ſelfe. I aſſure my
ſelfe this bearer which knowes
this truth but by report, ſhall
quickly learne it by experience,
when he ſhall have ſeene
you. I doubt not but you will
aſſiſt him, and doe beleeve that
in obliging him, you will give
me new ground to ſerve you,
and to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXVI. Letter.
Shee makes her a Complement on the
praiſes ſhe had received.
MAdam, you give me approbation
for a thing,
which hardly deſerves patience.
I thinke tis rather an effect
of your affection, then of
your judgement; and that you
have more deſire to declare
me your good will, then your
eſteeme. Take heed you offend
not, in prayſing me after this
manner, and that yon make me
not fall into the greateſt errour
of the world, which is to take
my ſelfe to be eloquent. I aſcribe
ſo much to your judgement.
I ſhould be ready to abuſe
my owne, to conforme
my beleefe to yours, but let us
change ſtile, I thinke it is not
your intention, no more then
mine, and that when you value
me ſo much, tis rather civility
then truth, that ſpeakes. I
know you have no leſſe ability
to diſcerne my defects, then
goodneſſe to pardon them.
And I doe not deſire you to run
your ſelfe into errour, I onely
pray you to bring in others,
and to ſay of mee ſometimes
that which your ſelfe doe not
beleeve. It ſeemes to me my
requeſt is not uncivill, if I beſeech
you to ſpeake for mee to
others, as you uſe to doe to
my ſelfe. I thinke you would
not I ſhould have any other opinion
of my ſelfe: ſo I take
your praiſe for an honeſt correction,
and doe beleeve that
in attributing to mee ſo many
good qualities, you would admoniſh
mee of thoſe I want,
and which muſt be had to merit
ſo high an approbation as
yours. This is that which
ought to be beleeved by,
Your, &c.
The XXXVII. Letter.
She profeſſes to her the feare ſhee hath
during the thunder, and expreſſes
her griefe for not ſeeing her.
MIſtris, wonder not if this
Letter be confuſed, I am
yet more in my thoughts, then
my diſcourſe: if you know not
the cauſe, I thinke it is enough
for your information to tell
you it thunders here, they
ſay the ſtorme is paſt, and
nevertheleſſe my feare is not
yet blowne over. This is not
written like others in my cabinet,
but in the bottome of a
cave, whether I deſcended all
trembling, and wrote it with
ſo much diſorder, that to reade
it onely, will be enough to
make you beleeve the truth. I
thinke that you are ſorry to
know me ſubject to ſuch an exceſſive
feare: but yet doth it
ſeeme that I have more reaſon
to feare thunder, then others
have to runne away from Rats,
and ſpiders. After ſo many ſad
examples wee have of it, that
which is capable of feare,
ought to be poſſeſt with it, at
this moſt fearefull Meteor, but
that this feare may be profitable,
it muſt make us diſcourſe
of our owne weakeneſſe, and
the greatneſſe of God, which
makes all tremble with a vapour,
and which employes but
an exhalation to fright the
proudeſt. Excuſe me if I write
to you in this faſhion, the apprehenſion
I am in, inſpires me
with no other thoughts, you
ſhal receive ſomething another
time leſſe melancholly, but ſee
how far I am diſtracted, I forgot
to anſwer your Letter,
where you tell mee there is no
appearance, I bemoane you
much, and that you yet hope
my returne with more paſſion;
I have as much affection to
your company as you to mine.
I wiſh you knew my thought,
without doubt you would
change yours. Finally binde
me to judge of my griefe, by
my love, or rather of the one,
and the other, by your merit,
which is the object of both.
Nevertheleſſe, I ought not to
give my ſelfe over to the judgement you make of me: for as
humility conceales from you
the better part of your ſelfe, I
feare leaſt it alſo hide the affection,
they beget in the ſoule
of thoſe which know you as
my ſelfe, and which are as perfectly
as I am,
Miſtris,
Your, &c.
The XXXVIII. Letter.
She complaines of her ſubtleties.
MAdam, albeit I were told
of your humour, I could
hardly beleeve you would diſoblige
thoſe that had vowed
you ſervice, and friendſhip, the
good opinion I had tane of you
forbad mee this beleife, inſomuch,
that I accuſed of malice
and invention, thoſe that informed
me yours, but now I have
quitted this error, by the laſt
effects you have made mee receive
of your bad diſpoſition;
which are by ſo much the
more unjuſt, as I have never
given you cauſe to offend mee.
On the contrary, I have alwayes
expreſt to you, that I eſteemed
you perfectly. Tis
this which makes your proceſſe
the more criminall: and
which ſhould carry mee more
juſtly to revenge, if the contempt
I make of your deceits
tooke not away my purpoſe.
In this minde I would never
complaine of you, if it were
not for feare to paſſe for an innocent
in your judgement, giving
you advantage by my ſilence
to thinke that I diſcover
not your ſubtleties, and that I
yet preſerve the affection I
promiſed you. Tis this that
made me reſolve to hazard this
writing, to aſſure you that I am
cleane ſtript of friendſhip or
hatred towards you. My courage
makes me uncapable to eſtee
me you, and my goodneſſe
to hate you: But if my mildneſſe
obliges me to this moderation,
it ſhall not hinder me to
tell you; that of all the Ladies
I have ever knowne, you are
the moſt malicious, and the
moſt unworthy to be beloved.
This is all that I can write unto
you of this matter, aſſuring you
that your inſtructions have bin
unprofitable, and that thoſe
people which have ſtudyed
them, have made very bad uſe
of them; at leaſt have they not
made thoſe to ſpeake, which
elſe would hold their peace? I
doubt not, but if they have bin
willing to tell you the truth,
they have affirmed to you, the
little ſatisfaction they have received
from their curioſity. Any
fineneſſe that their wit hath
uſed, innocence hath ſurpaſt
their craft: ſo doth ſhee triumph
alwayes, ſoone, or ſlow,
over lies, and calumnies. I beſeech
you beleeve that thoſe
you have employed to diſoblige
mee, have abſolutely taken
away the will, and the deſire
to be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XXXIX. Letter.
She entreates a strange Lady to aſſiſt
a friend of hers goeing out of the
Realme.
MAdam, I have alwayes
beene heard to ſpeake of
your merit, with ſo much zeale
that every one hath imagined
by the teſtimonies of my affection,
that I had ſome part in
yours You ſee the reaſon why
M. L. which ſhall preſent
you this Letter, hath deſired
to be the bearer thereof, and
withall the ſubject, that hee
might receive ſome reflexion
of the friendſhip, wherewith
you
••
ave honoured me. Surely,
Madam, I am engaged to
him in this occaſion, to give
me that to write to you, to recommend
to you in him the
perſon of one of my friends,
though hee be commendable
enough of him ſelfe. I hope
you will make him know by
your good offices, that I am a
little in your favour, and that
thoſe hee ſhall obtaine of your
courteſie in my regard ſhall
oblige mee to render you as
much ſervice. In the meane
time I conjure you to conſerve
me the honour of your remembrance,
with aſſurance that I
wiſh that of your commands,
to make it appeare that I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XL. Letter.
She entreates him to oblige the bearer
if there be neede.
SIR, you have uſed to indebt
your friends with ſo
much affection, you will not
finde it ſtrange, if I recommend
you one of mine, which merits
to have a part in your favour.
If you afford him any teſtimonies
of the friendſhip you have
promiſed me, albeit I pretend
recompence in helping you to
his, I ſhall alwayes be engaged
to you for it, it is of M. L. who
ſhall preſent to you my Letter,
to receive ſome favours from
you, which hee ſhall the more
eaſily obtaine by his owne merit.
I conjure you impart them
•
o him, and beleeve they ſhall
•
e ſet on the ſcore of obligations,
which I deſire to acquite
by my ſervices, which ſhall
ſhew you that I am,
Sir,
Your, &c.
The XLI. Letter.
She writes to an Abbeſſe, recommends
her daughter enterd into religion.
MAdam, I can receive in
the world, no more ſatiſfaction,
my daughter no more
glory, then in the teſtimonies
you give the one, and the other
of your courteſies. I pray God,
Madam, the example of your
life, which is a rule to all Ladies
living in Cl
•
yſters, may
yet be more ſpecially to her, I
recommend you, to what ever
condition God doth deſtine
her, this ſhall be alwayes her
great advantage, to have ſeene
ſo good an houre, and approcht
ſo neare to vertue. I know the
Importance of this obligation,
and if you make reckoning of
any humane thing, I ſhall take
the aſſurance to proteſt that I
am more then any perſon in
the world.
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLII. Letter.
She conjures her to continue her
friendſhip.
MAdam, ſince I am too unfortunate
to be eternally
neare you, at leaſt I muſt make
you ſee I am alwayes there in
thought, and that the greateſt
conſolation I have in my ſolitude
is to entertaine my ſelfe
with your rare qualities, and to
hope for your newes. I aske
them boldly, ſince you have
done me the honour to promiſe
them in your celeſtiall cabinet,
where they doe never tell lies,
and where you appeare with
ſo much Majeſty, as a Queene
upon a glorious throne. I conjure
you to this, by thoſe faire
houres, which I cannot remember
without hoping the continuation
of your favours, you
have promiſed mee this grace
ſo ſolemnely, that if it were a
curteſie to make mee hope it,
tis
•
ow but juſtice to pay it. I
demurd it as a thing you owe
me, and which you can no
more refuſe me, without giving
me cauſe to complaine. I beleeve
my hope ſhall not bee
without effect: and that
which yet gives mee more
aſſurance, is, that ſince your
affection depends rather on
your owne good nature,
then my merit, I reckon it
will laſt long: and your
complexion being moſt equall,
the friendſhip you
beare mee, ſhall never bee
leſſned. I am certaine it
ſhall never have an end, if
it dure as long as the purpoſe
I have to ſerve you, and
be,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLIII. Letter.
She entertaines her upon the departure
of her husband, and
the retreate of one of her children
into the cloyſters.
MAdam, one that knew
leſſe then I, the ſtrength
of your ſpirit, would thinke
there needed great preparatives
of reaſon, to reſolve it againſt
two accidents, which
juſt at a time are united to make
you rather an example of glory,
then an object of diſgrace.
I wil then keepe my ſelfe from
condoling you, nor will I enterprize
to comfort you, ſince
wee ought not thinke any unhappy,
but thoſe that have feeble
ſoules; and that to ſay truth
there is no accident faſtned to
the ſubſtance of the wiſe, that
which the vulgar eſteemes
hurtfull, and vexatious, is ordinarily
found on the contrary,
we may ſee an example of it in
the departure of my Lord your
husband, in the retreate of my
Lord your ſonne into a Monaſtery,
I aſſure my ſelfe, there
is no body that beleeves not
your reſſentments moſt juſt,
but your judgment is too cleare
to be ſurprized by appearances,
and not to know in the
age we live that vice is in ſuch
ſort authorized, that we know
it no more, but by the traine
that followes it, and by the equipage,
which makes it triumph,
in the adoration of
ſlaves, and flatterers. Vertue
hath no more the beauty which
Nature gave her. This is that
which cauſeth moſt men, not
trouble themſelves how, provided
they procure favour. I
praiſe God, Madam, to ſee your
houſe free from this reproach.
This is it which makes me beleeve,
that if fortune doe ever
reconcile her ſelfe with vertue,
the peace will never be made,
but on condition to make my
Lord your husband chiefe of
the gowne. I am no Sibil, my
age, and face, take off the ſuſpition:
but if there be prophetique
gifts in any ſoules, and
God take pleaſure to make
beaſts ſpeake under the raigne
of Lewes the thirteenth, aſwell
as under that of Pharoah; I ſhall
boldly foretell the good hap
of the ſtate, when it ſhall uſe
the counſels of M. T. That
which he hath done in diverſe
negotiations, witneſſeth that
he hath not wanted to ſo good
a maſter, but a Letter cannot
deſcribe his perfections, and I
have done but like Mathematicians,
who with ſmall points,
marke out great Kingdomes. It
remaines I tell you that the departure
made by my Lord
your ſon, is an action you cannot
complaine of, ſeeing the
example of your piety, is perhaps
the onely cauſe of his reſolution,
this it is forbids mee
remember you of a thouſand
reaſons, might be alleaged to
ſuſtaine the aſſault of blood,
and nature. for the fruites hee
ſhall bring forth in the Church,
and the conſolation you ſhall
thence receive, will diminiſh
the diſpleaſures he might leave
to a houſe full of honour, and
riches. Tis this I hope for his
contentment, and yours, ſharing
as I doe, in all that concernes
you, and deſiring nothing
more, then to witneſſe to
you that I am entirely,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLIV. Letter.
She teſtifies her diſpleaſure, being
almoſt in deſpaire to ſee her againe,
and that ſhee had rather
ſpeake, then write to her.
MY deare Couſin, However
I eſteeme your Letters,
I had rather be in caſe to
ſpeake then write, not that I
loathe to entertaine you in that
kinde, ſeeing I have no other
meanes: I ceaſe not to thinke
on you, but I preferre your preſence
to your Idea, and will
take more pleaſure to addreſſe
my prayers to you, then your
picture; I meane to the image
of your merits, which never
can be blotted from my memory.
Your remembrance may
give contentment to my ſoule,
but your entertainement to my
ſenſe alſo, and would render
my joy more perfect. Any
faire thoughts I have of you, I
am little more happy then
thoſe that have pleaſing
dreames, when all is done, tis
but a fantome that I hugge, and
if there be ought better in my
dreaming then theirs, tis that
I can maintaine it longer. And
ſo I doe alwaies, ſeparating my
ſelfe from company, that I be
leſſe diſtracted from the remembrance
of yours. I know
that abſent perſons, cannot entertaine
themſelves, but by the
meanes of letters, but it ſeemes
to me, there is not much pleaſure
to ſpeake ſo farre off, as we
doe, and that the words are
very cold we put on paper. For
my ſelfe, I cannot but complaine
of it, and I thinke I have
more cauſe then any body, you
know it, ſince there is ſcarſe any
likelihood to ſee you again.
This neceſſity which comforts
in other occaſions, doth afflict
me the more in this, and if I had
more hope, I ſhould have leſſe
torment. I reſemble the daughters
of Princes, married into
ſtrange Countries, which never,
or very ſeldome returne. If
their matches be but baniſhments,
ſo is mine: and though
my fortune be not ſo glorious,
it is no leſſe unhappy. This is
that which troubles me, when
I conſider, that I cannot re-approach
you, and that I muſt
now write, what I have beene
accuſtomed to proteſt by
mouth, that I am perfectly,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLV. Letter.
Shee profeſſeth her ind
•
ſpoſition
to complement, and makes her
new offers of ſervice.
MIſtris, I keepe my word,
and ſend you a Letter far
from Complement, and how
ſhould I make them, ſince tho
I know them not, I hate them?
This is the reaſon you forbad
me uſe them, to ſatisfie my ignorance,
as well as my humor,
if I were not extreamely averſe
from them, your entertainement
would be my Schoole to
learne. But I muſt change diſcourſe,
leaſt with a Complement
I blame it. I am infinitely
obliged to you, for ſo many
proofes of your remembrance,
and am ſo ſatisfied with the
Paine you take to write, I can
no more expreſſe my content,
then the affection I have to honour
you. I ſweare to you, the
one, and the other is extreame,
and my onely diſpleaſure is to
have ſo little meanes to ſhew
it. I am barren of occaſions to
render you what I deſire, but
not of deſire to encounter thoſe
to ſerve you. I hope if ever any
be preſented to acquit my
ſelfe in ſome ſort of the obligation
I owe you, by the care
I will take to make you ſee,
how I am,
Miſtris,
Your, &c.
The XLVI. Letter.
She complaines not to have heard
from her, and expreſſes the
feare ſhe hath to be no longer
in her favor.
MAdam, tis ſo long ſince I
received any newes from
you, I ſcarſe dare demand it any
more. I have cauſe to thinke
it is not onely want of remembrance,
but of will that you deprive
me of this favor. I ſhould
be happy were it onely oblivion,
but I doubt tis alſo contempt.
If this be not my faith,
tis my feare. But however; if
my misfortune be come to ſuch
extreamity, at leaſt take the
paines to tell it me: that I may
not endure ſo great a loſſe, and
not weare mourning. Tis not
long ſince I perceived by your
Letters, that I ought not long
to hope the continuance. Eſpecially
ſince I have beene at L.
with Madam d
•
B. It ſeemes to
mee you have taken mee for a
ſtranger. I ſhall never be ſo in
what concernes you. And beleeve
aſſuredly what ever walk
I make, the change of the place
ſhall never be followed with
that of my affection, but I muſt
leave this diſcourſe, or rather
finiſh it, in the diſtruſt I am to
have no part in your favour, I
feare my Complements doe
importune you. I end them,
and this, which I ought make
no longer, having reaſon to
thinke you are no more in humour
to reade Letters, then to
write. I am ſo much afraid of
it, that I even make a ſcruple to
finiſh this like others, and I beleeve
it is enough to be, without
daring tell you ſo,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLVII. Letter.
She complaines of her forgetfulneſſe,
and aſſures her of her remembrance
although ſhe ſhold
forbid it.
MAdam, I begge your pardon
for my writing, I
thinke it be to trouble you, but
to make it paſſe the leaſt part
of your time, in reading the offers
of a ſervice, ſo little neceſſary
as mine. I ceaſe not however
to acquit my ſelfe of this
duty, and to perſecute you yet
with my newes, to ſhew you
the extreme griefe I ſuffer to
be deprived of yours. I receive
none; and I feare that ſending
ſo few letters, you have
not a purpoſe to ſhew that
mine diſpleaſe you, it was this,
I ought alwayes to thinke, if I
had not beene too credulous,
when you aſſured me the contrary,
likewiſe I beleeve that
another more bold than I,
would pray you to remember
your promiſes, ſince upon the
matter you have at other times
made me to hope the honour
of your remembrance, but 'tis
a favour ſo much above me, I
ſhould thinke it a fault to demand
it; and that indeede, I did
but dreame, when I thought
that I poſſeſt it. Nevertheleſſe
ſince I can no longer be happy
by hope, at leaſt I will be ſo by
remembrance. I will conſider
times paſt, to comfort me at
preſent; and though we be not
rich, by the goods wee have
loſt, I will notwithſtanding
doe a miracle, and make my
ſelfe content by a felicity not
in being: all that can afflict me
is, that I know not if this will
not offend you, and if you
grieve not to ſee me happie,
albeit you contribute nothing
to it; perhaps you will take it
ill, that an extraordinary merit
like yours, ſhould ſerve for an
object to ſo low a thought as
mine, but vexe your ſelfe at it
while you liſt, I ſhall very
hardly obey you, though you
ſhould fall into the humour to
forbid it; to forget your merits,
is to me as impoſſible, as
the remembrance of my defects
is to you tedious. And
albeit the feare of your diſpleaſure,
ſhould hinder me to
proteſt by letters, the affection
I have to ſerve you, I cannot
deny my ſelfe to be truely as
I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The XLVIII.
She thankes her for her approbation,
and ſaith that if ſhe had
more merit ſhe ſhould have
leſſe friends, aſwell as leſſe like
in the Countrey.
MY deare confident, your
prayſes doe bring mee
more ſhame, than vanity, they
are ſo exceſſive, that I cannot
receive them, without wronging
the knowledge I ſhould
have of my ſelfe, you are too
liberall; and if nature had done
ſo much for me as you ſay, I
ſhould be in caſe to rejoyce,
where as now I am to lament.
Certainely I cannot imagine
the cauſe of ſo an extraordinary
an approbation. If it proceede
from affection you are in
an errour, if from ſubtlety, you
would put me in one. I beleeve
there ia a little of the one, and
the other; and that civility
mixt with friendſhip, renders
you ſo prodigall in my behalfe;
I will not abuſe it, and the
greatneſſe of your courteſie
ſhall not hinder mee to ſee the
greatneſſe of my defects. This
is the way beſt to acknowledge
the favour you doe me,
for looke how much I eſteeme
my ſelfe more imperfect, I
ſhall eſteeme you more obliging,
but leave mee the opinion
you have of me, to ſpeake
of that they have in this Country,
know you that if I had
more ſpirit, I ſhould here have
leſſe credit, and ſhould be in
danger to have fewer friends,
if I had fewer like? if I could
ſpeake, or write well, I ſhould
have qualities not in faſhion,
and which would not onely be
unprofitable but dangerous;
they eſteeme them worthy of
contempt, not prayſe, or imitation:
we are in a Country
where ignorance is more happy,
and more eſteemed than
knowledge: Vertue is here
deſpiſed, and worthy perſons
are conſtrained to doe as Proteſtants
at Rome; they are afraid
to appeare with their merit,
as thoſe with their religion,
inſomuch that if I were more
able, I ſhould be leſſe honoured,
yet have I cauſe to thanke
God, in that having deſtind me
for the Countrey, he hath given
me qualities there eſteemed
meane, while my defects
render me the object of your
compaſſion, here they are that
of praiſe, and admiration, inſomuch
that I cannot depart
hence, without loſing my luſter.
If I quit the Country and
come to Paris of admirable, I
ſhall become ridiculous. I am
hardly of opinion to goe into a
place where are able ſpirits,
that can better marke my defects,
than here they doe; but
all theſe reaſons move me not;
the feare not to be there eſteemed,
ſhall never be ſo ſtrong
as the deſire I have to ſee you,
and to aſſure you that I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The XLIX. Letter.
She ſayes that if ſhe prayſe her,
it is without flattery.
MAdam, what ever I ſay of
you, doe me the favour
not to accuſe me of diſſimulation;
it is not civility obliges
me to your prayſes, tis that
which hinders you to receive
them, doth truth diſpleaſe you,
becauſe you are the object?
and muſt vertue loſe the eſteeme
we owe it, becauſe it
lives in you? This is unreaſonable,
and I will not be unjuſt
to pleaſe you, I want two qualities
which are more neceſſary
to ſlatterers. I have neither
wickedneſſe nor wit. I am too
generous, and too ignorant to
practiſe this vicious dexterity;
however I know you are
no more capeable to receive,
than I to offer it. I
ſhould bee farre eſtranged
from my purpoſe, as well
as from yours, and my owne
humour, ſhould I endeavour
to pleaſe you by flattery,
I ſhould put my ſelfe in danger
to looſe your favour,
inſtead of gaining it by this
device. Finally, I tell you
my thought, and if you ac
•
uſe
mee to bee in errour,
•
t leaſt accuſe mee not of
•
eduction. I will ſpeake no
•
hing,
but what I thinke
•
hen I publiſh every where
•
s I doe, that the two things
•
hich admit not the leſt
•
ompariſon are, your me
••
t,
and the deſire it produces
••
mee to ſerve you, and
to bee alwayes,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The L. Letter.
Shee accuſes his ſilence, and
complaines that ſhee knowes
not whether to write to
him.
MY deare Brother, I
know what reaſon you
have not to bee here, but
cannot comprehend wha
•
hinders you to write. I
•
your abſence bee an effect
of your misfortune, your
ſilence is one of your oblivion.
And thinke in what diſpleaſure
wee bee, ſince wee
muſt beleeve you want opportunitie
or will, if the firſt
wee feare you have no longer
libertie, and have cauſe
to lament you: if the ſecond,
you have no more affection,
and wee have cauſe
to be angry with you, wee
are reduced to the ſtraite, either
of pitty or choller. So
little as you regard us, conſider
yet into what you plung
us. Since beſide the griefe
wee have not to heare from
you, wee know not moreover
how to ſend. If you tell
us yet where you bee, wee
ſhould have ſome comfort,
but as yet wee can diſcover
nothing of it. So I turne this
looſe to hazard us, knowing
what fortune it ſhall runne by
ſea, or land. I muſt ſpeake
freely to you, and tell you
that I cannot imagine the
cauſe of ſo long a ſilence, eſpecially
in a perſon that
would perſwade that his affection
is extreame. It muſt
needes be that you inhabite
ſome land, where they forget
faire women, as eaſily as
here they doe good ſervices.
You underſtand me well
enough, and tis enough you
know, that Caliſta doth yet
complaine more then Amaranta,
and that your Miſtreſſe
mixes her teares with thoſe
of your ſiſter. Are theſe two
pleaſing companions cleane
forgotten? Conſider if you
be but little guilty, when at
the ſame time, you offend
love and friendſhip. And are
no better brother, then faithfull
lover. How inſenſible
ſoever you bee, I aſſure my
ſelfe, if you reade this Letter
with my attention, you cannot
but bee toucht. I hope my
prayers ſhall worke ſome effect,
if you regard who makes
them, it is,
My Brother,
Yours, &c.
The LI. Letter.
Shee complaines of the inconſtancie
of a certaine Lady,
who had in the beginning
expreſt an extraordinary inclination,
and ſoone after
quitted it.
MAdam, I know no longer
what to thinke of
our age, I am of the opinion
of thoſe, who have neither
hope, nor faith, but in
God: that wee give to the
world, is too often abuſed,
not to leave us undeceived,
would you ever beleeve that
Beliana had ceaſt to viſite
mee, after the proteſtations
ſhee made mee in your preſence?
had you thought ſhe
could live without mee? and
nevertheleſſe I heare no
more newes of her. I have
given her many viſites, without
receiving any. And when
I meete her by the way,
ſhee ſalutes mee with ſo
much coldneſſe, as will ſerve
to expreſſe her fickleneſſe. I
proteſt I have beene deceived
in her. I never thought
ſo faire a beginning had
beene ſo neere the end, and
that ſo much deareneſſe ſhee
made mee at firſt, ſhould
have beene followed in ſo
ſhort a time with neglect.
You know how farre my
humour is eſtranged from
lightneſſe; but I proteſt at
preſent, I wiſh my ſelfe more
facility, that I might bee
leſſe troubled with hers. My
conſtancy is no leſſe importunate,
then unjuſt, ſince ordinarily
it carries mee to
thoſe that have it not. I
chaine my ſelfe ſo ſtrongly
to what I love, that it cannot
be ſeparated from mee
without carrying away a
peece. I ſtill behold with
griefe what I ſhould behold
with contempt. It is true,
I doe my ſelfe all the violence
of the world, to loſe
my prize. But what ſhall I
doe more for her, not being
able to returne, I muſt
needes let her goe; and let
the force of reaſon comfort
mee in a chance, where the
tendernes of affection would
bee without remedy, but let
us leave a diſcourſe unprofitable,
and irkeſome, tis
better I entertaine you with
my voyage. I have beene in
the Countrey, ſince I ſaw
you, and was never ſo
much vext in ſo little time.
Tis a ſtrange countrey where
I thinke they would never
ſpeake, ſhould you barre rayling.
There is no more honeſty,
then ingenuity: And
what ever they talke of the
ſimplicity of the village, I
know they are no leſſe viciou
•
there, then in the City,
and that all the difference is,
they ſinne more groſſe
•
y. I
have met there but with
two ſorts of perſons, which
are to mee equally vexatious,
the ignorant, or the
envious; they have all abad
wit, or a bad nature. The
one know not vertue, the other
love it not, judge now
if I tooke delight in the
Countrey. I know not if they
have obſerved my averſeneſſe,
but I am ſure I had all
the labour of the world to
conceale it. You may tell me
I will make my ſelfe enemies:
but for my part, I
had rather looſe unprofitable
friends, then retaine the
troubleſome. I cannot obſerve
ſo tedious a pollicy.
Tis a prudence too laborious,
which commands to
pleaſe the unworthy. I renounce
it, ſay what they
will, and henceforth will
force my ſelfe in nothing,
if the complacency bee not
neceſſary for your ſervice:
I aſſure you of it with as
much truth, as I am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The LII. Letter.
Shee writes that ſhee had taken
paines in the affaires of a
Gentleman, before he was recommended
to her, and that
his merit only had obliged her
to it.
MAdam, albeit I had no
knowledge of the affaires
of Mounſieur B. That
I have of his perſon, obliges
mee ſufficiently to ſerve
him, when I know my friends
have neede of mee, there is
no neede of prayers, advertiſement
is ſufficient: judge
if I can ſpare my ſelfe in
this occaſion: ſince it is for
one you eſteeme. You muſt
not doubt, but I doe all
my endeavour to obey you,
and oblige him, but the buſineſſe
was ended, I had already
done that for his onely
merit, which I would doe
for your onely recommendation:
it is come too late,
I had already done him ſervice,
and hee received the
favour you demand by your
Letter. I have one particular
ſatisfaction, to have prevented
your commands, and
to have ſhowne you my inclination,
before my obedience.
Reſpect obliges mee
to call it ſo, which your
courteſie names a prayer.
But give what name you
pleaſe to the effects of my
duty, provided you judge of
them truely, and doe mee
the honour to beleeve that I
am,
Madam,
Your, &c.
The LIII. Letter.
She prayſes her manner of writing,
and blames that of many
others; who have no equall
ſtile, and know onely a
certaine number of ſtudyed
words, not being able to continue.
MAdam, I cannot ſay
how much I eſteeme
your letters; I had need make
as good to expreſſe their excellence.
In what ſtile ſoever
you write them, they are alwayes
pleaſing, or profitable.
If you treate on ſubjects
of importance, there is nothing
ſo full of inſtruction, if
they bee written with more
freedome, there is nothing ſo
full of recreation. Serious
they are without ſtrayning,
familiar without neglect.
Your ſtile is like thoſe beauties
which appeare in all faſhions,
and ſtill pleaſe, whether
they bee neately dreſt
or plaine, and to touch that
which doth wholly
•
nc
•
ant
mee, it is the great equali
•
y
obſerved as well in your diſcourſe,
and writing, as in
your manner of life, by which
equality I meane not that one
ſhould doe, or ſpeake alwaies
the ſame thing, but that the
one, and the other be alwaies
well. I praiſe a perfection in
you, which is much wanting
in many others. There are
many which learne ſome
ſhreads of certaine bookes,
and know them by heart to
vent them in company, or in
their Letters. Theſe take
ſometimes, but they muſt
not ſhew often, if they meane
to acquire equall glory, they
are like to thoſe which ſell all
their goods for a weekes bravery.
Their diſcourſe is flat
on ſome ſubjects, ſwelling in
others. This is to put a peece
of Scarlet upon a tottered
garment: tis to ſhew at the
ſame time theft, and weakeneſſe:
and that they are not
onely poore, but unable to
uſe the wealth of others. Tis
to make their fall ſo much
the more dangerous, as they
ſtrove to flye too high wee
may maintaine that truth
ſhewes ſomething of Icarus
in our ſexe, though the fable
attribute it onely to men: to
ſpeake properly, they are
dwarfes upon ſtilts. Tis ſeene
they are little, and would appeare
great, we know the vanity
of their deſigne, wi
•
h the
imperfection of their ſtature.
You know of whom I ſpeake,
and I would tell you more,
had I more time, but I have
no more, but to aſſure you
that I am,
Madam
Your, &c.
The LIV Letter.
She ſaith that her letters ſerve
her for copies to learne to
write, and that ſhee deſires
more judgement to bee more
able to imitate.
MAdam, you erre to ſay
I have need of patience
for your Letters, as well as
your entertainement. You
muſt have a bad opinion of
mee, if you thinke I have no
better of you. Albeit I have
not judgement enough to
comprehend the goodneſſe
of yours, I ceaſe not to taſte
the ſweeteneſſe, with extreame
griefe, not to be more
knowing that I might bee
more happy. I am ſure I
ſhould draw more advantage
from your knowledge, then
you from my approbation,
and that I ſhould gaine more
by your inſtructions, then you
by my prayſes. But it weighes
not, you neede not complaine
much; if I have not judgement
enough to admire the
ſharpeneſſe, and delicacy of
your Letters, at leaſt I ſhew
them to thoſe that can better
judge, and which give you
an approbation more glorious
then mine. I entreate you beleeve
me, and forbeare not to
write, albeit there be no body
worthy of your Letters.
They ſhall ſerve mee for copies,
and at leaſt you ſhall
gaine this advantage, that if I
be happy in imitation, thoſe
you ſhall receive from mee
ſhall bee more polite, and
pleaſing to you, ſo much as
they ſhall reſemble yours.
Perhaps by little and little, I
ſhall become a good ſcholler
in your ſchoole, and if I take
the cuſtome to call you my
Miſtreſſe, I ſhall have new
ground to aſcribe you this
quality, and not onely to ſtile
my ſelfe your ſcholler, but,
Madam,
Your ſervant.
FINIS.