THE SECRETARY OF LADY'S. OR, A new collection of Letters and Answers, composed by Modern Ladies and Gentlewomen, Collected by Mounsieur Du BOSQVE. Translated out of French by I. H. LONDON, Printed by Tho. Cotes, for William Hope, and are to be sold at the sign of the Unicorn in Cornhill near the Royal Exchange. 1638. TO MY LADY the Countess of DORSET, Governess to the DUKE of YORK. Madam, YOur pardon, if it be presumption, myself but newly admitted, to prefer others to your service. 'Tis a sin I could not be drawn to commit, but to avoid a greater. So I conceive each Casuist ranks the breach of vows: which would be my obliquity, should I offer at any other Altar these first fruits of my poor endeavours. The French Collector (so he s●iles himself) presents these Letters to the world with a French familiar confidence: Ra●ing them sufficiently accomplished to merit entertainment. His courage cannot cure my fear, knowing they must pass the censure (at least if you deign them a view) of one (than he conceits his work) far more accomplished: and not being ignorant, that this English habit, made by a stranger to the tongue, more to the Courtly dress, may much blemish their native beauty: My comfort is without wrack of reputation, they may want some of their original ornaments; but could I hope your approbation to trifles hardly worth your eye, I durst be bold, this would procure them more grace, than they have lost by their Translator. But, Madam, 'tis too much, I dare not beg it; my most ambitious prayer shall be, regarding my unworthy sacrifice, you would vouchsafe not to disdaigne i●. Reserve your acceptation for more deserving strains; your praise for those that more directly tend to ki●dle flame of piety: Your not rejecting those will prove a sufficient passport, and help them travel the British world without affront, or enemy: where I am confident there does not breathe such a schismatic to civility, that, in so trivial a point, will not wave his opinion, to one that governs his hopes. In which belief I devote these papers to the fate you please decree them. My only intent in exposing them was, to give some testimony of a thankful heart: If I have missed the way, it cannot be denied I had a will to find it; and missed nothing but fit means to inform the world that I am, Madam, Your most humble, and devoted servant, Jerome Hainhofer, Patritius Augustanus. The Author's Dedication TO MADAM DE PISIEUX. Madam, I Should peradventure have made some difficulty to offer you any book but this, fearing to demand an unjust protection, or to make you a present unworthy of yourself: But th●se Ladies which I tender you are so accomplished. I could not cherish the least fear to produce them, without sinning against their merit, and the judgement you know to make in things of value. Nevertheless how perfect soever they be, they acknowledge a necessity of your approbation to appear in the world: And, that if this good fail them, all their fair dresses, and ornaments can gain them a reputation but imperfect. Behold them then in posture to do the homage they owe you, and to learn 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 general esteem you are in, your judgement shall be the rule to all others. Receive them Madam, as creatures whom the report of your name and virtue hath acquired, And that will not show themselves abroad with your pass: Refuse not your favour to these fair unknown, which enter not into the world, but to vindicate the honour of dames, and to make it appear that Letters are not the peculiar heritage of one sex; and that men are out, when they va●t themselves sole Monarches in the Empire of the sciences. For myself, Madam, who do but lend a hand to their enterprise, I confess I am ravished to see them fall into your arms, and that besides the lustre of their own beauty, they shall borrow that of yours, to render them pleasing as yourself, to all that have eyes, and reason. I cannot cease to commend their choice, seeing it must be imagined, Noble as you are, you will be taken with their courage: and while they travail in a design so glorious, I assure myself you will second their endeavours, And that your countenance, approbation, and spirit, shall bring them more than half 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 astonished to see this Collection come out in print, he that hath ta'en the pains, to make it had reason to think 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 sex: for i● it be not amiss that they are able to m●ke a compliment, you must not think it strange that they can write one. 'tis the principal subject of these Letters, which are not confused nor shuffled together, as many others which the vulgar esteem good. They are not treatises, nor orations; they are no deep discourses wherein there is nothing smells of a Letter, but Sir your servant. But it is not needfully to witness these good, that I make others appear ill. I will only say that if the●e be any who cannot yet consent that Gentlewomen should write, I assure myself this book will convert them▪ where they shall 〈◊〉 so many things of worth, they shall 〈◊〉 compelled 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 myself to say, that if this age hath seen many that write with approbation of all the world upon the most important matters Religion, and morality, we need not make it such a marvel that they can indite good letters, seeing they can make good books. But it is time to finish this advertisement; and I vow I am to blame to detain the reader from the book itself, where he shall receive much more satisfaction, than I am able to promise. THE SECRETARY of LADY'S. The first Letter. She prays her to return to Pari●, and bring her in dislike with the Country. MAdam, provided you have a just opinion of your own merit, you cannot fail in that you o●ght to have of our grief: Remember yourself only of the pleasure your presence brings us, to comprehend what your absence takes from us; and you will easily aver that the loss of so great a good is no less worthy of our tears, than the possession of our joy. Those that have the knowledge of your rare qualities, cannot be ignorant of our complaints: they may judge the effects by their cause. Consider next, if there be any among us, that do not make vows for your return, since it must restore alacrity to all your acquaintance. And to tell you of our fear as well as our desire, would it not be a wonderful change, if you should accustom yourself to live among Barbarians, and being capable of the best company, confine to perpetual solitude, Remember, 'tis two months since we have lost you; and if this term seem long to us at Paris, it cannot be short to you in the Country. But this is not enough: weigh in your mind that these two months you have not seen this fair City, whereof the sole remembrance is sufficient to render other places undelightfull. I think you do not so much love the deserts, that though our happiness consist in your return, we should have no ground to hope it: After all this if you have lost the desire to come back to Paris, it is because you have lost your memory, for not to affect a return, you must wholly forget that you have been there. Finally, never was promise better kept, than that we made you, not to take collations in our walks: Your fair Duchess is so exact in the point, she would make a conscience in the hottest season to drink fountain water; she hath no mind to quench her thirst, being afraid to be refreshed: Albeit she might less incommodate herself without breaking promise, she dares not so much as think of it without scruple. To be entirely faithful to you, she will admit neither interpretation, nor dispensation. Hasten then your return, and if you have yet any feeling of pity, show it to so many that do petition you. Write so much as you please, your letters may assuage our evil, but never cure it; our sadness is measured by your absence. Nevertheless, 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, etc. The first Answer. She Answers, that besides the loss of their conversation, she is vexed 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 think it can diminish in my absence. I believe that my return will not augment your friendship, but your joy: And that it will render you more contented, not more affectionate: do not imagine I speak this out of the good opinion I have of myself, 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 me, than I have of myself, you should be without regret, as I am without vanity, I must then, that I may believe you, survey myself by another measure: and aught to think that if indeed you have any grief, 'tis because I want the blessing of your company and not you mine; your charity doubtless gives you this feeling, and did I take it otherwise, I should declare no less presumption, than you do courtesy; say what you please I am far more worthy, than you, but it is of compassion▪ and wish in that we are separated the cause of our sorrow were but equal. The advantage lies on your side in being at Paris, where the greatest discontent may find diversion, and the sickest soul expect some remedy: I on the contrary, am in a wild 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 pain, 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: mean while, that I meet with none here, which make me not sigh for yours. Be it so then, that when you think on me it be not without grief, this cannot equal what I suffer for so many excellent Dames, I alone lose 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 greatness 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 seek my consolation where you are. Is there then any appearance to fear that I should enure myself to the Country, or to think that I can forget you. Never imagine I mean to make a vow of solitude, while I dare hope the honour of your company. I entertain myself but too much with this good fortune, whereof having at present lost the possession, I think it would be advantageous to have also lost the memory. Nevertheless, 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 believe it, and continue your prayers for my return. It must needs be, that either you are not in the state of grace, or that your petitions are unjust, seeing they obtain so small success. I could wish that fasting, and abstinence from your walks might remedy this; And that you should be deprived of every pleasure, that I might the sooner obtain that of your company, which I desive to possess with as much passion, as I have to be all my life, Madam, Your most devoted, etc. The II. Letter. She entertains her with a certain stupid fellow, who is no otherwise happy, but in being ignorant. MAdam, I must needs entertain you with this fellow of whom you write unto me. I wish he might be content, I think he has no reason so to be: he is not happy but because he is ignorant, nor hath he a quiet soul, but because it is insensible. It is no great marvel that he is without disturbance, seeing he is without knowledge. 'tis not to be counted a miracle, if those that are blind do 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 dazzled. You will tell me I have read the book you esteem so much, and that my Letter bewrays it: well, think what you please, I believe there is no more danger to borrow a good thing from a book we like, than to gather fruit from a tree of our own: We do not read them merely for pleasure, but partly for use. But to return to our man; I protest I desire not such a good fortune; I love better the restlessness of your Spirit, than the tranquillity of his, I speak of those noble cares which knowledge bringeth forth; and of that moderate fear which serves but to awake the soul, and not to trouble it. The happiness of these people whereof you write unto me, is like to that of men asleep, 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 me. It seems that men may be set safe from the blows 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 talk like your book (the only one that can make me guilty of theft.) I would rather choose to be above, then below affliction, and be thereof uncapable by reason, rather than stupidity. I conclude this then, beseeching you to speak no more of that matter, & not to plead against your own Interest, in quitting that of great Spirits. You have thereof too great a share to renounce. And if I defend them, I do but praise a good which you possess, and I desire. I wish as many good terms to express my thoughts upon this subject, as I have desires to serve you, and to witness on all occasions how much I am, Madam, Your most affectionate, etc. The second answer. She endeavours to prove that those that have the least spirit, have also the least molestation. MAdam, write what you list for great spirits, it seems to me they have more glory, than happiness. And that it is difficult to have great splendour and little care. It is true they are much esteemed which outshine others: Notwithstanding I think that with all this advantage, they may be compared to the bush in holy Scripture, which had much brightness, but yet was full of thorns. There are indeed many sharp points under these glorious rays: There are many cares which knowledge increases, rather than cures. Let us speak freely, and not suffer ourselves be charmed by this same fair appearance. As those that have a fever would willingly be less sensible that they might be less tormented, so I believe the miserable would wish their knowledge diminished, for to diminish their affliction. In this we may speak of spirits, as of the senses, the most delicate do soon feel. Physic likewise, and Philosophy do in the same manner heal 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 sadness, whence you may learn that the most ignorant are the least unfortunate. I deny not but there are some which lift themselves above misery, and do surmount it; but I think these are very rare: I see few that do resemble you. And to tell you who they are, which put themselves to most pain, I believe they are neither the great nor the little, but only the indifferent. Me thinks disquiet forms itself in the soul, as clouds do in the Air: The Sun sometimes draws 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 entangled therein. So Christianity, reprobates the Lukewarm, from hope of Salvation, and morality rejects them in point of civil felicity. These than are they which have cause to complain. And whose understanding seems to me unlucky, since it only serves to lead them into many Labyrinths, but not to conduct them out. Have I not then reason to think that those which have less spirit, have less pain? If there be so few which vanquish affliction, is it not sufficient that I follow the path most beaten, and content myself by ignorance to be below evil, not being able by judgement to lift myself above it. Since the felicity of the lowest wits is true, I care not though it be less glorious than that of great sages. If it be not as noble, sure I am 'tis no less pure, no less real. 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 knowledge, and am deprived of their advantage, you know it well enough, and I doubt not but if you endure my disposition, 'tis for my affection's sake, and the desire which I have to be, Madam, Your perfect servant. The third Letter. She complains that men do sometimes fall in love with those that deserve it least, and that the deformed are very often more happy than the fair. MAdam there's no need go into Africa, to arrive at a Country of Monsters, our own produces but too many to seek elsewhere objects of wonder. In fine this young man hath married the old woman, 'tis a choice worthy of shame for himself, of envy for many, of admiration for all, we are young, and it is to us a strange thing to see that in our days, she hath found a fortune so prodigious, in the decline of hers, And that any should fall in love with her, Albeit she wants the three goods, which are thereof the ordinary cause, for she is neither fair, 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 mean to be consulted, not beloved, I think she is more fit to teach, then to please, and more worthy to have Scholars than Suitors, what will they say of Lydian? will it not seem that he had more charity than love, & that he took her not, but out of mere pity to succour old-age. If strangers find them together, they will take her for his mother, not his wife. I do 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 she never possessed. All it could do, is only 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 touched nothing but her hair, and by this she is a gainer, since of red it is become white, I speak nothing but truth, although I write in choler. But I ought so to proceed, and there is no appearance of reason to approve, that the deformed should be sued to, and the fair slighted. Must they which want all merit, enjoy so much good fortune, and our Belinde be forsaken? I know well the custom is ancient, and that this disorder hath been begun before our age. It is no news that fortune should be sparing of her favours where nature hath been prodigal of hers, but this imports not much nor doth it lessen my despite. The examples I have read in story affect me not so much as that of Belinde. Albeit, we know that death is inevitable, we omit not to lament our friends departed. And though we be certain of this truth, that it is a fate ordinary to persons most deserving, It ceases not to be irk some to us. This is the cause of my distemper: and I think there is none that hath a thought contrary to mine, if he know the merit as well as the misfortune of fair Belinde. You know the affection which I bear her, and I wish some means to testify unto you, That which I have to remain, Madam, Your most obedient, etc. The third Answer. She shows that this Marriage will be more happy than is thought. And sends her a parallel to the news she had received. MAdam I find the choice of Lydian as worthy of praise, as you depaint it full of blame. You ought not to be so spiteful to him, nor envious to her he loves. To desire Belinde should be happy. It is not needful Bumante be not so. You may wish good to the one without harm to the other. By your discourse it should seem Fortune hath not wherewith to please both, and that she can give nothing to the old which she takes not from the young. You will change your opinion, If you consider what is necessary for Lydian. He hath need of a governess 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 wisdom, and age. He looketh upon that in her, which least perisheth in all others, I mean the qualities of the soul, rather than those of the face. It often happens that time effacing the fair feature, effaces from our soul's 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 enjoys. Hath she not Prudence, and Virtue? And without these two qualities, what will all the rest avail us? I should like an Angel better under a visage something deformed, than a devil with all the beauty of the world. Her conversation is pleasing, and profitable, he will become an honest man in her company; and if others cease to be Mistresses after their marriage, this shall then begin, see the advantage he shall get, and then judge if you have reason to find fault with the Wife, or blame the Husband. But I must return you like for like in matter of news: and make you see by these, that we also are in a Country of Monsters. We have a Woman in our County, whom all the world esteems lovely: And which nevertheless is far gone in affection to a certain man, without any cause imaginable, more than Lydian can pretend for Numante. Hardly hath he a face like others, and I think 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 find any which merit patience, so much does he want those which may procure Love; mean time he is happy, albeit he deserve it not; but it is time to finish this, which is enough to show you, how many have cause to complain of fortune, and I especially, since she hath always been so contrary to me, that till this present I could never find any good occasion to serve you, or to express how much I am Madam Your most affectionate, etc. The fourth Letter. Being derided by some for saying to a greater personage than herself I Love you: she labours to prove that this form of speech is good. MAdam, I am not afraid to write unto you again that I love you; and those that accuse me of ignorance, because I use this word, can never clear themselves, they know no more the laws of Philosophy, than those of civility, the word Love expresses respect, better than that of fear. And I know not why men take it ill, since God himself is contented with it, when he says that we should adore him, he says also that we should Love him. I say more he contents not himself to permit, but he commands it. 'tis strange to see how far the vanity of man extends: which is not satisfied with the same terms that God would have us employ, to express the respect we owe him. Are we equal unto him, if we say we Love him? or have men reason to demand more of one another than God himself demands of them? but leave we these divine arguments, there are enough humane, fear may well be without Love, but Love never without fear; slaves may fear and yet not Love, but children cannot Love, and not fear: '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 think also that this manner of speech doth not displease you: since you like to be beloved, you should not loathe to heart it; finally do not believe that I honour you the less for saying I Love you. This fashion of expression, shows the excess of my affection, not of my boldness. I love you then, and am more than any person of the world, Madam, Your honourer, The fourth Answer. She proves that we 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 me to answer it: otherwise I had hardly been able to resolve upon it. I do love my opinions so well that I would maintain them with dispute. I abandon them freely to every assailant, and find 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 believe my obedience unblamable. I would not endanger the loss of your friendship to defend a word or a syllable. I am not so blind to violate the laws of civility to maintain those of Grammar. I could likewise tell you that you should not put yourself in choler against one that hath no intent to disquiet you: and which had never blamed this form of speech, if she had thought you would have undertaken to defend it, but since in your letter you have touched so near the quick, as to make my opinion pass forridiculous, suffer me in a few words to make it appear reasonable. It seems to me then that speaking to those above us; it's better to say we honour them, than to say only we love them. I think it would make the Court laugh heartily, if one should say to the Queen in a Compliment, Madam I love you. It may be this would pass 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 Pharamont 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 do, but to speak with the most, we ought not to do as others, but to speak like them: our actions we must conform to reason, but our words to custom. 'tis a vanity to play the Philosopher upon every name, to see if it do well express 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 clear our difficulty; as for use 'tis plain enough on my side, and now let us see if reason be contrary. Is it not true that we ought to entertain great persons with discourse witnessing our submission. And I leave you to think if this word employing reverence, be not fitter for this than that of love, or friendship, since when a Nobleman says I love you: A vassal cannot reply as much without treating him like an equal, what difference should there then be between the Compliments 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 shows not only that Children do not return 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 Compliment must not remount to the spring, not that we are not obliged to love them, but our love in this place must express itself by the mouth of fear. And whereas you say that God commands we love him, and a word which pleases him should not displease men: I will answer only, that in the same place he commands also that we adore him, and that he requires fear 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 seems to me there is great difference between the honour we owe to him, and that we render unto men; he requires our consciences, and demands rather the motions of the heart, than the words of the mouth: he hath no need of any man, but we have need 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 proceed from love; and men oft times seek not affection, but only for the profitable effects which it produceth, say what you list we draw more service from slaves, which fear without love, then from those which love without fear Love doth often aspire to equality, but fear doth always contain within respect. Men therefore are to seek that which is most assured, whilst God loves nothing in us, but that which is most noble. This is the reason that speaking to those of higher degree than ourselves, 'tis better to say we honour them, then, we love them; this Compliment doth more please, and the term of respect doth better express our dependence than that of love or friendship. I could pursue this matter, and bring many other reasons to maintain my cause, but it sufficeth me to show that it is not so ridiculous as you describe it. I need not so many proofs, 'tis enough that I have custom on my side, since our language, and civility, do absolutely depend thereupon, but to finish this Letter, I must make you a compliment 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 me only, and shall therefore respect you in the quality. Madam Of your most humble, etc. The fifth Letter. She professeth how timorous she is to displease her, adjoining that if she write seldom she fears to be deemed unthankful; if often, importune. MAdam, the desire I have to please you, is so tied to the fear of all success, that I perceive myself always obliged to beg your pardon, be it that you hear much news or very little from me. If I write rarely to you, I fear to be ingrateful, if frequently, troublesome. Nevertheless, if I must needs be guilty, I should hope a more easy remission of the first than second crime. I believe 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 therefore the consideration of your goodness ministers me more assurance, than my own defects doubt. I freely confess my inability, to write good Letters; but I think 'tis more acceptable to have an affection to do you service, than eloquence to offer it. And what imports it in this occasion, to violate the Laws of Rhetoric, provided we observe those of friendship. I had rather pass faithful, then able. It troubles me little though your opinion be bad of my judgement, so it be good of my affection, and the desire I have to be, Madam, Your, etc. The fifth Answer. She replies, that she doth ill to distrust acceptance whether she write, or not. MAdam, it must needs be, that you have an ill opinion of my humour, seeing you are so much afraid not to be able to satisfy it. Albeit it should be cross to all others, I would endeavour to render it conformable to yours. In this my inclination strays not from my duty; and pardon me if I tell you, you know me not, since you fear me. If you were well acquainted with the opinion I have of your merit, you could not fail in that you ought to have of my observance. I can assure you that all the thoughts of my soul are so submiss to those of yours, that 'tis impossible but you should content me. If you write often, I take it for an effect of your courtesy. If rarely, I attribute your silence to your employments and affairs. Moreover, you cannot be unthankful to a person that never obliged you, nor troublesome to her which adores all that you approve, you have too much courage to want will, and too much power, not to produce the effects may witness it, but why do you handle me in this sort by your Letter? you thank me for a good turn which I make you but desire, and you have not yet received. And you write to me with so much civility, that you make me in case not to be able to return just thanks for yours, and then you say further, that you want not only occasions to gratify me, but words to show the desire you have to do it. Think what you list, certainly I see none that can express themselves with a better grace: and if you be not satisfied with your own discourses, and writings, believe it, your opinion is singular. For myself, I find them so agreeable that besides the content I have to understand by your Letters that you love me, I find myself all joy, reading the sweet language you employ to assure me thereof. I want an equal pen to praise yours, and therefore content myself to aver the excellence, without endeavouring to describe it: I apprehend the goodness of it, but cannot express it. judge then if your fear be reasonable; since mine is only this, not to receive news from you so frequently, as I wish, and not to give you evidence enough how much I am Madam, Your most &c. The sixth Letter. She acknowledgeth that it is sufficient to suffer her Letters, without doing her the honour to desire them. MAdam, I received no less astonishment than joy, when I learned by yours, that you desire mine. I thought your sufferance honour enough, could not aspire to be requested. You tell me that to make you happy I need do no more but write. If it be so, I shall so overlade you with number, that you shall soon have cause to complain your felicity, insupportable. It shall not be long ere you forbid me that you now command. If there be as you say no more to do to dispel sickness, you need henceforth never distrust the loss of health, but take heed the remedy be not more troublesome than the disease. I know well enough what I ought think of it: if I should believe it, I should be no less simple, than you covetous. I acknowledge no less kindness in your letters then in your entertainment, but however, it shall not trouble me to write unto you, since you command it, provided that you promise me an answer, I shall be glad to send bad Letters to gain good; but if in mine you cannot find 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, etc. The sixth Answer. She assures her that she cannot hear from her too oft. MAdam, I know not why you say the care I have to hear 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 marvel, if I demand some witness 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 need be solicited, to do a favour that you have promised. Not able to enjoy your entertainment, you must not wonder, if I demand your Letters; And if seeing myself deprived of so great a good, I have recourse to the only remedy of my loss 'tis a favour so great, that the possession, in stead of quenching, increases the desire. Finally let it not trouble you to testify your friendship, and seek no more proofs for one that is whole persuaded. However I could say in your behalf, that you should not be simple to believe it, nor I over covetous to affirm it; for 'tis a truth, which is enough to free you from error, me from flattery. I delight to speak of what you wish, and I owe you; I have neither praise enough for your merit, nor thanks enough for your courtesy, nor can I ever satisfy the one, or the other, but by the extreme desire I have to be Madam, Your, etc. The seventh Letter. She saith that the society of the Country is insupportable, and that she less fears their contempt, than their importunity. MAdam, I can no more, I am at point to lose my reputation, or my health, whether I suffer these troublesome clowns, or tell them the distaste their ignorance merits. It seems my Castle is like the Palace of Apollidon, where a world was still seen enter, and go out by troops, my resolution is set, I had rather it were a Desert, than a Court. I wish that they who have no qualities requisite for society, had at least an inclination to solitude, but their humour imports me nothing, I had rather satisfy my own, than the civilities of the Country; to what end should I give them contentment at my own cost, and live always in constraint to acquire the reputation of being courteous? I see no recompense for the pains I should take: and whatever happen, I will no longer play so troublesome a part. The comparison is not amiss, since to please them I disease myself no less, than those on a Theatre to content the spectators, who strain themselves both in voice and gesture: I must renounce this confusion, and reading, or dreaming pass the time. I know there be ●ad boots, but 'tis an easier matter to shift a bad Author t●en bad company Books do not importune us against our will, how dangerous soeverthey be, they are unmoving enemies, which cannot come at us, if we seek not them. If they vex us, we may cast them away, or tear them (if we list) they cannot complain; it is not so with these petty Sirs, which never cease prating, 'tis not so easy to make them silent as to shut a Book. I think it bett●r not to see them at all, then to seek occasions to suffer them. I am resolved what to invent for fashion's sake to keep them off: I will make it be noised abroad that I am sick. and and so I shall quickly be, if I suffer them continue their visits, 'tis better I suppose to seem, then to be so: better to deceive then anger them; to oblige them to lament, then to complain of me, but whatever happen, if my device succeed not, I like their neglect better than their officiousness: and had rather put them in a humour of railing, than compliment. The greatest ill I fear, is their company: and I shall always have more patience for the effects of their hatred, then for those of their good will, see my resolution: which it it seem to you unreasonable, give me the means to vanquish it, and you shall quickly perceive, that I have not yet any design contrary to that of obeying you, and testifying by all means possible that I am perfectly Madam Your, etc. The seventh Answer. She counsels her to strain herself a little, to suffer company less agreeable, and that she betray no contempt, for fear of receiving it. MAdam, never complain of the Country you are in: if there be affection without civility, here is civility without affection. I should rather choose a freedom somewhat rude, than dissimulation with all the sweetness of the world. As there is no paint can make me love deformity; so there is no suppleness, nor cunning can make me suffer scorn. Change then your resolution, if you have taken that not to be seen. 'tis better to receive displeasing compliments, then expose yourself to public displeasure. Remember yourself, that if we must seek the approbation of few, we must fly the detraction of all, we 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 seem to approve them. I beseech you consider that the subject of your choler would serve for recreation to many others; who would go to seek in the Country that which you there think 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 pass for unthankeful, and uncivil, know you not also that Christianity binds us to support the weakness 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 gain the affections of people; and therefore we should be careful to leave a good smell where we come. This is my advice, and since you do me the honour to demand it, I hope it shall not prove distasteful, but you will take it for a testimony of the affection I have to be Madam Your, etc. The eight Letter. She complains of the disorders at Paris, and prefers the dive●sions of the Country to those of the Court. MAdam, for the news I receive of the change of states and Provinces, I can return you none but that of the fall of leaves, and change of seasons, I mean for great matters, I can only send you little. Think not for all this I complain of the place where I am, if the remembrance of your company occasions me some grief, 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 esteem my condition more worthy of pity then yours, but I assure myself you would change your opinion, had you tarried some while in the country; 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 enchanted Hare, they see always what to hope for, seldom whereof to rejoice; this is not to be happy, but to be abused. Insomuch that taking away the error of Courtiers, you take from them all their delights. Those which show them the truth of their misery, do them no less hurt, then if they awaked them from a pleasing dream. But it is not you that need 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 find much sweetness there; but because you are enured to suffer the troubles, and incommodities that are inseparable, when you call me back to Paris, tell me not that it is to enjoy the allurements there to be found, to make me return, it is enough to know that you are there, but for your company, which renders every place delectable, I could say that the Country 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 thank you for all the particularities that you have taught me, whereof the exchange will still be after the old fashion: I mean instead of good deeds, you get from me nothing but bare words, and a very simple assurance, but very true, that I am Madam Your, etc. The eight Answer. She replies that the recreations of the country are not more solid, but more gross, not more innocent, but more rude. MAdam, be not so violent against the delights of Paris, they are more worthy of your desire, than your contempt, you are in the wrong to rail against those pleasures, no less innocent than real. And I can hardly believe that you speak in good earnest: but rather to show the goodness of your wit, than the truth of your opinion. 'tis then to your letter, not your intent I answer. I esteem you too capable to give, and take delight in company, to think you have made a vow of solitude, and that this design would prove contrary to your own humour, as well as our wishes. I should think it strange that you should fall in love with the Country, after you have thereof restified so much horror, 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 savage. It must needs be that you have no memory, since you have no sorrow; but whatsoever you say, I think it be not so: and that there is not so much constancy in your spirit, as in your letter. What find you out of Paris that can so much enchant you? you mean the chanting of birds; and do you more esteem the note of a Nightingale, than those of our musicians? d'ye love a bagpipe better than a lute? you see the flocks, you see the shepherdesses run, you go a hunting, all this may be called country pleasure, and after all this you have nothing, but we have here the same. We see flowers, and eat fruits aswell as you: you have the only 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 feet, the nails, and the hair; and that the Cities are like the stomach, 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 back to Paris, where all the world desites you, but more than all the rest of the world, Madam, Your, etc. The ninth Letter. She complains of the inconstancy of a certain man, and saith it is ordinary to those of his sex. MAdam, at length my prophecies are accomplished, and what I foresaw is come to pass. The man is yet alive, and his affection which ought to live always, dead for ever. So many oaths as he made of constancy serve but to increase his crime; as if he had not been guilty enough to own the quality of unconstant, except he added that of perjured. These chances have not surprised me, since I always expected them from the very birth of his friendship; and the years he hath worn out in a will to serve me, have wrought me to no other belief. I know well that lightness to their sex 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 do a miracle, and remain constant? I should have judged it impossible, if I had hoped it. The unavoidable necessity which carries all of his sex to change, forbids me to reply, or to reproach. This is not the design obliges me to write: but rather to make him know that being unable to change humour, I have not lost the esteem I made of his love. My thoughts of him have always been reasonable, conformed to civility, and virtue, and being able to conserve them without fault, I shall keep 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 me as yourself: and if I am not like to remain constant in the purpose I have to serve you, and to be whilst I live, Madam, Your, etc. The ninth Answer. She shows that inconstancy is no more natural to men than women, and reprehends her overcredulous humour. MAdam, it is no great glory to be such a Prophet as you: it is easy to judge that men may change: they are no more immovable than immortal. Their designs are capable of alteration, as well as their life: but what say you in this, that men cannot say of women? Albeit, either Sex may invent for their advantage, I believe that inconstancy is no less common to both, than death itself. I cannot comprehend, how our resolutions should be less light, nor why the opinions of the weaker sex should be more strong. I speak only for truth, not against you nor myself. I know that there are some more constant than many men: but that which I can say of some particulars without flattery, I cannot say of the general without error. I do not offend the constant, to maintain that some are not, how much this is more rare, so much it is more laudable, that virtue is mos● glorious to the practice of which we are least disposed. Many have no less pain to be constant, amidst so many occasions to lose it, then to carry a torch lighted, when the wind from every corner offers to blow it out, but I will no longer entertain you with this subject, I content myself to say, that we ought not to reproach all men in general, but only some particulars with inconstancy, he of whom you complain 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 keeps moderation, in venting of her choler: it seems to me notwithstanding, that you have had leisure to dispose you to patience: and since you always had some suspicion, the event should not surprise you, your foresight should diminish your admiration, and your grief, would you know more clearly my intention. If you had any conjecture of his natural malady, you should have interrupted the tragedy, if I had foreseen his design, I had prevented him by a generous contempt, not entertained him with sufferance. I had remedied 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 lightness, but no assurance, otherwise I should judge you more worthy to be jeered then pitied. Finally you will needs play the constant, for those that mean nothing less. It seems by your letter that you do yet hold him in some esteem, 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 own good fortune, or able to make a handsome choice, 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 always false, when they are not to your advantage, they may notwithstanding prove so to you, if you fly the evil I foretell, and if you give no more opportunity to have your goodness abused by those that know your facility. I speak according to my heart, aswell as according to my duty, and I think you will take nothing ill of what I write, seeing all the liberty I use proceeds but from the extreme desire I have to be, Madam Your, etc. The X. Letter. She tells what the vulgar thinks of brave spirits. MAdam, I protest, I shall hardly content you, and albeit all the world discourses of brave spirits, it seems to me nevertheless, 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, than what they are in effect, do not then abuse yourself 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 down, is enough to confute them, and to show their extravagancy, sufficient to bring them in hatred. I will tell you then, that one of their principal maxims is to condemn 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 virtue which wise men follow, is b● them accounted, but a Chimaera. Religion overthrows their sense, and with an ignorance and impiety without parallel, they find not only what to reform 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 abhorred by those that have soul or conscience. Nevertheless, 'tis a misfortune that the novelty of this (with some dexterity, they observe to establish it) gains the belief of ma●y, who admire, if they do follow them. These brave spirits say, that they are bend against none, but bad opinions, and that their chief aim is to restore reason, and virtue to their ancient force. Howbeit, they are accused to oppose both the one, and the other, to the end they may the better establish licentiousness, and vice. I could say more but I would have my words as innocent as my thoughts. And also I fear to describe them rather according to the error of the world, then according to the truth of their being. let us leave then what they say of their conscience, to speak of that they see in their countenance, let us quit their actions, to entertain ourselves with their looks. If they have not faults enough to condemn them, at least they have marks visible enough to make them be known. They have certain deportments, whereby when they would demonstrate the force, they show but to much the feebleness of their souls. If their life fright you, their countenance makes you laugh; and if they be Atheists in heart, they are Buffoons in conversation. You shall see some of these fellows retire from the company, the ha● pulled down in their eyes, the band out of order, and bigger than ordinary, striking with their feet against the ground. Instead of being ashamed of themselves they perk up and down every where, and do not only make private places the witnesses of their folly, but also the public, as the ●ourt, the Exchange, the Walks, with all their studied postures they would pass for great persons, never thinking that their apish tricks, do better resemble madmen, than sages. Nevertheless, they take them for signs of a brave spirit, and would have their stupidity, pass for vigour, their coldness for prudence. They call their silence an effect of that divine ravishment, which is the mother of beauteous thoughts, thus they name their defects, and would have their sottishness pass for sageness. This dazzles but the vulgar, and catches those only which love novelty better than reaso●. But let us pass on. They offend not only in the belief they hold of themselves, but in that they have of others, they seem 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 do they give a perfect praise: they find that solid spirits are gross, polished, light, or ignorant. If any good word escape them, as it may happen sometimes by chance, 'tis strange to hear with what accent they pronounce it. But we have spoken enough of them; that which they do to acquire the esteem of the world loses it, they would pass for wise, and are thought extravagant. Never sect was less followed th●n theirs: and I think 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 believe this Letter is none of the least witnesses of my complacency, since not being used to speak 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, etc. The X. Answer. She defends great spirits provided they be not impious. MAdam, having well read your Letter, I am much astonished, 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. Certainly, if I were to make their apology, I would begin their praise, where you begin their accusation. Ought we not to esteem their worth, if they had rather do well, then do like others? They know that imitation should have eyes to see if the example be good, or evil; and that it is not enough to make the blind walk with assurance, that they have guides, if they know not also that these guides know to conduct them, they have reason to believe, 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 Jeered: I answer They do no more in this then hath been done to all the ancient sages, hath not philosophy itself appeared ridiculous to the eyes of many? and have we not always seen, that people are no less incensed, when you reverse some sottish custom, then if you had beat down all their Altars, and robbed them of their I dolls! Besides the cause of this hate is easy to be found: It is because the middle spirits cannot suffer what is above them: and being unable to raise themselves, they think it glory enough to endeavour the downfall of others. We love resemblance, because we love ourselves. It is not misery alone, but ignorance also that seeks comfort in company, and you know that spirits, no more than the eyes, can suffer brightness, when themselves are feeble. I confess that if they be wicked, 'tis reason they be hated: and if they be enemies to religion, I protest, that I am not only averse from their sect, but also afraid of it. If we could love spirit without goodness, we must needs 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 resolved to hate them, because others do 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 do, but with her, I am of their side, what is there oft more troublesome, then that we call Compliment? To what end so many offers of service which we never mean to perform. 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 speak plainly, our civility hath too much daubing; and is but a comedian: she speaks the language of the stage, and plays a feigned part, and say what they list, we are obliged to those which would take away the plaster of dissimulation, and restore freedom to society, candour to commerce. They will tell me, that following the humour of great spirits, we should speak with no less Sophistry, though fewer words: I answer, that if there be no less craft, there would be less disprofit, and if there be no more reality, at least there would be less trouble, we should be no more non plusd with these Compliment. flingers, conversation should be more free, less importune. I know 'tis opposite to the humour of many, to speak after any other mood: 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 condemn superstition without offence to piety: we may also oppose unreasonable ceremony, without engaging true civility; yond will say to me, perhaps, that if the inventors 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 custom; and that it is oft harder to turn the course, then that of a river. I confess it difficult but you shall grant me, that it is more noble to undertake it, and more glorious to go through with it. If none had been so hardy to change untoward fashions, we should yet be apparelled like those Ladies, painted in the Galleries at the Lower: we should yet wear great sleeves, and farthingales, Let us speak of the customs in carriage, and clothing, as of that of speech: and let us banish, if we can, from conversation a thousand petty toys, no less tedious, then superfluous, chiefly let us not take it ill, that some endeavour it. Let us march cheerfully in the way that others have plained for us. If we have not courage enough to do this, let us leave the war to others, and be content ourselves to enjoy the fruits of victory. Although I would not enterprise to force this enemy out of the world, notwithstanding, I wish him expelled. I know we have need of civility; but since it depends on our own judgement, we err if we make it not less irk some. And seeing we touched matter of apparel, which these great Spirits desire not so over orderly, do not you find it strange, to see many like puppets, habiliate themselves, as if they went to make a show upon the Theatre: This is enough to put Preachers in choler, and Philosophers 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 talk as they should, or jealous not to be understood. Certainly 'tis for these two reasons that I would commend them: for if they cannot speak have they not reason to hold their peace? If they can, but cannot be 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 show at least, that if they have some defect, they have not that to show it, and if they have some good qualities, they look for competent judges, whose esteem is worth meriting, say what they will, when our company is neither fit to discourse, nor able to apprehend, we must have recourse to fancy, seeing there is no satisfaction to be expected in speech, or attention. All that remains to speak of, is their apish looks, which I will not defend, if they be extravagant: I will only say that if this be bad in them, we must not therefore cease to praise that which is good, we do not leave the use of Moonlight, for any spots we find in her body: nor do we fear to gather flowers, though they dwell in the neighbourhood of thorns. Finally let them baw●e as long as they will against brave Spirits, I cannot resolve myself to find fault with those persons against whom nothing can be said, but that their entertainments are less strained, their habits less neat, their opinions less popular. The XI. Letter. She rejoiceth that she is reconciled with her, and confesseth freely the torment she endured, during their coldness. MAdam, I am angry that you have prevented me in repairing our old correspondence, there is notwithstanding some justice in it: for since you have been the first to break it, 'twas fit you should be to restablish it. But if I have not begun, I beseech you believe, it was not want of affection, but hardiness. It seemed to me, that I had no right to demand a favour done me by courtesy, and taken away by justice. 'tis thus I speak of the honour of your favour, assuring you that I cannot deserve it, that you may have the more obligation upon me when I possess it. I will nevertheless say freely, that if there be nothing in me worth your friendship, I think 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 choler. See in what fashion, I fear to lose your love since yet I justify myself, as if I had not already received remission, being only unfortunate, I beg your pardon, as if I were guilty, which I shall never be in what concerns you, and provided you fall not into error, I fear not to fall into disgrace. It behoves me to retake my courage with my good fortune, and having been mute so long, that I tell you the pain as well as the cause of my silence. I cannot say how much evil I have endured, during my belief that you wished me no good. I will make a free confession of my thoughts. How angry soever I have been, my affection hath not been blotted out of my soul; it was but a copy of my countenance. I thought my honour lost, if I had not seemed offended. Never was vengeance like to that which animated me against you: I floated betwixt desire, and fear to do you harm, and to speak more clearly, I never ceased to love you, but only to express it. And so much did it want, that my affection was diminished, that on the contrary, It was like a secret fire not quenched, but only covered; and which became the more violent, when it had less liberty to appear. And I will make you see on all occasions, that for what is past, I have never been less than I am Madam Your, etc. The XI. Answer. She shows her her error to be angry upon false roports, and adviseth her not to believe 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 believe that to make me happy, it is not enough to do me this favour, I must also believe that I possess 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 we believe not to enjoy: nor may we be called contented for a felicity to us unknown, tell me not the error, you were in, took not away your affection, but only in appearance not in truth: for if the opinion of being offended, was enough to vex you what ought I to be, that believed myself innocent? I received the greatest injury, since you judged it possible, I should offer it, you could not be in choler, except you were in error, 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 shadow, but I from yourself judge in this case what I might have done: and nevertheless I sought to you always with the same affection: there was nothing altered in me, but the ordinary alacrity, which I showed, when we were better agreed. Your countenance was changed by misprision, mine by affliction. I complained of you, instead of condemning you: & the extremity of my friendship carried me to the point, to offer you the pardon you ought to seek. I laboured to vanquish you by submission, rather than by reason, and to tostifie the excess of my love, before I showed you the right of my cause. See how far the fear to lose your alliance hath carried me; and put yourself no more in danger, to lose a good friend for a bad opinion. I beseech you esteem more my affection, than your oversight, and believe when you shall be sick again of the same disease, I have no more to do, but undeceive you to make you whole. It's no great matter I ask of you, if to instruct you, be to satisfy. Remember that you have never been so cruel, as when you have been so credulous, do not imagine but that there are slanderers: and when you hear 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 believe me innocent, as them true? And what, must I to conserve your friendship, put all liars to death and to eloign you from error, banish all seducers? If it were so, your affection would not be assured: it is better find a remedy more certain for me, more glorious for you. Chase away credulity, and I'll quit my fear. your friendship will be stable, provided your belief be not too light. We need not disarm those that assail us, when we have bucklers to to defend their blows. Let the Serpents keep their poison, provided, we be provided wherewith to heal their sting. If we cannot take malice from our enemies, we can at least stop our ears against detraction. And to contemn 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 talk with you; that I may be so, of the opinion you should conceive of my friendship. True, it is you comfort me a little, when you assure that it was not without constrant, you showed coldness. I am half satisfied to know that when you put me to pain, 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 find you free of error. Abuse yourself no more, and think it not generosity to be pettish against a person, that knows 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 we call the feeling that transports you, upon the bare opinion of an injury? Think of it well for the future, and imagine the price I set upon your friendship, by the care I have ta'en to preserve it, when you betrayed an indifferency for mine. And after this I believe you will not doubt how deeply I am, Madam Your, etc. The XII. Letter. She shows 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 seems to me that her fair fancies savour nothing of the ignorance she commends: and that she appears knowing, by blaming those that are. They say we cannot oppose eloquence, without the help of eloquence: we may say the same of knowledge, which cannot be assaulted but with her own weapons. Thus she does when she contemns this divine quality: since there is not one of her words, which shows not, she possesses it, do not imagine that I mean 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 be had to defend it, you know well enough that I pretend it not, and if I speak for it, 'tis rather to witness the force of my affection, than that of my spirit. At least I am not of so bad a humour as many others, which contemn a good quality, because themselves want it. Moreover I cannot suffer the injury they do our sex, to think we cannot be innocent, except we be ignorant. It is a great disposition to do good, but to know how it must be done: and if knowledge be capable of presumption, ignorance is not free of error. ●s it not better to contemn ill, than not to know it; and to vanquish one's enemies, than not to see them? in this the fable and Philosophy speak in the same fashion: Pallas was not so vicious as Venus, and the Poets that fain the goddess of love without modesty, have feigned her also without knowledge. I assure myself you will laugh when you read this, where I cite passages, as if I would show my reading. 'tis zeal transports me to defend a cause, wherein it seems to me yourself have interest. I vafue the learned, and wish myself to be so, if but, to resemble you, and to testify with more dexterity how much I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XII. Answer. She speaks 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 far knowing, till she come to writing, & making of books, but when she sets upon this, she is in danger oft times, not to gain 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 than she expects, or should desire. I wish that more would think of it, that they might moderate the desire of knowledge, which men study for necessity, women for glory. I do not say then that they are unceapable of arts, or that they cannot penetrate all their secrets, but they ought not seek a wisdom contrary to that of their sex, nor possess virtues out of fashion, since renown depends not on our own opinion, we must seek it in the opinion of others, perhaps if many Ladies of quality should undertake to write, they would make the custom be received: otherwise those that begin, are more in danger to be mocked, then followed. Their design is like to that of those captains which cast themselves into the midst of enemies to encourage others to fight; and then remain ruined, without any succour unfollowed of any, and to say that ignorance is easily seduced, and that it is as capable of error, as knowledge of vanity; certainly this cannot be affirmed, but of the most stupid, & the most gross, how ignorant soever a woman be, she always knows ill enough, to do 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 virtue, to merit glory in flying the one, and practising the other, but let us leave the virtue of knowing persons, to speak of their conversation. You know how trouble some it is. It seems that science doth no less harm to the souls of many then painting does their faces, this corrupts the natural colour, and that enfeebles com● mon sense, they rave, when they think to discourse, they become all memory, and take pains to amass much goods, which they know not how to manage. 'tis pity to see how sometimes they be bemired, they are but shreds they get; they speak nothing naturally, without which the richest discourses are irk some. I know well there are some knowing women, which being withal fair, or rich do always find approvers: but mean while that flattery praises them in private, truth doth often condemn them in public. The XIII. Letter. She affirms that the Gentleman commended to her merits the title of a good friend, and promises to assist him in his affairs. MAdam, the Gallant you commend to me, seems 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 express his own, knowing him as I do, you need not petition me for him; it had been enough only to have given me advertisement, since he can so well express his affection to those that need it, I shall endeavour to let him see how much I desire his affairs should prosper. I will take as much pains, as in my own, and more care, for besides the displeasure I should have not to be fortunate in his behalf, I should likewise suffer the misfortune, not to content you, that you may hope for all effects that lie in my power, judge only that three puissant reasons oblige me to serve him: his own merit, the justice of his cause, and the force of your recommendation, which would make me undertake a mere impossibility to show, in doing him some small service, what I would do for you, if I could find any favourable occasion, to witness how much I am, Madam Your, etc. The XIII. Answer. She replies that albeit the affair recommended to her, should vot succeed, the obligation for her pains could never be the less. MAdam, I am not ignorant that you love the person I commended to you, and that to gratify him it were enough to let you know that he hath need 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 do. If prayers be 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 think he will esteem that of your servant for most honourable. I undertake not to compliment for him, since he hath no need of my help; and that I have not in my power too many thanks to tender you, for which I have cause whatever become of this affair. After you have taken all the pain you can, to give us content, suppose it should not succeed, we shall not cease to be extremely obliged to you, we ought not to crave that of you, which depends upon chance; but we shall always thank you for the favour which depends on yourcare, when we shall be deprived of that which depends upon fortune. After Physicians have done 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 own power: there is nothing but the means, and the conduct which is our own but what need we fear while we have reason to hope? there is no likelihood that our right should remain unknown, and your pains unsuccesful, I cannot believe it, and am confident, that the end of this business shall give me new cause to serve you and to be, Madam, Your, etc. The XIIII. Letter. She saith that the greatest persons esteem themselves happy to carry her Letters, because of her that receives them. MAdam, albeit I write often, I think 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 myself of all occasions, to prove if any one shall be less unfortunate than the rest. And that I may speed, 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 think themselves vilified when they know the merit of her whom they oblige. I demand not your assent to this, since humility forbids you profess, what truth publisheth to all the world. I only entreat that you suffer it from me, and that you receive it not amiss, if after so much pain I take, & give to send you mine, I have some hope to receive yours. This is that I beg of you, and to believe 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 express a great friendship by little proofs: 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 always receive less than I desire. I wish you such perfect health, that I cannot too oft receive the news, and if you have been ill, and I not know of it, I should be extremely displeased, for having been contented when you were not. I beseech you believe it: and to oblige me in this, employ, as you do all sorts of messengers, of what condition soever they be. When they deliver me your Letters, they all assure me that they are rightglad to obey you, and I should not much wonder at their quality, though it were yet greater. I think they esteem it little in respect of the service you deserve, and they desire to perform. I measure their desire by their duty, and I believe that having eyes, and soul, they have likewise that sense, and respect due to such a one as yourself. I conceive they would not take such pains 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 forbear demanding my assent, when you say the contrary, since you know well that duty bids me deny it, my refuse is just, because your prayer is not. And if civility binds you to gainsay, at lest let truth make you believe it. 'tis a humility of a high strain, whereof your Letter is full. You are not content to attribute to others the services done only to yourself: but you tell me likewise, that all the proofs of your friendship are feeble. If you think so, it is rather for the good you wish me, than what I merit. You consider less what I am worth, than what I need. Finally, entreat me not to suffer the importunity of your Letters: there is nothing but this form of speech, which I cannot suffer. You are the object of my consolation, not my patience: entertain 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 me only occasions to show you the truth of it, and you shall know in what manner I desire to meet those, by which I may be able to make you see how I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XV. Letter. She tells 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 less unpleasing to yourself then me. Mistress Lucinde speaks no more, but of religion, and the cloisters: all her entertainment is the contempt of the world, and she reads nothing but introductions to a devout life. There is nothing to change but her habit, her face, and her soul are done already. She carries her eyes like those that wear the veil: not a look 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 cloisters. It may be also done in the world: and as a pearl in the bottom of the Sea, is not debarred the dew that forms it: so though we be at Court, and in company, our soul is as capable of grace. Truly to forsake the world, we need but retire our thoughts, and our desires. Our better part may be in Heaven, whiles our grosser part remains in earth. Though we sometimes see the stars in the bottom of the water, they cease not to be fixed to their spheres. 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 soul. If she quit not the design she hath to forsake the world, I shall mine to tarry there. I took indeed some delight therein, but since it was for love of her, she shall 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 cloisters, is not to seek 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 sometimes cast us upon a country, where afterwards we freely chose to inhabit. A beginning full of constraint, may afterwards be followed by a progress 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, etc. The XV. Answer. She replies that this new●s doth less astonish, then rejoice her, and that she will make on to quit the world. MAdam, you are deceived if you think your Letter hath surprised me; it brings me less astonishment than joy. The good news is double which I learn, the change of Lucinde and your own. As far as I conceive your friendship would carry you along with her, aswell else where, as to a cloister. Your resolution is good, you need only change the cause, doing that for the love of God, which you intent to do for the creature. But I bring you news which perhaps you look 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 grief I had to lose your company. Now, by God's 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 yourself to be carried out of a place where there is neither felicity nor virtue. So I speak of the world, where pleasures are imaginary, misfortunes real, but grant there be some solid goods, they are always small in respect of those in heaven. If we believe as we should, the joys of eternity, there would be many more that would contemn those of the present. Believe me, and you will avow, that I say, cannot come, but from one that honours you infinitely, and which is in good earnest, Madam Your, etc. The XVI. Letter. She complains of the ignorance of the Country, and saith that they cannot judge of good books. 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 Country, they are either gross, or false. To praise an excellent piece, they content themselves to say, 'tis very trim. There was a dame you know, that would esteem no other book, but the Quadrams of Hibrac. Another made no bones to beg that we received, without giving she the patience to stay till we had looked upon it. 'tis notwithstanding the first time that ever we saw her; And judge what we ought to fear, or hope from such an acquaintance, we must use ourselves to this manner of life, since here 'tis most common. Think into what country you have sent honest F. to make lessons of morality. Count it not strange if they give him not the approbation he deserves, and if he be no better received in this Country, than those that preach the Gospel among Turks. At least you ought to be assured, that there are two w●ll make a special esteem of him: we will learn him by heart, my sister, and myself. And we shall find memory enough to retain him. If we have not judgement enough to understand him, for my part I find him so full of choice 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 only to become more knowing, but more content. This book corrects the humour, aswell as instructs the soul. And we have either of us given it a name: my sister calls it her school, and I, my consolation. There is but one misfortune, which is that we cannot agree, to read 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 esteem we make of an Author, which you commend so much my eager desire would seem 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, etc. The XVI. Answer. She replies that even at Paris itself, there are not many which judge sound, of good books, and praises the Author of that she sent. MAdam, 'tis nothing strange if in the Country they do not esteem good books as they should: we have not indeed many here which can judge of them sound. There is no body that praises not that you received; and I can assure you, that never was approbation so general, as that is given it. I speak of that of the better sort, which speak without passion, and without interest. There are some people found, which not being able to know good things, or to suffer their brightness, strain themselves to make them ill, but they have gained nothing, but repentance, to have their ignorance, and malice publicly appear, they have been constrained to change their discourse, albeit, perhaps they have not diminished their envy. But whatever they utter of it, or would persuade indifferent men, it is profitable to all sorts of humours, and persons. The learned do there find content, and the ignorant instruction. Nevertheless I advertise you of one thing, that whatever esteem you make of this book, you ought to prepare a special one for him that made it, you desire to see him, and I assure myself, you will be no less satisfied with his entertainment, than the reading of his writings. You shall observe nothing in his visage, nor his discourse, which smells of that, we call an Author. And you shall not find in him that natural or affected dulness of many, which dream in the best company, and give no other reason of their silence, but that they compose. These are fitter for a closet, than society, they cannot express themselves, but by the pen. He, you shall see, is not of this humour: he speaks yet better than he writes, and gives the lie to those, who maintain that the same temperament cannot be proper to both. There is no less force in his discourse then judgement in his writings. And above all you may mark in both an extraordinary facility. I speak not of that vicious eafinesse which proceeds from lightness orindiscretion. I know well that the earth doth easily produce superfluous things, and that of herself she bears thorns, 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 joined with rich thoughts. I will use a sacred example to explain 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; we may say of certain 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 Author you shall see is in no wise of this number, let him speak or write, he expresses himself with an advantage extraordinary, try him and you will affirm without doubt, aswell as many others that know him, that readiness, and strength of Spirit, are in him both equal. He is prompt without being light, solid, with out being dull. I will say no more of him, and indeed, it would always be less than he deserves, and I believe, however more than he desires. In effect 'tis a modesty without parallel, but his own. Never have I heard him speak of his works, or of himself 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 own mouth, how that I am, Madam Your, etc. The XVII. Letter. She thanks her for her approbation, and complains that her Letters are too short. MAdam, I intent never to present myself there where you have spoken of me, nor put myself in danger to spoil 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 lose that of speaking truth, my Letter should end here, if I measured him by the length of yours I have been no longer reading the contents then the superscription. Never fear that yours should be trouble some to me: make them as long as you please, I shall always esteem them too short. I speak 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 thereof, that I be not for them extremely obliged, and that they give me not sufficient cause to be all my life, Madam Your, etc. The XVIII. Letter. She assures her that she has always been melancholy since her departure and that she shall never be merry till her return. MAdam, I beseech you believe 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 leisure to breathe: & if I have spoken, 'twas only to complain. After the persecutions of the Country people, sickness challenged me the combat; as if the torments of the soul, caused by your absence, were not sufficient to overcome me. I must needs confess to you the error I lived in, in times past, aswell as my displeasure at the present. I thought the country would yield charms to drive away my heaviness; and that the conversation of the Dames of Burgundy, and Forests would make me forget those I left at Paris, but I have been fairly deceived. My disease follows me every where, with so great a displeasure at what I see, that I can find nothing that contents me. It may be, if I thought less on you, I should be more happy. The remembrance of your entertainment 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, whilst I possess you not, the most able people here, seem not to me to have common sense. judge then how unhappy I am, seeing I am in a Country where she that has the best stomach, can hardly find victuals, where of she would be willing to eat. We must not seek for superfluities, where necessaries are scarce to be found, so far are we from procuring aught for pleasure, we can hardly meet with enough to satisfy nature. This is the cause of my misfortune, which afflicts me so much the more, as I know it perfectly, above all when I think that at your departure, you promised yourself somewhat from our province, but it is so unfruitful that in a whole age it produceth not so much as one good thought, much less a good Letter, you will accuse me of little affection to my Country, since I do thus aver her imperfections; but I had rather confess them to ●ne that hath the goodness to dissemble them, then to sacrifice her defects to the pitiless public. I had rather tell a particular person that she is barren, then let the world see she can produce nought but monsters. however, I assure you she furnishes me with no better reasons to defend her, and I should esteem her far more fertile than I say, if she could afford me any occasion to show you how I am heartily, Madam Your, etc. The XVIII Answer. She thanks her for her praises and remembrance, and wishes her yet less contentment than she hath in the Country, that she may come and take it at Paris. MAdam, after the complaints you make in your Letter, I must either yield no faith to your words, or some compassion to your misfortune I doubt not but you wish for Paris, but I cannot believe that you put the loss of my company in the rank 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 astonished at the extraordinary testimonies of your friendship, as at those of your approbation, & esteem. This would occasion me some vanity, if, to humble me, I did not consider, 'tis your affection speaks, not your opinion, or, to use better terms, your judgement hath been corrupted by your will. I know those, that do me the honour to know me, find freedom, and simplicity enough to merit some part of their favour: but I know likewise there are not good qualities enough in my soul, to deserve so many praises. judge then how far I ought to think myself your obliged, since you are not content to wish me well, and do me good above my worth, but that moreover you take the pains to speak every where a thousand fold beyond my expectation. If I must pity you, it shall be more for the ill you suffer in the country, then for the good you left at Paris. I speak of what concerns myself, for I doubt not but you have there seen rarities enough, to sad you in all your voyages, but to change discourse I will end this letter in another fashion than I began. If at first I promised you pity, it seems to me at present I ought to refuse it, be as melancholy as you list, I wish you more. I shall be very glad that you never find sweetness 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 return hither for your contentment, aswell as ours. I swear to you that after I had read your excellent Letter; I missed there, but onething, which is, that you give me no assurance of your return. I should answer you to other matters, but I am constrained to remit this till another occasion. The messenger hastes me to close this, and affords me no more time, but to assure you that I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XIX. Letter. She complains thrt she hath not heard from her so oft as she expected, and saith that all her boldness proceeds from affection. MAdam, if I had hoped less of your affection, I should have received too much of your courtesy: but I am so much your servant that I find you owe me more, not having written me but one Letter in three months absence. It is not as you promised me, when I had the honour to bid you farewell. I had parted from you with less satisfaction, but for the assurance you gave, to send me more frequent tidings. I speak boldly: but you may without much pain, put me in state to write you thanks, rather than imputations, which will be, when I shall receive the effects of my expectation, and your promise. I mean, when you shall no longer be covetous of your Letters. It must needs be that either you have an ill opinion of me, or that you believe my grief less than it is, since you contribute so little to my consolation, in so great a loss as that of your conversation. If you think there are other remedies for this besides your Letters, you are in an error; if you think them the sole remedy, you are without pity. blame my presumption as long as you list, it is certainly true, that when I consider the affection I bear you, it seems to me, I cannot too much presume the effects of yours. You delight to gratify me, but I protest, you shall never do me so much good, as I wish you, but if you desire to know the cause of such extraordinary boldness, as mine, not being able to return you ought, but wishes for effects; I beseech you believe, there is no other than the great affection I have to serve you, and to be, Madam Your, etc. 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 prodigal of blood, and life. MAdam, it must needs be that you have but a weak opinion of my friendship, if you think that I seek not occasions to witness the truth of it. If you judge I neglect the means to write to you, you offend against my affection: if you believe I have none, you do not complain but blame me. True it is, our will depends on ourselves; but oft times the effects we employ to show 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 always in my power to cause my Letters be delivered. You vex yourself against me without reason, and give me cause to be in choler, 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 believe this, or the judgement you make of me, will give me liberty to make the same of you. And when I receive no Letters from you, I shall be able to think, 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 style you prodigal of reproaches I do not accuse your boldness, but your error. I suffer your freedom, albe it I condemn your choler. Handle me more sweetly another time, and whatever happen, never entertain an opinion contrary to the resolution I have made to serve you, and to be all my life, Madam, Your, etc. The XX. Letter. She styles her her goddess, prays her to pierce into her heart, and see the affection she cannot express. MAdam, though I pray you to think of me, yet, I assure you, I have more need of your judgement, than memory to keep any part in your favour, because your memory represents things, but as they appear, but your judgement can discover them as they are, do not content yourself to be able to gain 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 than his light and produces gold, and metals in the earth, where notwithstanding the brightness of his rays, did never pierce, you will say this is a gallant language, and that my friendship speaks like love, but what should bar it the same discourse, that hath the same excess? It knows no difference, but by the end, not by the vigour: take it not ill then, if I entreat your aid to discover the violence of my affection: and since I title you my goddess, I beseech you show some effect of this fair name, regarding my heart more than my hands, my intention, than my sacrifice. Certainly I should be the most unfortunate of the world, should you judge my friendship by my works 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 show you as I ought, the desire inflames me to serve you, and to be, Madam Your, etc. The XX. Answer. She saith that she hath more love than knowledge, and that after the effects of her friendship, she does ill to employ words. MAdam, I do not think 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 grief, 'tis, not to have soul enough to judge the perfections of yours. They say we must measure love by knowledge, and nevertheless, albeit I believe 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 think I am quite contrary to that you say of the Sun, my hea●e outgoes my light, my love, my knowledge. Call me no more your goddess, if you will not have me call you my idolatress, you err to tender so much honour to her that merits so little. Strain not for words to show you love me, your deeds have made me know it; I shall never see better by the brightness of a Torch, then that of the Sun itself. So I compare deeds, and words which do not equally express friendship, 'tis of the last notwithstanding I must serve myself, not having power enough to show you otherwise how much I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XXI. Letter. She makes a scruple to write, fearing that if her Letters please her, she should be less impatient to return. MAdam, whatever commandment you make me to write, I protest, I feel a repugnancy to obey. I fear if I give yond any content in absence, lest I slow that which I hope by your return. I have heard you say, that you find unparaleld delights, reading my Letters, which albeit, I do not wholly believe, I cannot cease to fear. I imagine with myself, that if there you take so much pleasure, you will have the less impatience to see me. And I doubt, least thinking to diminish your grief I augment my own. I would not willingly contribute any thing to make my absence less 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 read them, making me think on that of your company, increases the desire I have to possess it. If ever I have the good luck, I will make myself 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, etc. The XXI. Answer. She answers that the Letters she receives, augments her joy, without decreasing the desire to see her. MAdam, albeit without ceasing I demand news 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 only of your courtesy, however never fear that this should hinder me to wish your return, since the entertainment distant friends do give, and take by Letters, is but a picture of that between 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 speak truth, A Letter is but a copy, which makes us curious of the original, 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 me be delightful, there is nothing so true, as that augmenting my joy, they augment the passion I have to be near you, and to find occasions to testify in what manner I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XXII. Letter. She tells her that nothing can keep her from writing; no, not the fever itself, 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 fever to suffer, and seeing the Post ready to part, I resolved myself, spite of my disease, to write to you, you need not demand if my hand shaked, 'tis not with fear, but with a shivering cold. In this estate I have not been careful to write you a long letter, because the Post presseth me on the one side, the fever on the other. I must therefore finish, and put of what I have to tell you, till another time. I am threatened my pain will be more violent, but it matters not I shall endure it patiently, since 'tis a labour too praise worthy, which I undergo, to take occasion to testify to you, how I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XXII. Answer. She fears least for receiving a small satisfaction, she lose a greater, and that having forced herself to write she increase her d●sease. MAdam, I have not received the joy I expected, by the return of this Bearer, learning your indisposition by the Letter you did me the honour to write me. I fear lest the pains you have taken augment your disease, and that being willing to give me this satisfaction, you deprive me not of a greater than I can have elsewhere. It is certainly true that the two most happy news I can receive, are that you love me, and are well. And that I fear most in the world, is the alteration of your health, or friendship, the least suspicion of the one, or other, would make men hate my life. I protest never was Letter so dear 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 rejoice me, I love your life, better than your letters, I beseech you believe it, and employ me in all you please, as, Madam Your, etc. The XXIII. Letter. She 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 value not my own interests in respect of yours. But I must in this accommodate myself rather to the condition of ●y fortune, than my disposition: and if you have no proofs of my thankfulness, you shall at least of my confidence, past examples do make me more and more hardy for the future, and instead, that the continuation of your favours ought to oblige me to a modesty, less audacious, I find they give me more liberty. So it is, Sir, that I have once more need of the accustomed testimonies of your good will: but to beg with more dexterity, I will join your own interest with mine, and convince you by your own charity, as well as by the favour you have promised me. I assure myself, that the virtue you practise with so much praise, and the justice you exercise with so much integrity, will easily obtain of you, all I shall demand in behalf of this bearer. He is no less worthy your compassion, than his adversaries your chastisement: I know you will do in this business all that justice requires, but besides this. I most humbly beseech you to add yet for my sake, that sweetness 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 bear you in this respect shall hold the place of one of your most special favours; and I shall remember it all my life, aswell as the promise I have made to remain, Sir, Your, etc. The XXIV. Letter. She writes to her, that her sadness i● extreme during her absence. MAdam, I take no care how to express the grief 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 feel, when I am deprived of so great a good fortune, my grief 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 extreme. 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 only to send you those of my duty, & the desire I have to be, Madam, Your, etc. The XXIV. Answer. She answers that she hath not merit enough to cause joy in the possessing, or sorrow in the losing. MAdam, your letter makes me more ashamed, than my absence, you melancholy. I have more cause to blush at your praises, than you to be sad at my separation. I cannot believe you, without mistaking myself, for another; and to credit your words, I must renounce the knowledge of myself. That which you have of me is very different from your discourse, or at least from truth. I doubt not but you feel some sorrow; but I care not to measure it by my merit. I have too little to equal the favour I possess: and I should be no less ignorant, then unthankful, if I should not avow, that you have much more affection to me, than I good qualities to deserve it. If I have any one that makes me so hardy to beg the continuation, 'tis only this simplicity you love in me, and which renders you my defects the more supportable. 'tis the only advantage I have to think you love me, and that you permit me to call myself, Madam Your, etc. The XXV. Letter. She desires to enter into a Monastery, and prays her to aid her therein. MAdam, I must needs confess you my error, I fear that you forget me: I believe you wish me well, but I know not, if you think on doing it; and in the number of great affairs, which take up your thoughts, I fear you dream not on any so small as mine. I have more need to solicit your memory, than your will, and am more in pain for your remembrance, than your affection, but that I may touch you where you are most sensible, ●he pleasure you shall do me, may be called an effect of your charity, aswel as of your friendship, I perceive well the endeavours of my calling: but I cannot follow it perfectly without ●our favour. I have yet need ●f humane things, to arrive at divine: and albeit I be near a monastic life, as the cripple ●● the pool, I want some bo●y to cast me in, upon this occasion. Without which I shall but languish in my desires, and remain always in a place, where long since I fastened no more hopes. I call the world so, which I should quit with grief, because I leave you there, did I not consider that one day by God's grace, we 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 myself to wish it you, to show the true affection I have to serve you, and to be, Madam Your, etc. The XXV. Answer, She prays her to employ her with more ●●●●●●ence, approves her design to enter into that course, and offers her aid. Mistress, if you think 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. judge 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 remembering to do it. this should be rather a sick desire, than mine; I have too much affection, to remain unmooveable: and I can assure you that occasions shall rather be wanting to my will, than my will to occasions. This would be a thought very unprofitablen to our friends, if we should remember them always, except at those times they have need of us. Be then less fearful, and if you will that I assure myself of your affection, doubt not of mine. I think on you, and you have no need to solicit my memory, more than my affection, the first is an effect of the last. True friendship is always attended with remembrance, and those which can forget: were never truly in love, when we fix upon a worthy object, we resemble the covetous, who have no less care to conserve then heap up treasure. Insomuch that to believe, I entertain myself with you, is to believe I love and yet however you consent to the last, you tell me you doubt the first. In this I know not how to make your faith, and your fear friends. Be for the future more bold to employ me, and think that if ever I want memory, I must be very sick, the alteration, should be in my temperament, not my friendship. If any disease should take away this faculty of my soul, which only renders me happy in your absence; I assure you, I would always 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 need of this, to entertain myself without ceasing, with a person that had no defect; if she had not this to employ me with ceremony. It's enough to know that our friends want us, to gain our assistance: we must not be entreated when 'tis sufficient to be advertised. I have then reason to complain of you; and it seems to me that you have an opinion scarce good enough of my friendship, since you beg 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 yourself only that if I seek occasions to serve you, you should not fear to give them, my interests are tied to yours; and I shall be no less obliged when you present me the means to do you a good turn, then if I had received one. All that troubles me in this, is that I cannot benefit you, but by depriving myself of your company. But it is better my inclination dispose itself to yours, and that humane things give place to divine. I love you so, that I have more regard to what you gain, then that I lose. Insomuch that since you desire this holy solitude, you shall no longer stay here, but with repugnancy, follow the voice that calls you, and harken not to that which laments you, or yet speak to you of the world, I approve your desire, and offer you all the help I can bring. It is in this occasion only, that I will bid you farewell, without daring to complain, and without expressing other grief, then for that I cannot follow you. I wish I had the liberty so to do: and I would not only offer you the favour, but the company, Mistress, Of Your, etc. The XXVI. Letter. She desires her to believe, that if she write not, 'tis want of opportunity not will. MAdam, never fear that I forget you, my soul may sooner be without thoughts, than my thoughts without you, but albeit I employ the better part of my time, to entertain myself about you, I cannot find 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 she hinders me to testify you the truth by my Letters. I most humbly beseech you to believe it, and to lament me, rather than accuse me, It is occasion I want, not will. I am more worthy of your compassion, than 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 proofs of my affection. If you do but a little remember the past, you cannot doubt it, and during all my silence, I am no less than I have been, though I cannot protest it you so often, Madam Your, etc. The XXVI. Answer. She answers that she can easily hope the honour of her remembrance, since she possesses that of her affection, and that she is assured of her friendship whatever happen. MAdam, I agree to yours: and since you will have it so, I believe that you pass some part of your time, to entertain yourself with our friendship, I can easily believe the favour of your remembrance, since you deny me not that of your love. We do more oblige persons by affection, than memory, we may think indeed on troublesome things, but love only delightful, since I have some part in your good grace, I believe 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 shall never hinder you to remember me. This is my faith, and my consolation. I am none of those who are always in alarm, when people fail of what they owe, or what themselves desire. I do not regard if you write to me or not, I believe that you fail not to serve yourself of all occasions, whereby I may receive any assurance, I fear more the change of your health, then of your friendship: and wish you were no more subject to sickness, than inconstancy. And when I desire you more liberty, It is for your own satisfaction, and that I might receive more frequent testimonies of your affection. Albeit I should, this would not augment the belief I have, but only the pleasure I take to understand it. Your Letters render me more content, but not more constant, nor more than I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XXVII. Letter. She complains of her distance, that she cannot hope for news: that she can neither remember her without grief, nor forget her without ingratitude. MAdam, since for the future, I dare scarce hope to have news from you, I must at least send you mine, that you may have compassion on me, and not render my evil extreme by oblivion. 'tis that I fear, 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 sovereign remedy of my solitude, is to think that you have promised to love me. I hardly know myself, when I consider that which not long since I possessed. I speak thus according to your measure, and not according to my own; since 'tis but eight days for you; but a whole age for me; see to what I am reduced; I can neither forget you without crime, nor think of you without grief. 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 think on me. Insomuch that I can neither hope without temerity, nor cure myself 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 think on your conversation. It hinders me to taste any sweetness in all others. And therefore quickly to reapproach you, I intent to give such order to my affairs that in few days I shall see an end. I shall ever hold them happy enough, provided they be short, and albeit there were crowns to hope for, I would freely quit the pretention, if I must be long deprived of your company, or constrained farther to defer my return. 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, etc. The XXVII. Answer. She replies that if she have not confidence enough, she hath not a just opinion of her friendship, and that she hath neither power enough to serve her, nor merit to be worthy of her choice. MAdam, I know not why you have so much desire to hope for my news: it is less difficult for me to send, then profitable for you to receive. You entreat me in this to do a thing, whereof I had a purpose to beg your permission. I am much more happy, than I believed. I thought my letters troublesome to you, and you tell me they are necessary. I know not how it goes, but assure yourself, you shall not fail being happy, if your felicity depend on me. You shall never be poor of those goods which I can heap upon you. You must hope● i● with more assurance, otherwise your fear will produce that of some alteration in your friendship. If you be without confidence, you must needs believe me without affection, seeing we ought to expect all of that person which hath power, and will, to do us the good to which we aspire; can you believe that I have neither the one nor the other, either to send you tidings, or to serve you in what ever it be? For the tediousness you suffer in my absence, I conjecture it is not small, no more than the affection you bear me: but I cannot imagine that 'tis like mine. As I give place to you in merit, you should give place to me in displeasure, when we are separated one from the other. If we ought to measure the greatness of the loss by that of the cause, It is easy to judge my grief extreme; mean while that yours cannot be great, no more than her merit, which is the cause of it. I know not why you tell me that you cannot hope without being rash, nor cure yourself, without being unthankful, It must either be that I had more perfections to oblige you to remembrance: or you more obligation to have some ground of thankfulness; I have received no advantage from nature, or fortrne, or if they have obliged me in aught, 'tis that the first hath given me a disposition to honour you, the other hath given me occasions to know you. judge then if you ought to handle as you do a person that is in case rather to seek your● favours, then do 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 grief, then that of my loss, 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 acknowledge of my defects ought to persuade me, whiles that of your goodness shall make me believe what ever you will to my advantage. It is time to finish this letter. Put an end to yonr affairs, if you desire an end of my unquiet, It will last till your return, which cannot be so soon as all the world desires, and among others, Madam, Your, etc. The XXVIII. Letter. She promises to publish every where the effects of her courtesy. MAdam, as one of your greatest pleasures is to oblige your friends, so one of the greatest I have is to speak of those I have received. I would be no less generous, to publish your favours, than you to do them. I proclaim them every where, so loudly, that there is no body which does not instantly judge, the resent I have of them, and the extreme grief I take, not to be able to testify you the truth of it, no more than the affection I have to be all my life, Madam, Your, etc. The XXVIII. Answer. She replies that instead of deeds, she can only have good intentions, and desires. MY dear sister, how much would you deem yourself bound to me for effects, seeing you believe yourself, so much only for desires? truly you must needs have power to pierce into the affections, as well as to gain them, to thank me in this manner. I am very glad you have this particular gift, to judge the intention, without help of ordinary appearances which may show it. I should hardly be able to show you mine, by my works: and I rejoice you know that by prophecy, which I should be able to demonstrate by experience, without doubt, you had less regard to the service you have received 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 think it might oblige my friends to do me good, if they should consider what I desire them, 'tis this which obliges you to do me so many civilities; and which renders me confused, when I think that I have yet done nothing, which may evidence to you as I would, in what fashion I am, My Sister, Your, etc. The XXIX. Letter. She comforts her touching the death of M. and shows that tears are unprofitable for those, that have lost life, dangerous for those that yet possesses it. MAdam, to see how melancholy you be, one would think you no more regard your life, then as a thing in which you have no interest. Since you lament those have lost it, why do you put your own in danger? how comes it to pass, you have not as much fear for yourself, as sadness for others? tell me not that there are accidents in which tears, and grief are a just effect of duty. Surely there is more of custom, than reason: and I cannot comprehend why our friends should take pleasure to see that we do ourselves an evil, from whence they can draw no advantage. So I call that of our excessive sorrow, for since we believe them content in the other world, if we weep for them in this, our tears are injurious: if it be for ourselves, 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 he have any so dangerous? Pardon me, if I tell you freely, that if you diminish not your grief, I shall the belief I had of your spirit, what difference is there between you, and one that wilfully precipitates himself, only you kill more cruelly, then ever any did we accuse of their own death, take heed lest to show too much pity to others, you show too little to yourself. Remember what you were wont to say touching the death of Lucretia: you thought men could not justify her murder. And what did she to her body, you do not to your soul? do you think that one is less homicide that kills himself in five days, then in an hour? do not that with voluntary grief, she did with her own hand. And what is it to purpose, if the weapons we use to take away life, be visible or not? if the shortest death be sweetest, judge what is that, you cause yourself by a sadness too affected? I know well the loss of our friends doth touch us, I would not remove the sense, but the error: and if we must give any thing to nature, we must yet give more to reason, but I correct myself, it is not so much nature th●t makes us to weep excessively, as opinion, since there is no time wherein noble spirits should not aspire to felicity, what show of reason is there, that to gain the glory of loving well, a man should rack, and torment himself. True it is that passions there are, whereof we forbid but the excess: but for sorrow, we should take away the very use itself: and not serve ourselves of it, but for repentance. In all things else, it is superfluous, and indeed perilous. I do notwithstanding much admire, if she be often Mistress of our soul, since no body doth resist her: I say more, since we detain her spite of those, that offer remedy. Call to mind that she 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: she bushes into the grave, but never draws back any. And to behold these lamentable effects, take only your glass, you may guess the ill it does your soul, by that it does your face. Never did sorrow do so much mischief as yours, seeing it ruins at once two of the fairest things in the world, your disposition, and your beauty; judge now if we have cause to complain, and if your melancholy ought not to be a just cause of ours, think on this, and consider how many you make weep, whilst you lament but one. You see what I might write, and yet account not my letter necessary. I speak rather to your memory, than your judgement, and this is not to instruct, but call to mind those lessons you give to others, and would be at present useful to yourself. I must now say to your soul, as to sick Physicians, that she heal herself. But I fear lest it be spoken as unprofitably to you, as them, for if the sickness of the body takes away knowledge, much more that of the soul. Nevenrthelesse I will hope better, and believe you will not always take pleasure to hug an ill, whereof you may heal yourself. At least I think you will interrupt a little your tears, if you open your eyes to consider her that prays you, it is Madam, Your, etc. The XXX. Letter. She rejoices at the news of her returns, and professes no less feeling for her then her own sister. MAdam, to judge with what con●entment I learned the news of your return, you need but think with what passion I desired it. Chorinde shall witness it, and I believe that she will not boast, to have shed more tears, or made more prayers than 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 link of nature as the other, this is it you should consider, if you will not make me as unhappy, as I am affectionate in what concerns you. Let her esteem that quality of sister, I rather love that of my Mistress. I am very glad to be less orkin, and more distanced in blood, to be more near by our alliance. I rejoice that nature obliges you to have more friendship for her, that there may remain more love for me. I have spoken enough of my affection, let us now speak of the grief it produceth. Verily, if I had not learnt the news of your return, my misfortune could no longer linger the possession of this good, without advancing the end of my life. If you again make such voyages, I will make my will, before I bid you farewel, ●nd, ceasing to see you, will practise the same ceremonies, ●hey do in ceasing to live. I assure you of it, and this is no esse true, than the affection which I have to be, Madam, Your, etc. The XXX. Answer. She assures her of her remembrance, and her return. MAdam, the only consolation I have amongst a thousand occasions of sufferance, which present themselves but too much in the Country where I am, is the hope I have to see you. And if you ask me of my entertainment, I assure you the best, and most ordinary I have, is the remembrance of yours. 'tis this which serves me for a counter poison, 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 think on you at present. And that if the company here were a little less insupportable, I would never dream of yours. I assure you, there is nothing so sweet in the world can make me forget it, and that I have no less sorrow when I am deprived of it, then joy when I possess it. It is to this happiness I aspire with extreme passion, and do all I can to set forward my return. I hope it shall be no less cheerful, than 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 fear, than your hope. It may be you are of another opinion: but if this were not mine, I should yet less merit, than I do the honour of your favour, and the quality, Madam, Of Your, etc. The XXXI. Letter. She professeth that the course displeaseth her, and that she cannot imagine what delight may therein be found. MAdam, I am in despair that my opinion is not conformable to yours: and that the same thing is the object of your pleasure, my anger. I speak of the course which you call the fairest hour of the day, and I the most troublesome. This is my opinion which yet I love not, because yours is contrary, give me reasons to combat it; there is nothing I desire so much, as to learn those which make you love it, that I may renounce those which make me hate it. I much fear not to be persuaded: and albeit your spirit be very powerful over others, lest mine in this occasion, oppose her aversion to your eloquence. I say an aversion, not blind, like that of many others, who content themselves to say, they are not inclined to such a thing, and will not open their eyes to see the truth they know not. I do not shut mine, rather I strain myself to find some reasons to make it pleasing. I pry into every corner, without discovering any thing fair, or agreeable. We go there to see, or to be seen: and for that matter, I have neither vanity enough, nor curiosity, we turn, 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 knows how to preserve she in a greater contagion, and which runs no other peril 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, wherein there is more pleasure, less trouble? is it not better to spend that hour in entertaining of our friends, then to make so many turns in the midst of noise, 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 believe 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 divers opinions in such a matter. Howbeit lest 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 vain enough to claim conformity, nor easy enough to yield it. I am not careful to frame myself a particular wisdom. And I let you think if I desire my aversion overcome, since it deprives me of public pleasure, and makes me hate what you love. I will therefore tell you that I have found the means to draw some profit from the course, and to recreate myself, albeit it be not in the same fashion with others, it is, that observing the passages there, they put me into an extraordinary vein of laughing, not that this folly is not worthy of compassion; but I would not make so austere a reflection, and had rather make sport with it, then complain, you see how all my mirth consists in deriding that of others; but I must confess you the truth, the pleasure which I thus take, does not last long; I enter insensibly into ●holler: I float between a good, and a bad humour; I see whereat to be angry, and whereat to laugh, and am betwixt snight, and scorn. And this is the state I fi●de myself in, during the course. I know not if reason be of my side, or yours; but in which soever it be, free me from error, or leave it yourself. 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 gain the victory: At least I promise you to suffer myself to be persuaded by your reasons, if you bring me any strong enough. If I am ignorant, I am not indocible. And it is easy enough to cure me, if I be sick. I am wholly disposed to believe you, as well as to obey you, and to be, Madam, Your &c. The XXXI Answer. She answers that her aversion from the course is without reason, and that she hath nothing to vanquish but her opinion to take delight therein, as well as others. MAdam, seeing it must be (as it seems 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 less by the change; and since there is one hour in the day that displeases you, you shall gain much if you can find the means to make it agreeable. You ought to contribute what you can, to free yourself from a belief that hurts you, and makes you find a loathing, where all the world takes a recreation. Let us not dispute so much the nobleness of our thoughts, as their utility. Let us be happy, if we 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 own good fortune. To what end should we affect that which opposes our felicity? 'tis a misfortune, that instead of correcting we adore our own 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 false, but likewise sullen, did our dreams depend upon ourselves, we would have none but pleasant. And yet though our thoughts be at our own liberty, we cease not to have them importune, nor lose them without difficulty, for my part I desire not that error should abridge my pleasures, I had rather it increased them, and if I must be deceived, I wish it might be pleasingly, do as much for the course, and strive to find 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. We take the air, we entertain, we mu●e, we may there please the eye, and the ear, and find the pleasures both of discourse and silence, but there is enough said of this matter, if reason cannot convince you, I hope you will yield to experience. I had rather make you taste that which is delightful in the course, then to describe it. We will carry you thither, and if you yet go there with your error, doubtless you shall come home sound. You shall be vexed at your antipathy to this hour, and grieve the time you employed, not in so pleasing an exercise, I assure myself you will thank 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 always, Madam, Your▪ &c. The XXXII. Letter. Sh● wisheth her much wealth, and saith she is rich in the goods of nature, if poor in those of fortune. Mistress, after the letter you wrote unto me, I know not what to beg of heaven for you, or what prayers to make, may give you satisfaction. I sear lest mine be contrary to yours, and that you should complain of the felicity which I desire you, tell me your mind in this, that my prayers may be more confident, and profitable, but whiles I lo●ke to hear from you, I must tell you what I fear, as well as what I desire. Although you cannot choose but be content, if fortune does her duty for you; I fear not withstanding lest we have cause to complain of her blindness, who without doubt would aver, she is not rich enough to equal your perfections with her presents, if she had eyes to consider what you are. In which this shall always be your great consolation, to be able to think, if she do you no good, she knows not your worth, how liberal soever she be towards you, she cannot equal nature, which will always make you merit more favours, than the other can give. I believe you will never be so happy as you are perfect, by my advice you should use this thought to sweeten that which makes you melancholy, when you do not so much consider what you have, as what you want. And indeed if you take but a little pain to regard what you are, your glass, and your conscience, will hinder you to complain, the one showing you the greatest beauty, the other, the purest virtue of the age. Your humility forbids it not, since after you have well known your own extraordinary qualities; you can conclude no other thing, but that you are specially obliged to him, without whose favour there is nothing fair, nor in the soul, nor face: it will be said I preach, in stead of Compliment, 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, etc. The XXXII. Answer, She maintains that no body shall disoblige her, by desiring her more goods than she hath. MAdam, I am glad that fortune hath no eyes: if she had I should look for less by her election, than now by her blindness, and I think 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 than I am. It may be some will say, that if you mean to pray for me, it must be to make me more wise, and not more rich; because that having acquired virtue, I shall possess a good greater than all others, and which fortune can neither give nor take away, but I will not dissemble I will freely tell you what I think, I am not of their number which despise riches in appearance, and desire them in effect. It seems to me that I may wish a little more than I have: and because in this my designs are just, I think my desires are so. 'tis a misfortune to be necessitated: and to be poor with honour we 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 only discourse, practised by no body. Philosophy itself in our age would be better lodged then in a tub, and better clothed then in the days of the Cynics. This is not strange: for as the soul albeit fair hath need of a fair body, because of the Organs whereunto she is tied, so how eminent soever a virtue be, she hath sometimes need of the goods of fortune, to make up all her brightness. Otherwise though she hath all her price, she hath not all her lustre. You will say that the virtue of the poor breeds compassion, like a fair, miserable; and indeed it seems we cannot commend it without complaining. I wish we had not this opinion; that this error were not in the soul of so many persons, and that we lived not in an age, wherein they give more to a person of quality, than a person of merit, but 'tis better we accommodate ourselves to this error, then oppose it: this will prove to us a wisdom, less troublesome, and less dangerous. At least for myself, I assure you, I shall never fret against those, which desire me more wealth than I have. If you make prayers for this, they are not contrary to mine. I thank you for the good you wish me, and I beseech you believe that though I may become more rich, I can never be more than I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XXXIII. Letter. She prays her to bring her acquainted with a certain Lady of worth. MAdam, albeit naturally I have an extreme repugnancy to make requests, I assure you I feel no effect of this averseness, 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 return the like. 'tis the sole displeasure I have in receiving a good turn from you, not to be able to render it. You will think I do not speak this to no purpose, and that I do not praise your goodness, but the more easily to obtain 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 fineness in soliciting, when any occasions present themselves to oblige m●e. I hope more in the force of my prayers, than my persuasions, I make my requests with more affection, than art. You know it, and I think I tell you nothing you believe not, when I assure you I am natural, there lies my advantage: and if the fair Duchess you so much esteem, be taken with simplicity, I hope mine will please her. I have but this charm can touch her. You see the subject of my Letter, and of the prayer I make you: you promised me to give me her acquaintance, and if I demand you this favour, 'tis only after you have done me the honour to offer it. When I think on the esteem you make of it, it seems to me it should be to misprise 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 all the means which present themselves, I shall be glad to employ the most noble, and for myself the most advantageous. If I had more merit; I should have less need of your favour: but I think she will not examine my defects, and that she will believe what I am by your esteem. And to say that this is to fear for you, and that she will wonder to find in me so few qualities worthy her knowledge, or your recommendation: never imagine that this can hurt you, the opinion she hath of your merit, shall not diminish by that she shall have of my imperfections. If the persons of whom you speak to her, have any good qualities, she takes this for an effect of your choice, if they have none, she attributes it to your goodness. She can make no interpretation disadvantageous to you. That which she cannot refer to one virtue, she will bestow upon another. You may employ your reputation for great spirits, your compassion for small. 'tis in this rank I must place myself, albeit to say true, I ought to surpass the most excellent, if I had as much brightness, as affection to serve you, and to testify that I am entirely, Madam, Your, etc. The XXXIII. Answer. She faith, that she shall be thanked on both sides, for bringing them acquainted and after shows that she is no way counterfeit. MAdam, you are not a little faulty, if you do with pain 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 tied to you, by the two strongest chains of the world, inclination, and obligation. The desire I have to do you some service is aswell an effect of my sympathy, as my duty. I beseech you bell eve it, and especially in an occasion, where my labour will be more honourable to me, then profitable to you. You desire I should bring you acquainted with Mel●ante, and I think you demand me nothing, which to her may not be very pleasing. I shall receive thanks 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. judge not of her by my report, but by her merit, which is the cause of it, when you have seen her, you will not accuse me to have spoken more than truth: And likewise you shall judge me worthy of excuse, if I have not expressed all her good qualities, since there is too great a number. I must make her the same compliment 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 than nature. And if you be without fineness, 'tis not by ignorance, but contempt, yours is a noble simplicity, which comes not from want of spirit, like that of many, but only 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 all virtues; and without which there shall never be assurance in society, nor commerce. I seldom see those that are cunning to have much soul, or virtue: if they were really good, or prudent, they would less affect the appearance. There are which conceal their virtues by modesty, mean while that others conceal 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 esteem so much the more reasonable, as it is conformable to yours. Finally, you know if I have cause to make war with those that are less sincere, since there is nothing so contrary to my humour as deceit, and nothing so pure, and natural as my affection; but especially that I have to be Madam, Your, etc. The XXXIV. Letter. She rejoices that she is not forgotten, and fears lest the number of her Letters be troublesome. MAdam, I must needs say, in the fear I was in, to be blotted from your memory, I have been very glad to know that your long silence was rather an effect of distance, than oblivion. You will that I interpret it so; and I assure you I am of the number of those who believe easily what they desire. I will not examine if it be truth or civility that speaks. I make no more doubt there hath wanted occasion, not will, 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 less reason to complain for the testimonies of my remembrance than I for the silence of yours. Our plaints had been very different you perhaps had less desired my Letters, I yours more. But I do not repent; I think you be not angry at my writing, and since you suffer my affection, your patience will stretch to those effects which show it: I wish stronger, better to merit what you be to me, and better to testify what I am to you, that is, Madam, Your, etc. The XXXIV. Answer. She assures her that her Letters shall never be troublesome, and expresses displeasure, that hers were not all received. MAdam, you do me wrong to think I can ever forget you, you must have less merit, or I less knowledge of it. There is nothing so true as the assurances I give you of my remembrance. And you shall have better reason to believe, then desire it. This is more true than profitable to you. You are my example, and my remedy: I think on you always to comfort and instruct myself. You tell me that I have not received all your Letters; if it be so, I have reason to complain with thanks, and to esteem myself unfortunate, at the same time, I believe myself obliged. I should be less worthy of this favour, if I had less feeling of such a loss. I see myself enforced to agree to contrary passions for the same cause, joy, and sadness. If I rejoice to know you remember me, it afflicts me, not to have seen all the evidences, as for my Letters you have received 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 entertain an opinion contrary to the purpose I have to honour you: and whether I write to you, or not, believe that I am perfectly, Madam Your, etc. The XXXV. Letter. She prays her to assist a friend of hers in some affair. MAdam, I beseech you at the entrance of this, to remember the command you made me, when I had the honour to bid you farewell: and you will find it less strange, if I have rather suffered myself to be transported with fear to disobey you: then to importune you by my Letters. I can write you none but ill-composed, but I forbear 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 wisdom, and virtue. They are two qualities you love, and possess in a degree so eminent, that even those who have them but in the mean, find easy access, when any occurrent presents itself. I assure my self this bearer which knows this truth but by report, shall quickly learn it by experience, when he shall have seen you. I doubt not but you will assist him, and do believe that in obliging him, you will give me new ground to serve you, and to be, Madam, Your, etc. The XXXVI. Letter. She makes her a Compliment on the praises she had received. MAdam, you give me approbation for a thing, which hardly deserves patience. I think 'tis rather an effect of your affection, then of your judgement; and that you have more desire to declare me your good will, than your esteem. Take heed you offend not, in praising me after this manner, and that yond make me not fall into the greatest error of the world, which is to take myself to be eloquent. I ascribe so much to your judgement. I should be ready to abuse my own, to conform my belief to yours, but let us change style, I think it is not your intention, no more than mine, and that when you value me so much, 'tis rather civility than truth, that speaks. I know you have no less ability to discern my defects, than goodness to pardon them. And I do not desire you to run yourself into error, I only pray you to bring in others, and to say of me sometimes that which yourself do not believe. It seems to me my request is not uncivil, if I beseech you to speak for me to others, as you use to do to myself. I think you would not I should have any other opinion of myself: so I take your praise for an honest correction, and do believe that in attributing to me so many good qualities, you would admonish me of those I want, and which must be had to merit so high an approbation as yours. This is that which ought to be believed by, Your, etc. The XXXVII. Letter. She professes to her the fear she hath during the thunder, and expresses her grief for not seeing her. Mistress, wonder not if this Letter be confused, I am yet more in my thoughts, than my discourse: if you know not the cause, I think it is enough for your information to tell you it thunders here, they say the storm is past, and nevertheless my fear is not yet blown over. This is not written like others in my cabinet, but in the bottom of a cave, whether I descended all trembling, and wrote it with so much disorder, that to read it only, will be enough to make you believe the truth. I think that you are sorry to know me subject to such an excessive fear: but yet doth it seem that I have more reason to fear thunder, than others have to run away from Rats, and spiders. After so many sad examples we have of it, that which is capable of fear, aught to be possessed with it, at this most fearful Meteor, but that this fear may be profitable, it must make us discourse of our own weakness, and the greatness of God, which makes all tremble with a vapour, and which employs 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 shall receive something another time less melancholy, but see how far I am distracted, I forgot to answer your Letter, where you tell me there is no appearance, I bemoan you much, and that you yet hope my return 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 bind me to judge of my grief, by my love, or rather of the one, and the other, by your merit, which is the object of both. Nevertheless, I ought not to give myself over to the judgement you make of me: for as humility conceals from you the better part of yourself, I fear lest it also hide the affection, they beget in the soul of those which know you as myself, and which are as perfectly as I am, Mistress, Your, etc. The XXXVIII. Letter. She complains of her subtleties. MAdam, albeit I were told of your humour, I could hardly believe you would disoblige those that had vowed you service, and friendship, the good opinion I had ta'en of you forbade me this belief, 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 me receive of your bad disposition; which are by so much the more unjust, as I have never given you cause to offend me. On the contrary, I have always expressed to you, that I esteemed you perfectly. 'tis this which makes your process the more criminal: and which should carry me more justly to revenge, if the contempt I make of your deceits took not away my purpose. In this mind I would never complain of you, if it were not for fear to pass for an innocent in your judgement, giving you advantage by my silence to think 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 clean stripped of friendship or hatred towards you. My courage makes me uncapable to estee me you, and my goodness to hate you: But if my mildness obliges me to this moderation, it shall not hinder me to tell you; that of all the Ladies I have ever known, 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 been unprofitable, and that those people which have studied them, have made very bad use of them; at least have they not made those to speak, which else would hold their peace? I doubt not, but if they have been willing to tell you the truth, they have affirmed to you, the little satisfaction they have received from their curiosity. Any fineness that their wit hath used, innocence hath surpassed their craft: so doth she triumph always, soon, or slow, over lies, and calumnies. I beseech you believe that those you have employed to disoblige me, have absolutely taken away the will, and the desire to be, Madam, Your, etc. The XXXIX. Letter. She entreats a strange Lady to assist a friend of hers going out of the Realm. MAdam, I have always been heard to speak of your merit, with so much zeal 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 withal the subject, that he might receive some reflection 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 he be commendable enough of himself. I hope you will make him know by your good offices, that I am a little in your favour, and that those he shall obtain of your courtesy in my regard shall oblige me to render you as much service. In the mean time I conjure you to conserve me the honour of your remembrance, with assurance that I wish that of your commands, to make it appear that I am, Madam Your, etc. The XL. Letter. She entreats him to oblige the bearer if there be need. SIR, you have used to indebt your friends with so much affection, you will not find 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 recompense in helping you to his, I shall always 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 he shall the more easily obtain by his own merit. I conjure you impart them ●o him, and believe they shall ●e set on the score of obligations, which I desire to acquit by my services, which shall show you that I am, Sir, Your, etc. The XLI. Letter. She writes to an Abbess, recommends her daughter entered 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 Cloisters, may yet be more specially to her, I recommend you, to what ever condition God doth destiny her, this shall be always her great advantage, to have seen so good an hour, and approached so near to virtue. 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 than any person in the world. Madam, Your, etc. The XLII. Letter. She conjures her to continue her friendship. MAdam, since I am too unfortunate to be eternally near you, at least I must make you see I am always there in thought, and that the greatest consolation I have in my solitude is to entertain myself with your rare qualities, and to hope for your news. I ask them boldly, since you have done me the honour to promise them in your celestial cabinet, where they do never tell lies, and where you appear with so much Majesty, as a Queen upon a glorious throne. I conjure you to this, by those fair hours, which I cannot remember without hoping the continuation of your favours, you have promised me this grace so solemnly, that if it were a courtesy to make me 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 complain. I believe my hope shall not be without effect: and that which yet gives me more assurance, is, that since your affection depends rather on your own good nature, than my merit, I reckon it will last long: and your complexion being most equal, the friendship you bear me, shall never be lessened. I am certain it shall never have an end, if it dure as long as the purpose I have to serve you, and be, Madam, Your, etc. The XLIII. Letter. She entertains her upon the departure of her husband, and the retreat of one of her children into the cloisters. MAdam, one that knew less than I, the strength of your spirit, would think 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, than an object of disgrace. I will then keep myself from condoling you, nor will I enterprise to comfort you, since we ought not think any unhappy, but those that have feeble souls; and that to say truth there is no accident fastened to the substance of the wise, that which the vulgar esteems hurtful, 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 retreat of my Lord your son into a Monastery, I assure myself, there is no body that believes not your ressentments most just, but your judgement is too clear to be surprised 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 train that follows it, and by the equipage, which makes it triumph, in the adoration of slaves, and flatterers. Virtue 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 believe, that if fortune do ever reconcile herself with virtue, the peace will never be made, but on condition to make my Lord your husband chief of the gown. I am no Sibil, my age, and face, take off the suspicion: but if there be prophetic gifts in any souls, and God take pleasure to make beasts speak under the reign of Lewes the thirteenth, aswell as under that of Pharaoh; 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 divers 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, mark out great Kingdoms. It remains I tell you that the departure made by my Lord your son, is an action you cannot complain of, seeing the example of your piety, is perhaps the only cause of his resolution, this it is forbids me remember you of a thousand reasons, might be alleged to sustain the assault of blood, and nature. for the fruits he 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 do, in all that concerns you, and desiring nothing more, then to witness to you that I am entirely, Madam, Your, etc. The XLIV. Letter. She testifies her displeasure, being almost in despair to see her again, and that she had rather speak, then write to her. MY dear Cousin, However I esteem your Letters, I had rather be in case to speak then write, not that I loathe to entertain you in that kind, seeing I have no other means: I cease not to think on you, but I prefer your presence to your Idea, and will take more pleasure to address my prayers to you, than your picture; I mean to the image of your merits, which never can be blotted from my memory. Your remembrance may give contentment to my soul, but your entertainment to my sense also, and would render my joy more perfect. Any fair thoughts I have of you, I am little more happy than those that have pleasing dreams, when all is done, 'tis but a fantome that I hug, and if there be aught better in my dreaming then theirs, 'tis that I can maintain it longer. And so I do always, separating myself from company, that I be less distracted from the remembrance of yours. I know that absent persons, cannot entertain themselves, but by the means of letters, but it seems to me, there is not much pleasure to speak so far off, as we do, and that the words are very cold we put on paper. For myself, I cannot but complain of it, and I think I have more cause than any body, you know it, since there is scarce 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 less torment. I resemble the daughters of Princes, married into strange Countries, which never, or very seldom return. If their matches be but banishments, so is mine: and though my fortune be not so glorious, it is no less 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 been accustomed to protest by mouth, that I am perfectly, Madam, Your, etc. The XLV. Letter. She professeth her indisposition to compliment, and makes her new offers of service. Mistress, I keep my word, and send you a Letter far from Compliment, and how should I make them, since though I know them not, I hate them? This is the reason you forbade me use them, to satisfy my ignorance, as well as my humour, if I were not extremely averse from them, your entertainment would be my School to learn. But I must change discourse, least with a Compliment I blame it. I am infinitely obliged to you, for so many proofs of your remembrance, and am so satisfied with the Pain you take to write, I can no more express my content, than the affection I have to honour you. I swear to you, the one, and the other is extreme, and my only displeasure is to have so little means to show 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 myself in some sort of the obligation I owe you, by the care I will take to make you see, how I am, Mistress, Your, etc. The XLVI. Letter. She complains not to have heard from her, and expresses the fear she hath to be no longer in her favour. MAdam, 'tis so long since I received any news from you, I scarce dare demand it any more. I have cause to think it is not only want of remembrance, but of will that you deprive me of this favour. I should be happy were it only oblivion, but I doubt 'tis also contempt. If this be not my faith, 'tis my fear. But however; if my misfortune be come to such extremity, at least take the pains to tell it me: that I may not endure so great a loss, and not wear mourning. 'tis not long since I perceived by your Letters, that I ought not long to hope the continuance. Especially since I have been at L. with Madam d● B. It seems to me you have taken me for a stranger. I shall never be so in what concerns you. And believe 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 fear my Compliments do importune you. I end them, and this, which I ought make no longer, having reason to think you are no more in humour to read Letters, then to write. I am so much afraid of it, that I even make a scruple to finish this like others, and I believe it is enough to be, without daring tell you so, Madam, Your, etc. The XLVII. Letter. She complains of her forgetfulness, and assures her of her remembrance although she should forbid it. MAdam, I beg your pardon for my writing, I think it be to trouble you, but to make it pass the least part of your time, in reading the offers of a service, so little necessary as mine. I cease not however to acquit myself of this duty, and to persecute you yet with my news, to show you the extreme grief I suffer to be deprived of yours. I receive none; and I fear that sending so few letters, you have not a purpose to show that mine displease you, it was this, I ought always to think, if I had not been too credulous, when you assured me the contrary, likewise I believe 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 think it a fault to demand it; and that indeed, I did but dream, when I thought that I possessed it. Nevertheless 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 we have lost, I will notwithstanding do a miracle, and make myself 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 happy, 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 vex yourself 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 fear of your displeasure, should hinder me to protest by letters, the affection I have to serve you, I cannot deny myself to be truly as I am, Madam, Your, etc. The XLVIII. She thanks her for her approbation, and saith that if she had more merit she should have less friends, aswell as less like in the Country. MY dear confident, your praises do bring me more shame, than vanity, they are so excessive, that I cannot receive them, without wronging the knowledge I should have of myself, you are too liberal; and if nature had done so much for me as you say, I should be in case to rejoice, where as now I am to lament. Certainly I cannot imagine the cause of so an extraordinary an approbation. If it proceed from affection you are in an error, if from subtlety, you would put me in one. I believe there jam a little of the one, and the other; and that civility mixed with friendship, renders you so prodigal in my behalf; I will not abuse it, and the greatness of your courtesy shall not hinder me to see the greatness of my defects. This is the way best to acknowledge the favour you do me, for look how much I esteem myself more imperfect, I shall esteem you more obliging, but leave me the opinion you have of me, to speak of that they have in this Country, know you that if I had more spirit, I should here have less credit, and should be in danger to have fewer friends, if I had fewer like? if I could speak, or write well, I should have qualities not in fashion, and which would not only be unprofitable but dangerous; they esteem them worthy of contempt, not praise, or imitation: we are in a Country where ignorance is more happy, and more esteemed than knowledge: Virtue is here despised, and worthy persons are constrained to do as Protestants at Rome; they are afraid to appear with their merit, as those with their religion, insomuch that if I were more able, I should be less honoured, yet have I cause to thank God, in that having destined me for the Country, he hath given me qualities there esteemed mean, 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 lustre. If I quit the Country and come to Paris of admirable, I shall become ridiculous. I am hardly of opinion to go into a place where are able spirits, that can better mark my defects, than here they do; but all these reasons move me not; the fear 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, etc. The XLIX. Letter. She says that if she praise her, it is without flattery. MAdam, what ever I say of you, do me the favour not to accuse me of dissimulation; it is not civility obliges me to your praises, 'tis that which hinders you to receive them, doth truth displease you, because you are the object? and must virtue lose the esteem 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 wickedness nor wit. I am too generous, and too ignorant to practise this vicious dexterity; however I know you are no more capable to receive, than I to offer it. I should be far estranged from my purpose, as well as from yours, and my own humour, should I endeavour to please you by flattery, I should put myself in danger to lose your favour, instead of gaining it by this device. Finally, I tell you my thought, and if you accuse me to be in error, ●t lest accuse me not of ●eduction. I will speak nothing, but what I think ●hen I publish every where ●s I do, that the two things ●hich admit not the least comparison are, your me●●t, and the desire it produces ●● me to serve you, and to be always, Madam, Your, etc. The L. Letter. She accuses his silence, and complains that she knows not whether to write to him. MY dear Brother, I know what reason you have not to be here, but cannot comprehend wha● hinders you to write. I● your absence be an effect of your misfortune, your silence is one of your oblivion. And think in what displeasure we be, since we must believe you want opportunity or will, if the first we fear you have no longer liberty, and have cause to lament you: if the second, you have no more affection, and we have cause to be angry with you, we are reduced to the strait, either of pity or choler. So little as you regard us, consider yet into what you plung us. Since beside the grief we have not to hear from you, we know not moreover how to send. If you tell us yet where you be, we should have some comfort, but as yet we can discover nothing of it. So I turn this loose to hazard us, knowing what fortune it shall run by sea, or land. I must speak freely to you, and tell you that I cannot imagine the cause of so long a silence, especially in a person that would persuade that his affection is extreme. It must needs be that you inhabit some land, where they forget fair women, as easily as here they do good services. You understand me well enough, and 'tis enough you know, that Calista doth yet complain more than Amaranta, and that your Mistress mixes her tears with those of your sister. Are these two pleasing companions clean forgotten? Consider if you be but little guilty, when at the same time, you offend love and friendship. And are no better brother, then faithful lover. How insensible soever you be, I assure myself, if you read this Letter with my attention, you cannot but be touched. I hope my prayers shall work some effect, if you regard who makes them, it is, My Brother, Yours, etc. The LI. Letter. She complains of the inconstancy of a certain Lady, who had in the beginning expressed an extraordinary inclination, and soon after quitted it. MAdam, I know no longer what to think of our age, I am of the opinion of those, who have neither hope, nor faith, but in God: that we give to the world, is too often abused, not to leave us undeceived, would you ever believe that Beliana had ceased to visit me, after the protestations she made me in your presence? had you thought she could live without me? and nevertheless I hear no more news of her. I have given her many visits, without receiving any. And when I meet her by the way, she salutes me with so much coldness, as will serve to express her fickleness. I protest I have been deceived in her. I never thought so fair a beginning had been so near the end, and that so much dearness she made me at first, should have been followed in so short a time with neglect. You know how far my humour is estranged from lightness; but I protest at present, I wish myself more facility, that I might be less troubled with hers. My constancy is no less importunate, then unjust, since ordinarily it carries me to those that have it not. I chain myself so strongly to what I love, that it cannot be separated from me without carrying away a piece. I still behold with grief what I should behold with contempt. It is true, I do myself all the violence of the world, to lose my prize. But what shall I do more for her, not being able to return, I must needs let her go; and let the force of reason comfort me in a chance, where the tenderness of affection would be without remedy, but let us leave a discourse unprofitable, and irksome, 'tis better I entertain you with my voyage. I have been in the Country, since I saw you, and was never so much vexed in so little time. 'tis a strange country where I think they would never speak, should you bar railing. There is no more honesty, than ingenuity: And what ever they talk of the simplicity of the village, I know they are no less vicious there, then in the City, and that all the difference is, they sin more grossly. I have met there but with two sorts of persons, which are to me equally vexatious, the ignorant, or the envious; they have all abad wit, or a bad nature. The one know not virtue, the other love it not, judge now if I took delight in the Country. I know not if they have observed my averseness, but I am sure I had all the labour of the world to conceal it. You may tell me I will make myself enemy: but for my part, I had rather lose unprofitable friends, then retain the troublesome. I cannot observe so tedious a policy. 'tis a prudence too laborious, which commands to please the unworthy. I renounce it, say what they will, and henceforth will force myself in nothing, if the complacency be not necessary for your service: I assure you of it with as much truth, as I am, Madam, Your, etc. The LII. Letter. She writes that she had taken pains in the affairs 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 affairs of Mounsieur B. That I have of his person, obliges me sufficiently to serve him, when I know my friends have need of me, there is no need of prayers, advertisement is sufficient: judge if I can spare myself in this occasion: since it is for one you esteem. You must not doubt, but I do all my endeavour to obey you, and oblige him, but the business was ended, I had already done that for his only merit, which I would do for your only recommendation: it is come too late, I had already done him service, and he received the favour you demand by your Letter. I have one particular satisfaction, to have prevented your commands, and to have shown you my inclination, before my obedience. Respect obliges me to call it so, which your courtesy names a prayer. But give what name you please to the effects of my duty, provided you judge of them truly, and do me the honour to believe that I am, Madam, Your, etc. The LIII. Letter. She praises her manner of writing, and blames that of many others; who have no equal style, and know only a certain number of studied words, not being able to continue. MAdam, I cannot say how much I esteem your letters; I had need make as good to express their excellence. In what style soever you write them, they are always pleasing, or profitable. If you treat on subjects of importance, there is nothing so full of instruction, if they be written with more freedom, there is nothing so full of recreation. Serious they are without straining, familiar without neglect. Your style is like those beauties which appear in all fashions, and still please, whether they be neatly dressed or plain, and to touch that which doth wholly ●nc●ant me, it is the great equality observed as well in your discourse, and writing, as in your manner of life, by which equality I mean not that one should do, or speak always the same thing, but that the one, and the other be always well. I praise a perfection in you, which is much wanting in many others. There are many which learn some shreads of certain books, and know them by heart to vent them in company, or in their Letters. These take sometimes, but they must not show often, if they mean to acquire equal glory, they are like to those which sell all their goods for a week's bravery. Their discourse is flat on some subjects, swelling in others. This is to put a piece of Scarlet upon a tottered garment: 'tis to show at the same time theft, and weakness: and that they are not only poor, but unable to use the wealth of others. 'tis to make their fall so much the more dangerous, as they strove to fly too high we may maintain that truth shows something of Icarus in our sex, though the fable attribute it only to men: to speak properly, they are dwarves upon stilts. 'tis seen they are little, and would appear great, we know the vanity of their design, wi●h the imperfection of their stature. You know of whom I speak, and I would tell you more, had I more time, but I have no more, but to assure you that I am, Madam Your, etc. The LIV Letter. She saith that her letters serve her for copies to learn to write, and that she desires more judgement to be more able to imitate. MAdam, you err to say I have need of patience for your Letters, as well as your entertainment. You must have a bad opinion of me, if you think I have no better of you. Albeit I have not judgement enough to comprehend the goodness of yours, I cease not to taste the sweetness, with extreme grief, not to be more knowing that I might be more happy. I am sure I should draw more advantage from your knowledge, than you from my approbation, and that I should gain more by your instructions, than you by my praises. But it weighs not, you need not complain much; if I have not judgement enough to admire the sharpness, and delicacy of your Letters, at least I show them to those that can better judge, and which give you an approbation more glorious than mine. I entreat you believe me, and forbear not to write, albeit there be no body worthy of your Letters. They shall serve me for copies, and at least you shall gain this advantage, that if I be happy in imitation, those you shall receive from me shall be more polite, and pleasing to you, so much as they shall resemble yours. Perhaps by little and little, I shall become a good scholar in your school, and if I take the custom to call you my Mistress, I shall have new ground to ascribe you this quality, and not only to style myself your scholar, but, Madam, Your servant. FINIS. 〈…〉 june 13. 〈…〉