LOVE and VALOUR OR The diverse Affections of Minerva.  
Will Martial sculpsit.  
London Printed by Th: Harper & are sold by Tho: Stater▪ at his shop in Duck lane 1638.    

LOVE AND VALOUR: Celebrated in the person of the Author, by the name of ADRASTE.  
OR, The diverse affections of MINERVA.  
One part of the unfeigned story of the true Lisander and Caliste.  
Translated out of the French by W. B.  
LONDON, Printed by Thomas Harper, for Thomas Slater, and are to be sold at his shop at the Swan in Duck Lane, 1638.   

TO THE RIGHT WORTHY, AND MY Truly honoured Favourer, Sir PETER TEMPLE, Knight and Baronet.  
Honoured Sir,  
HOwsoever I have received more encouragement from yourself alone, than all men living beside, had not my Author deemed his labour worthy the survey of so great a Prince, I should not have entitled you to my worthless labours in the conversion; since the difference between his original, drawn by a free and art commanding hand, and my rough Copy being the first essay of my abilities in this nature, may be more than the distance between your condition and a Princes. In supplyance of which defect, being unable to add any thing but the bare figure of my devotion to serve you, it were but ill rhetoric, and worse arithmetic in me through many words multiplying cyphers, by cyphers to blot my paper with infinite nothings. Yet gracious Sir, I persuade me that I see, though I have not delivered in the book, many lines and draughts resembling the patheticke facility and gentleness of our best writers: which draughts being but bare dissections, and curious anatomies of humane nature, it is impossible to be over-tedious, if pertinent therein. But I flourish as if I would say something, where I am in truth a sceptic ignorant, and doubting all things, but my own weakness and the strength of those affections borne your service,  
Worthy Sir, by your virtue's honourer, W. B.   

To my Lord the MONSIEUR, Sole Brother to the King of FRANCE.  
MY Lord, so much is to be said in your commendations, as to forbear in so ample a subject of elocution, were rather an ingratitude than silence; and I never sparing of my praises in all men's merits, seeming to have refused them until now to yours, shall do much better here to confess, then to defend my thanklessness. It is not my good Lord, but I have as much inclination to honour you, as I have cause, which is to have it in the greatest perfection that can be imagined; but the same instigation I have had to speak, hath made me still silent, and the greatness of the subject which had animated most, hath yet discouraged me. There is so far a distance from your highness to my lowness, and 'twixt my own power and my will, as I deemed it a sin against my knowledge, rashly to have undertaken a thing not possible to be performed, but in great imperfection: and that my enterprise would much rather have discovered my weakness then my intentions. Notwithstanding which my Lord, are they not the most rare affections which men testify to their own prejudice? how can I then more perfectly manifest mine, then at the dispense and disrepute of my knowledge? How can I better make seen to you the passions that I undergo for your service, and for your glory then by the exposing them amid my own weaknesses, and my defaults? This consideration my Lord hath changed my former fears into rashness, and hath made me so bold to undertake that, which I have not had the daring to think of: believing that if the execution were impossible, yet the enterprise was at least honourable, and by so much the fitter to manifest my devotions bend to you wards, as it bears me hood-winked beyond my knowledge and my power. But I am erred my good Lord even at the entry of my discourse, which beginning with your commendations, as the greatest and richest argument that could be chose, I know not how I have so suffered myself to be carried away with my passions, as I have said without thinking that which I would not, and have not yet spoke one word of what I would say. The cause of my erring is the boundless extent of my subject. Hardly could it be but I should lose me in a labyrinth, from out of which it is so difficult to get; but the wonder is I have not entered it, and that in stead of losing myself in search of the issue, I have erred at the entry without once having found the beginning. But indeed great Prince, where is there any beginning in things infinite? If I should begin at the greatness of your birth, and weigh you as Prince of the chiefest kingdom in the world, and Son and Brother to the two greatest Kings the earth hath ever boar; were I not diverted by the excellence of your admirable nature, by the exquisite education wherewith it is so happily propagate, and by the ample hopes you give both of the one and the other? what multitudes of other things might here be added in your commendations, did I not fear to do them wrong, and loved I not more to honour them in silence, then to injure them by going about to speak their greatness: but reducing me to these three only, and speaking but one word of each; what more excellent nature was there ever found in Prince, or more generous than yours? What Achilles fed with the marrow and pith of Lions one day to subdue the force of Hector, does not give way to you as well in nurture, as courageous heart? And what hopes may we not well conceive from such and so magnanimous a Prince, as surpasseth the greatness of his birth by the excellence of his nature, and the excellence of his nature by the goodness of his nurture. But rising up to the fount head, and scorse of your great Ancestors, and so descending by the succession of so many Kings as have been since S. Lewis, to Henry the great, I not observe you only as a green and flourishing branch of thestock of Bourbon, or as a Sience of that of Anjou, but as Son and Prince of France, that is to say, of the best house and most illustrious Empire of the world. What can I hope less, or the enemy fear more, than some still, and unexpected enterprise managed with no less silence and privacy, even to the entire and general conquest of all such authority as strangers do usurp from us? victories seeming as incident unto the house of Bourbon, as crowns seem destinated unto that of Anjou. Charles the brother of Lewis was the first of this family crowned King of Naples, Sicily, and jerusalem. Lewis, brother to Charles' the wise, and first Duke of Anjou, went to take possession of those kingdoms with 30000 horse. And in our times the last Henry of the house of Valois, being then Duke of Anjou, and brother to Charles the ninth, was crowned almost against his will King of Poland. But the most honourable titles of all these Kings, were yet to be brothers to the Kings of France. For this cause only was it that Henry rather chose the quality of Duke of Anjon in France, then that of King of Poland. And for the same reason as well he as Francis his brother, being but Princes of France, did precede the dead King your father, when as he was but King of Navarre: which I speak but by the way my Lord, to let you see how much this dignity of brother to the King ought be esteemed by you before all the Sceptres and the Crowns of the whole earth. Be it then that you would regain you the ancient possession of your inheritance in Italy; the remembrance of Charles the eighth, of Lewis the ninth, and of Francis the great, causeth the Alps as yet to tremble. Be it that you would pass to Constantinople, the eastern Empire conquered, and possessed by the French, doth there (with all fear) still redoubt their very name. If you would yet thrust further, and as far as Palestine, the same French have conquered and possessed that also you may affright the Sultan's of Egypt, and the Moors in Africa, by the sole memory of S. Lewis. In what part soever of the world fatecalleth you, thither may the renown of your predecessors open you a passage; No mountain is so steep that will not stoop below your feet, nor sea so enraged and impetuous, as not to be appeased and humbled beneath your sails. Go on great Prince under the name and arms of that great King, to whom only you ought rest a subject. Go and happily re-enter on the possession of so many Realms. Eface by your immortal acts, & those in the end worthy a Gaston of France, the glorious memory and illustrious name of Gaston of Foix. Make seen there is as much difference between your valour and your renown and his, as there is between his condition and his house and yours. 'Tis said, Alexander intending to pass into Asia, there was one of the statues of Orpheus, whose forehead stood with sweat, from whence the Augurs drew a presage that he should there bring so great things to pass, as should produce sweat on the brows of such Poets and Musicians, as should desire to relate them. May you great Prince, bear Arms more far than Alexander, and do those deeds as the admiration and astonishment thereof may render men mute, and statues speaking, that after I have been often covered with sweat in the pursuit of the thunder of your Arms in battle, I may again sweat within their triumphs, singing the hymns of your so glorious victories. So as I may from out those large extended wings whereon Renown itself ought bear your glory, draw a quill best capable of their description, and which supplying the imperfections of this book, (that I purpose to the eternity of your memory) may leave to posterity, works more worthy your name, and the desire I have to signallize me.  
My Lord, 〈…〉 Your most humble, most obedient, and thrice affectionate servant, D'AUDIGUIER.   

A Table of the Arguments.  

MInerva cometh to solicit her suits in Paris, is beloved of Balamyr, Crassus, Arnolphus, and Adraste, but loveth only Arnolphus. The disfavour of Adraste, causeth that of Crassus, Adraste desirous to give a Serenade to Minerva, accompanied with Periste and Oristene, runneth a dangerous Misfortune. Page 1  
Adraste reconcileth himself to Minerva, and not being able to vanquish the inclination she hath for Arnolphe, of a Lover he becometh a Friend. Tatius renders himself necessary to Minerva, and so engageth her estate, & marrieth her person, after the death of Arnolphe, and the vain predictions of Adraste. which were found so true, as they produced a second separation of Marriage between them. 16  
Minerva cometh back to Paris. The second loves of Adraste with her, are ruined by the practices and confederacy of Brasidas, and of Gracchus her kinsmen and Lovers. 32  
Adraste closeth again with Minerva, comforteth her on the death of Arnolphe. Commotions in France and diverse adventures upon that subject. 56  
The reprisal of Minerva in affection with Adraste: a dangerous adventure of his, going to see Minerva. A walk of Adrastes with Minerva, and some others in company with her at Ruel. 78  
The diverse pursuits of Crassus and Adraste. The departure of Minerva, her return, and confidence in Adraste. The sudden disfavour of Adraste on the Eve of his parting, and the Letter he wrote to Minerva. As also the reconciliation of Adraste with Minerva, and his departure for the Army. 101  
That neither his Love, nor the perfections of his Mistress could be possibly spoken of, but imperfectly. 123  
Upon his Mistress forbidding him to Love. 125  
He saith that he loveth as well by election, as destinate thereto, and entreats his Mistress to examine the cause for which she dooms his death. 127  
He complains of the indifference of his Mistress. 129  
The Answer. 130  
The Reply. 131  
He amorously seems angry with his Mistress. 133  
He comforteth his Mistress, on the death of his Rival, and manifesteth the excellence of his Love, above all other affections. 135  
He complains of his Mistress that she had failed him in a meeting appointed by her to walk. 141  
The Answer. 142  
He justifieth his fancies. ibid.  
Why his Mistress should not be moved at his Martyrdom, upon his departure. 143  
He entreats his Mistress to torment him, to the end such pleasure as she takes therein, be increased proportionably to the increase of his torments. 145  
He excuseth himself for putting his Mistress in collar, by preferring a just complaint unto her, and protesteth that he will never more complain since he seeth he cannot complain, without giving her offence. 146  
The Answer. 148  
He endeavours to maintain a wager he had propounded to have laid, that he would write no more to her, and begs pardon, that he doth not ask her pardon for it. ibid.  
After his Mistress departure, he comforteth her in her afflictions, by the example of his own adversities. 150  
An Epistle of a Lady, to a faithless Lover. 151  
He justifieth his silence. 153  
He dares not see his Mistress. 154  
He complains of his Mistress absence, and of those would hinder him from seeing her. 155  
He comforteth a Lady upon some displeasures she had received. ibid.  
He answereth to a Letter of Minerva's. 157  
A Ladies answer to her Lover. 158  
He makes answer to a complaint she had made of him, for his silence, and not writing. 159  
Upon some discontent a little before his departure. 160  
The Answer, 161  
The Reply, 162  
Being returned to Paris, he found that his Mistress had hearkened to some ill reports of him, whereof he complaineth, and for that she had taken from him such hours of visitation, as he had hardly acquired to give them to another. The first occasion of breach between them, 164  
Upon that she had answered to his former Letter, how she was enforced to her grief, to suffer unpleasing company, and that she was sorry she could not admit of his entertainment, as she would. He returns that the party whom she feigned her to be unable to be rid of, was rather commanded to stay, purposely to keep him off. And that be needed not his assistance in such case, knowing well that she might absolutely command, and forbid him what she pleased, in full assurance to be obeyed. 166  
He complains of the languishing he suffers in her absence, and entreats her presence of her, as the only thing sufficiently able, to chase her image from his thoughts. 168  
He begs of God, he will inspire him with words of force to make her more favourable. And he complains, that he had been made to attend all the day for an Answer. 169  
She answers to his precedent Letter, that she knows not what to say or send word of, and complains much of the importunity of those that visit her, 170  
He replies, that if she knows not what to say or send him word of, he knows less what to do. 171  
He prays her not to lose her peace of mind in the affairs, wherein she is busied. And so falls in discourse of his passions, and sufferings for her love. ibid.  
She answers, that if he knew how much she partakes in his sufferings, he would rather lament her then himself, and that no one should ever esteem better of his merits, nor so cherish his affections, as herself. 173  
He saith that it is impossible he should undo him from the thoughts, that have undone him Represents to himself the time he hath lost, in serving her▪ what she hath taken from him, and what she hath yet left him. And concludes, that it is high time that he retire all naked as he is, to some desert, whither her image shall not be able to pursue him further. But that all this discourse vanisheth on her presence. 176  
He complains that they would debar his visits on the passion week, and that it was not a general rule: but his greatest grief was, to leave her in the hands of her enemies, whose drifts he discovereth to her, and offers himself to undertake them. 178  
Having fought this morning upon the occasion spoken of in the former Letter, and having astonished his Mistress, by the recital of so unlooked for an action, he writes to her that her astonishment caused him to judge that she hoped some better end, or feared a worse. And shows that neither the one, nor the other, could be. 179  
He complains that she had judged amiss of a good action. Saith that he believed that she had seen the man of whom he spoke, and got from him the confession she desired. How conformable which was to his words, he should find when she should fulfil hers. And that he ne'er should rest, till he had made him avow the truth. 181  
He saith that he hath something to say to her which he had not yet said, for that whatsoever he premeditateth to tell her in absence, flies his memory when she is present. Represents to her his languish and the put off's, wherewith she had from time to time protracted him, yet without complaint, for that loving her with an extraordinary affection, he was well pleased to testify it by respects in common. 183  
He persisteth still in the discourse of his languish, and some others which he framed in walking alone a long the Seine. At last he concludes absence, for absence, it were more supportable, far off then near, and that the more he deferreth, the more he draweth out in length the violence of his torments and vexations. 185  
He conjures her take some pity on his languish, and not still to detain him in the solitude she had the day before. Complains that he having so little time to spend with her, should waste it so ill, that he abides here but only for the sight of her, and yet he sees her not, but amongst such company as do deprive him of her sight. 188  
Upon a quarrel which he had had on her occasion, of which she had endeavoured an accord, upon some terms. He entreats her to pardon him if so be he would not endure that it should be conceived in that manner. 189  
Being pressed to an honourable agreement, and threatened with her disfavour, in case he should refuse, he saith that she urged him to a thing that she would upbraid him with so soon as he had done it. Notwithstanding which, he would consent to whatsoever she should do, to testify his obedience to her. 190  
Upon some coldness in his Mistress, he saith that he dares not so much as send to her house to know when she will be pleased he may come thither. Nor yet can he but do it, having so little time to live near her, 191  
Upon a promise she had made him to afford him her company and entertain, at 5 of the clock, he sent to see if her watch were not stayed or put back, or if she had not yet again some other demur, to put him off to another time. 192  
He excuseth himself of an action to which the violence and indiscretion of a bad woman, had born him, in the lodging and presence both, of his Mistress, for which he humbly entreateth her, either to pardon, or punish him. So taking again a discourse in hand that he had left, he humbly entreats her to weigh the importance of it, and to afford him one hour upon that subject. 193  
The Answer. 195  
The Reply on the same occasion. ibid.  
He saith that he will write to her continually, since she hath commanded it, and will never lament him, for that she hath forbade it. Confesseth that he wants the good parts might oblige her to wish him well, and that he hath but too many ill ones, to merit her bad usage, saith that all things work according to their properties, and that he having a heart of flesh, and she one of stone, it must be that she should be as insensible of his affections, as he is quickly sensible of hers. 196  
She answers that the cause why she prayed him to write, was, that her deserts could not be commended, but by the judgement he gave thereof. That she sorrowed that a passion so worthily entertained, should be for a subject so uncapable of the acknowledgement. 198  
He replies that if she knew the greatness of his passions, she would not say that he did worthily entertain them, but that he injures them. And entreats her to give him leave to come and learn at hers, the subject for which she desired he should become passionate, according to her promise to him. 199  
He saith that if he did not by obedience, what he also doth through affection, he knows not why he should write to one that is as little moved by his letters, as the posts and corners of the walls, to which our Bills be usually fixed. That instead of animating an image, and rendering it sensible of his passions, he hath rendered her senseless, by the virtue of his sighs. And of a heart of flesh he hath made one of impenetrable stone. 200  
Having forborn three days without writing back one word to him, (whatsoever may be said in her answer) for missing this morning, she seems astonished at his silence, and commandeth him to ask her pardon for it. 202  
After so many complaints and delays thereon, upon which he had resolved to speak no more, then in one Letter, he intended to send her on his departure he yet gives her answer, and bids her farewell. ibid.  
Meeting him yet by chance, and being made friends, she fails again of her promise to him, which obligeth him to break with her once for all, and send her this his last farewell. 206  
The Answer, 210  
His Mistress being informed he was in blacks, took occasion to write word unto him; by which she condoled with him the new affliction she believed had been befallen him. ibid.  
After having a long while dispated with himself whether he should answer her Letters, or not, he tells her that besides the afflictions he under goes for her, he slighted all such as could happen to him. That he could not believe that she condoled theills, she daily augmented. And wherefore he believed so. 211  
She replies, that she is more amarvailed then offended at his Letter, and wisheth that all his vanities were in that paper, to the end they obliged no other one to answer them. 213  
He answers her threats, and to the vanities she accuseth him of, in a style altogether estranged from the respect he had wont to render her, though not from his discretion. 214  
He answers to certain complaints that Minerva had made some while after, as well to his friends, as himself of his indifference, and showeth that it was founded on the necessity of obeying her, and upon good reason. 222    

Faults escaped in some Copies.  
PAge 10. line 30. for that, read it, p. 11. l. 19 for others, r. ours, p. 21. l. 7. for revenger, r. revenge, l. 14. for & who shall then, r. who shall then, l. 17. for such as, r. those that, l. 19 for inconstant, r. constant, l. 20. for misery, r. mischief, p. 39 l. 29. for these, r. those, p. 42. l. 7. for or what, r. what, p. 46. l. 15. for esteemed, r. seemed, p. 50. l. 15. for to obey, r. to obey you, p. 55. l. 2. for most provoked him, r. most troubled him she was it that most provoked him, p. 60. l. 15. for on yours. Adraste r. on yours Adraste, l. 27. for book, r. broke, p. 74. l. 7 for penthouse or a long, r. penthouse a long, p. 81. l. 3. for passion, r. possession, l. 22. for agreed, r. angered, l. 31. for forgot to, r. forgot not to, p. 82. l. 15. for after in death, r. after death, p. 83. l. 6. for to quite me of, r. to quit me of, p. 85. l. 10. for discourse, that it, r. discourse for that it, line 18. for or least, r. or at least, l. 30. for Adraste hath purged, r. Adraste having purged, p. 95. l. 16. for could tender, r. would render, p. 100 l. 8. for and to went set, r. and so went and set, p. 106. l. 26. for compassionate, r. compatiate, p. 110. l. 11. for that would, r. that she would, p. 113. l. 31. for desire, r. design, p. 116. l. 11. for nor to be to, r. nor be to, l. 17. for render me, r. render it me, p. 117. l. ult. for satisfaction to, r. satisfaction then to, p. 118. l. 23. for light doth rejoice, r. light, thou that dost rejoice, p. 119. l. 7. for state, r. fate, l. 13. for less, r. left, l. 27. for once as yet, r. once more as yet, and some others, which in courtesy may be borne withal.   

Love and Valour: OR: The diverse affections of MINERVA.  

The Argument.  
Minerva cometh to solicit her suits in Paris, is beloved of Balamyr, Crassus, Arnolphus, and Adraste, but loveth only Arnolphus. The dissavour of Adraste, causeth that of Crassus, Adraste desirous to give a Serenade to Minerva, accompanied with Periste and Oristene, runneth a dangerous misfortune.  
CHAP. I.  
DId I desire to frame the foundations of a true story upon a tale, I might say the earth never produced the equal of Minerva, and deriving her original from heaven, it were not only a lie, but blasphemy to bring her back again to earth. So then let us not speak untruths for fear of lying, nor let us blaspheme for fear of blasphemy; fable hath no part in this discourse, the Star by which I mean to steer my course, being truth itself. This here is not that Minerva the Goddess, but a woman whose clear mind and brave spirit hath acquired her the name of that Pallas precedent of Art and Arms; her birth was not of the head of jupiter, but of an illustrious family, the worth whereof hath been ere whiles graced with the most honourable charges of this Realm, her father having left her very young, she was married at 9 years old to a husband but of eleven; and as the one nor the other were then capable of love, they produced no other but hate. Her desire to be divorced from one she loved not, caused her come to solicit her affairs at Paris, where her beauty did acquire her rather servants than judges; and where her youth more proper to the exercises of love, than business of law, rendered her apt to hearken to the suits of her servants, then to give ear to, or prosecute her necessary suits. I know not whether she were cruel or favourable on their behalf, but certain am I that the Sejan horse was never more unhappy to his Masters, than she to some of her servants. Whilst she followed her affairs, Balamyr was the first of whose service she admitted. I have heard him say, she esteemed more of his valour, than she loved his person, and that her vanity to captivate so great a courage, caused her suffer the importunity of his pursuit, their love became hatred: Balamyr, were it through judgement or inconstancy, with, or without cause, quit her for another Mistress, and was unlamented of Minerva sometime after slain. But she continued not without a servant, for she won on all she would, and she would win on all she could: and for all that she complained here sometimes of the miserable conquests she made against her will. She made no acquisition but to her profit, and wherewith she served not herself in some design or other. See here the cause why she contemned not the affection of Crassus, howsoever his ill shape, and worse favour, rendered him sufficiently contemptible. But Arnolph was he that most feelingly touched her to heart, all the rest were amorous of her, and she only of him. It was not that his services or quality obliged her to love him more than ordinary: it was a certain inclination proceeded of the sympathy in their wills, and I know not what feminine humour more taken with a soothing observance, or handsome leg making, then with all the fair qualities or good parts can be in a man, or the faithfullest services that can be rendered them. Many others fell into the snares of Minerva, whose vulgar affections merit not a particular history, but she kept always a kind of order in the receipt of such as she intended to inregister in number of her subjects: for when she began to favour Arnolph, she was fallen off with Crassus, and never was reunited during the life of Arnolph. Notwithstanding she accepted of Adraste, when she was yet engaged, and suffered that he sighed for her, whilst she languished for another. But Adraste accompanied his affection with so much respect, as sufficed to have begotten pride even in humility itself, and beside was so sensible of offences, and so tenderly feeling the least coldness, that he would not have suffered them from a Goddess, which was the cause that at some time or other he spoilt all his Mistresses, and then that he undid himself too: for that seeming not so much to love as to adore them, he so raised their haughty humour and natural vanity above the condition of their sex, and gave them so absolute an Empire, as himself was not able to live under, so as he lost often by impatience, what he had acquired by much passion: he threw well, but he played his game ill. The first occasion of breach between him and Minerva, was but slight, and more capricious than reasonable: as for the most part there appears in the process of love, more rage than reason, but it was followed by a mistake that is very pleasant. Adraste being at Minerva's, with one Thymon a fine companion, & of a good wit, whom Minerva not disliked of: after having entertained them some time in a low room, she entreated them up the stairs, which were at the going out of the room, of sufficient breadth for two, but too narrow for three. When Minerva being about to ascend, observed them both, looking one or the other of them would take her by the hand, and seeing both to recoil and step back, she goes up herself foremost, as to show them the way. Adraste forbore to take her hand, for that it seemed to him she had first looked on Thymon, and Thymon abstained to assist her, out of respect to Adraste, who turning about, got him out of doors, saying nothing to one or other, but went his way. There was nothing but love, & that in choler could cause him commit so great a discourtesy: Minerva marvelled not a little, and Thymon was more astonished at it. But Adraste went not alone, for the vexation hebore along with him, made the greater part of himself. After a profound consideration of the fury of his disease, accusing yet his Mistress of his own fault, he resolved with himself to complain, and found not a better means to mitigate his grief, than (if it might be,) to disburden himself of it upon paper, he wrote to Minerva, That since for honouring her without any obligation, she had slighted him without cause, making him undergo such punishments as he was unworthy of▪ in place of the recompense he merited; he was resolved to keep his services for other favours, since she kept her favours for other Lovers. I know well said he, that this will add to your cantentment, and still more aggravate my discontents: but the more violent they shall be, the less lasting you had not been so ill to me, had you not found me still so good, but however it be the effect of a low spirit, to take occasion from the goodness of any one to use them ill, I never yet shall alter mine, to revenge me aught of your bad usage. I do confess that I thus break with you▪ in the most extremity of grief I ever suffered yet, or ever can and which I never shall recover whilst I live, and that if the wounds of the mind endure after death, eternity itself must only be the term of their continuance. But I shall choose to breathe my afflictions elsewhere, or smother them in my own breast, or that they smother me, then to increase them daily with new indignities. And if you wonder that I have taken so small an occasion, having heretofore passed by so great ones, remember that they are not the greatest sicknesses, but they are the last that do bring death: and that it is no marvel that so slight a disfavour succeeding so many other insupportable ones, should now conclude the less of what you have so many times neglected. He gave this Letter to a servant that Minerva knew not to belong to him, with his commands, that so soon as he had delivered it to her own hands, he should not stay for her answer. It was done just as he willed, this man went his ways to Minerva, to whom presenting the Letter, he told her, that his Master most humbly kissed her hands; Who is he? said she. Madam answered he, that you shall find in his Letters. Have a little patience than answered Minerva, which saying, she stepped into her Cabinet, as well to peruse as to write an answer to her Letter, when she saw it was not signed, the desire and impatience she formerly had to know the Author of it, was now by the difficulty redoubled. She stayed upon it some time to bethink her if she could divine thereof by the character. At last, being able to gather nothing from thence, she commanded that they made the messenger come in, but they found that he was already gone, and with such haste, as all sight of him was lost. As yet, had Adraste never wrote unto her before this time, and Minerva not thinking that she had given him any cause of dislike, no way suspected him for this Letter. But Crassus being discontented at her, and she yet much more offended at Crassus, she imagined it an effect of his ill will. And thereupon writing back to him in the heat of her choler, and despite, and in the rage and violence of her first motions, she returned him the most bloody and injurious Letter, that a furious and revengeful woman could bethink her of against a man. So as Monsieur Crassus that had been before offended by her, and expected rather to be satisfied, far from what he looked for, received an amends much worse than the offence. In the mean while, was Adraste unable to suffer the absence of his Mistress, and yet was unhappily banished her presence, he desired with all impatience to see her, yet obstinately shunned he all occasions of seeing her, seeking and fearing in one and the same time to meet her, a troublesome passion that brings us to will, and not to will in the same time one and the same thing. In matter of love a diverting on some other object, is no little help; Adraste endeavoured what he could to divert himself, and thinking to lose the remembrance of his malady, found it even in the same divertisement. He went to see a friend of his called Periste, that took him a long to supper with him in the Suburbs of Saint Germans, with a certain Gentlewoman named Oristene, to oblige him by a double pleasure he added to the daintiness of their fare, the delight of Music joining with 4 or 5 Lutes, as many excellent voices, of which Oristenas was the most excellent. All which did but more ripen the griefs of Adraste, and by the object of such felicity, but represent the more to him his unhappiness. It was that time of the year when the longest days make the evenings most delightful, and dispose lovers still to give or receive your serenades or evening musics, which awakened a marvellous desire in the heart of Adraste, to present Minerva with one. All the company agreed to it, Oristena herself would make one of the party, which that she might do with the more convenience, she changed the attire of her sex, and put on man's apparel. They set her on a foot cloth nag, and all the rest beating along on the hoof, they left her lodging, just as the day left our horizon. Oristene lodged in the most remote quarters of the suburbs, and Minerva in the midst of the City, so as to go from the one to the other, the directest way was through S. Germane street: when they were come so far as the Well in that street, some 50 paces from the Abbey, Oristena calling to her Page, which indeed was but a Laquay, was by her voice known of some 4 or 5 that would needs lay hands on her horse bridle. The Musicians who were they that were nearest to her, having drunk too much, and not understanding things aright, began to draw their swords, and charge upon them. These Roisters defended themselves, and but for Adraste that opposed himself unto their weapons, and making some by good words, others by threats retire, appeased the first tumult, there had been some extraordinary hurt done. They sheathed all their swords but one only, that looked as if he would have eat them all at a bit. Adrastes choler rose then above his wisdom, to curb; and do you only Sir said he, forbear notwithstanding the wary example of your fellows, and therewithal passed 5 or 6 thrusts just at the throat of him, and with so ready and able a pursuit, as the other warding and giving back, without having leisure to strike one stroke, or speak a word, found himself retired so far as the Sergeants bars, which is at the end of that street: and then Sir said he, what injury have I done you? you have not put up your sword for love said Adraste, which I by force will now make you sheath: that needs not Sir, I will put it up upon your word Sir, replied he: do so then answered Adraste, or you are but dead: he sheaths his weapon, and thereupon Adraste returned towards his friends, and the other followed him, who desired likewise to find his. So soon as they came near the Well where they had left them, Adraste found not any of his company, but in place, two men bearing a third under the arms, who as bemoaning himself, cried with a faint and dying voice, I am slain: he that followed Adraste, knowing they were his fry nds, one of which was run thorough the body, drew his sword on Adraste, and tilting at his back, cried out, the murderer, the murderer, this is he that did it: whereupon all the others at once fell upon him, and the hurt man not able to do more, fell a crying, kill, kill, kill. Adraste had much better have returned toward the Abbey, then have gone forwards, for he had not found any other to encounter, than he that followed him, who would ne'er have stood him, but desiring to overtake his company, and believing that they were got into the City by S. Germane gate, in pursuit of their first intentions, he flew amongst the thickest of them before him, who made him way, on the violence of his fury, and having let him pass, followed him full close along the butchery, did he not find think you, his legs more useful to him then his arms? Adraste had a little English footboy, who was by when the man was run thorough, and having seen part taking on all sides but his Masters, stood him close up at a Butcher's door, with a bottle of wine in his hand, which he set down so soon as he see his Master so pursued, and suddenly running from his place, cried out, courage Sir, here be all your friends; which words so replaced the heart of Adraste in his body, and put such affright in his enemies, as they all turned their backs so soon as he turned head upon them. For they all thought it true Adraste, for that he desired it, and they because they feared that Adraste having caused them to flee that had pursued him, and liking better of their rooms then companies, demanded of his boy what was become of Periste, Oristena, and the rest that he left there. In good faith Master, said he, I know not, but seeing you so hardly put to it, I thought it best to say they were all here. It was not ill done, said Adraste, but let us go see if they be not gone into the City. As they went, the whole suburbs were in tumult, for these villains in flying, had given the alaram every where, crying out, that they massacred Monsieur, the Prince's officers, so as all was in rout, in hubbub, and affray, which made Adraste make more haste to the gate of the City, hoping that his company were already entered, and that himself should find with them more assurance there, then without in the suburbs. But he found the gates already shut, and one of his Chanters on the bridge, like another Orpheus at the gates of hell, but that he entreated Pluto to let out to him Eurydice, and others here begged leave of the Porter to let him into the City. Adraste asked him what he made there, what was become of the company, and wherefore they had all left him so. I know nothing as concerning your two last demands said he, but to the first I stay here to have them open me the gate, for me thinks the whole suburbs are raised upon us, and would to God I were gone with the loss of my Lute. As he yet talked, they perceived a company of some 30 or 40 persons that came towards them, by the light of ten or a dozen torches that were carried before them. So soon as Adraste saw them, he conceived that they were people assembled together to take him, and fearing to be so surprised against a gate that was shut against him, not having elsewhere passage then amongst them, he resolved to make himself way by his sword, as he had done a little before, but with as much more appearance of danger, as here were many more people: he expected to be slain, but he chose rather to dye, then to be taken. Wherefore looking amongst them, and making a flourish with his sword naked in his hand, he rushed through the midst of this multitude; as it had been a mad man. Never in his life was Adraste so happy▪ all this heard of people fled, some here, and some there, and gave him no less room than the whole street; he passed them like thunder, and fled much marvelled at so admirable a success: he need not fear following, for the others fled as fast on the other side. But there were so great a number of them, that (not seeing any offence near them when he was gone) they took hart at grass, as we say, and finding the Musician and Laquay that had not the heart to fly, they laid hands on them. Note that it was a band of Comedians going to act before Monsieur the Prince, accompanied with many others, as well women as men, who thinking of nothing less than of the adventure of Adraste, were put in greater affright than he. The Musician thought himself already hanged, and the footboy at least flayed alive; but seeing themselves not accused for having killed or hurt any one, and that they were only demanded, who this mad man was that had so furiously routed them, they escaped by denial, and were quit by saying they knew nothing of the matter. Adraste in the mean time went his way back all alone to the house of Oristene, where he found that Periste had brought her back again, yet shaking with the fear this accident had caused in her. Well said Periste, so soon as he saw Adraste enter, much moved with fortunes he had run; I believe it will be this two days before you desire again to give your Serenades or your Aubades more to Minerva. I am now ready as ever to return, answered Adraste, but I assure you it shall be alone, for either I will engage me in no quarrels, or I will not leave my friends engaged in them after I have myself begun them, which I speak not concerning you, for besides that as I know well that you began not this, so had you enough to do to disengage Oristine; But was it possible that four or five rascals should so easily rout so many honest good fellows? As you betook you to your sword against that angry blade that would by no means sheathe up his, said Periste, his companions likewise took them to theirs, I seeing them to run after you, threw the foremost of them to the earth with a thrust I made, which stayed and took them all short up. Indeed we were the greater number, but the most of us had no other weapons than their Lutes, which they threw away the better to fly. Whilst they made away, and the others took up their hurt man, I had the opportunity to bring back Oristene. You have done what you ought, and I what I could said Adraste, assuring you that I believe there was never Knight errant that in one evening had two such adventures or so strange as I have had since supper; nor know I well if I may dare to tell them, since I can hardly believe them myself. Then discoursed he to them what had happened to him, and they knew not, lessening yet the number of those through whom he had forcibly passed, for fear they should think it but a tale. But the Musician and footman which he believed dead, or at the least prisoners, upon the conclusion of his story arriving, no little renewed his wonder, for he could not imagine how they had escaped. But how went you to work said he, for I left yond environed by fifteen or twenty people, from whom I scarce hoped that ever you or myself should have gotten free. Indeed Sir said the boy, they were 30 of them or more, but they dreamt not of you, and they had more fear in them then they could put you in. And then the Musician told them that they were certain Comedians followed by many Lawyers and other gowned people, the most part of whom took their wives along with them to the play, which was to be acted at Monsieur the Princes Court. I wondered indeed how I came so valiant, answered Adraste, but now the marvel is over since I find with what manner of people I had to do. To all this discourse poor Oristine said never a word, though she thought ne'er the less, doubting much that she should pay dear for this piece of folly, as indeed she did: for the next day Adraste and Periste having taken leave of her, the King's Officer in those cases, failed not to visit her house, letting her understand, he would inform against the riot committed the evening before, and to garnish his Majesty's pockets, as the French hath it, began with the seizure of her goods. But not to make a star-chamber suit of this in place of a love story, we will leave Oristine to her suits, and follow the affections of Minerva.   

The Argument.  
Adraste reconcileth himself to Minerva, and not being able to vanquish the inclination she hath for Arnolphe, of a Lover he becometh a Friend. Tatius renders himself necessary to Minerva, and so engageth her estate and marrieth her person, after the death of Arnolphe, and the vain predictions of Adraste, which were found so true, as they produced a second separation of Marriage between them.  
CHAP. II.  
NO misfortune but may bring good to some, the disparagement of Oristene, was cause of the reconciliation of Adraste with Minerva. She for Adrastes sake, took some pains on the behalf of Oristene, and then could Adraste do no less than go home to her, and thank her for it, where a peace was no sooner treated then concluded. He craved pardon for his Letter, which, was indeed to excuse him of a fault that none knew that he had done; so Minerva recounted to him the mistake that it had caused her to make. Though she loved not Adraste, yet she liked well to retain him for a friend, or at least not to have him as an enemy, so as for sometime he governed her very peaceably, by day he walked with her to the Gardens of Ruel, and those of Saint Germans, and by night he accompanied her to the accustomed places of bathing by moonshine at the Tournelles, and afterwards having carrried her back to her house, and passed the most of the night with her, he usually retired all alone, without light from the one end of the City to the other. Of 1000 men scarce shall ye find one that would for 1000 women, do what he did for this one. Notwithstanding one congee, one salute of Arnolphe weighed more in the estimation of Minerva, than all the services of Adraste. After some time, debating the matter with him, she confessed to him, what indeed she could not deny. The same passion you have for me, said she, I have for him, and sigheth as often for his love, as you for mine. But I tell you a secret, I should be loath he should discover; & I swear to you by the love I bear him, that he hath never received the satisfaction therein which you have had, nor once hath he pretended to it, however you have received but what I might with, mine honour, grant. Arnolphe was a stranger, without name, quality, or estate, that entertained Minerva with discourses of his own lightness, inconstancy, and the Trophies he reared thereby to his vanity, ye, even to the prejudice of that discretion, aught to be used in like cases. But she, as if she had had power to render him as well faithful, as loving, believed that he would become better to her, than God himself had made him, lived encharmed within the circle of a faith much more amorous than reasonable. Adraste told her all these things, and that he much marvelled that already having been deceived by one inconstant man she could yet again set her affections, on an other more to be doubted then the first. But said she, this is bad Rhetoric in you, to speak ill, with intention to cause me wish you well. I cannot be so perfect as you go about to make me believe of myself, if so I have not judgement sufficient to make an election worthy me. And grant that he wanteth all those qualites you speak of, yet ought not my affection to be the less, that is not tied at all unto the qualities and fortunes of a man, but merely to his virtues and his demerits. Then did Adraste take the course is seldom used amongst Rivals; Since it is so said he, that your will and pleasure bears you to this, I will by no means stand in opposition: It being altogether reasonless, that you having the power you have upon my liberty, should not have the like upon your own. In my example you shall see allover, that doth for the love of his Mistress, love his rival. I will for your love serve him, to the end that you even for his sake shall bear me some good will. But yet remember you, that there shall be no justice left in heaven, it for the faithful love of a slave that doth adore you, you endure not the shameful tyrannies of a faithless and impetuous Master, and in place of that eternity of divine honours, and everlasting faithfulness which I vow to you, you drown not your life in endless sorrows, and soil not your name with as many infamous scandals (An unfortunate presage, that yet did prove more true). Howsoever Minerva loved Arnolph dearly, yet could she not help it, but this extreme submission of Adraste did o'ercome her. And though Adraste grieved to see Minerva loved another, yet could not he avoid it, but this great freedom with which she trusted him in a secret concerned her so nearly must needs oblige him much; so as notwithstanding they seemed to renounce each others love, yet disavowed they not each others friendship. Adraste therefore in stead of becoming Minerva's servant, became her friend, an exchange more necessary than favourable, but which depended merely on her pleasure. Whilst Adraste and Arnolphe thus pretended to Minerva, there was yet a third competitor that bore away the prize they expected and laboured for: but he enjoyed it not o're-long, nor without much cost, for indeed he was Clericus in libro, as we say, and not in this craft a Master. Minerva for want of good prosecution, and not of right, was quite o'erthrown in her suit. There was one of the common Council of the City, an ancient man, and of the longest continuance in the Court of Parliament, one powerful in means and authority, and one that was not ignorant of all the quirks and quillets in the law, and in truth a most proper instrument to re-edify and gain again a lost cause, Minerva needed such a man as this, and her fortune would in stead of seeking him out, she was herself sought out by him. Tatius, so was this Councillor called, was of an amorous complexion, and covered glowing fires beneath the embers of a grey beard. He had no sooner seen Minerva, but he was taken with her, and she well managing the occasion, made him so wed her cause, as in place of counsel▪ he became Solicitor and party, and in a word gained her the suit which she had absolutely lost, and got her to be sequestered both body and goods from her husband: and all this without Minerva's once troubling herself, which was the thing indeed she required & best liked of. But this you may think could never be without much charge, the which Tatius very freely had disbursed, furnishing her with 5 or 600 crowns, that Minerva secured him out of her estate. For though Tatius were a gallant Gentleman, yet knew he well that it sufficed not to carry away this prize from so many others braver than himself, and he clearly found that it behoved him render himself the more necessary, by so much as he was the less pleasing, and that he should begin to engage her estate somewhat to him, the better afterwards to interest him in herself. The design was profound and subtle, and succeeded well in the acquisition, howsoever it fell out but ill to him in the possession. The first took notice hereof was Adraste, who incontinently told as much to Minerva, letting her understand beside, she would become as mean a slave, as those are commonly sold in Barbary at market, if so she ever married this old Sire, that could not be so soon married, as jealous of her. And if it chance, said he, as I have told you otherwhiles, that for being too covetous of your favours to one, so capable of the knowledge of their worth, the heavens shall after as a just revenger, consent that you be liberal of them unto some ignorant, that no way shall find cause to acknowledge them, or shall not be able to return their price; but on the contrary, be satiate with your kindnesses, afflicted with his happiness, and openly neglect even these your excellent beauties for some slight regard. And who shall then assist you to lamentyour cause after so fair a warning, as is this of your disgrace! Who will not think fit such a cruel one as baths herself still in the blood of such as love her best, and is not pleased but in the murder of their inconstant loves, at last should fall into the hands of such a sot, as should revenge by his contemptuous outrages, the most injurious disdains wherewith she hath crucified so many faithful souls? And to remember you that I have said it is a misery fatal unto such as you; and by so much the more assured as it is little feared. Minerva did but laugh at these his ominous predictions, and told him; then she could with ease render them all wholly false. Aruolphe were't that he deemed it for the good of Minerva, or that he loved her rather for a Mistress then a wife, freely advised her to marry Tatius: But she having drawn, and got from him what she would, now thought not but of the readiest means to discard and cast him off. Tatius was a Churchman, and upon that she told him, that her friends took it amiss, that one of his coat should so frequent her company: he sent to Rome, and having obtained a dispensation for marriage, he sought her openly. Minerva excused her then upon the difference betwixt their conditions, qualities, and manner of life. Tatius being a gown man, used to the City. She being born in the Country, and bred up amongst the Nobility. To every of her objections Tatius found an answer. I will sell my goods, the places and offices that stay me in the City, said he, and will alter my manner of living, to the end you change not yours. Minerva seeing herself so encompassed on all sides, had recourse to the least remedy of Maids that would put off a suitor, they like not, which is to say, that they will never marry. Added further, that she would become a votary, and that the better to apt and fit her to the forms and customs of a religious and solitary life; she entreated, not only him, but likewise all such as did her the honour of visitation, to abstain from those favours. Pay back the moneys that are owing me, said Tatius, then, since I must lose the fruit of all my services; when you shall owe me nothing, nor we have more to do with other, I am content since you will have it so, than not to see you any more; but till we are even, I pray forbear to take from me the honour of seeing you. Though Minerva were descended of a right good family, yet could she not suddenly lay down the 6000 crowns she ought him, without selling away part of her estate, nor could she find the man would do it for her: And Tatius proceeding in law, had got a decree for the whole sum: she was drawn dry by her suits, and her expenses caused thereby at Paris; Moreover she being as yet in pupillage, her estate managed by overseers, brought her not in the moiety of the true value. Arnolphe was a stranger, and without estate, as hath been said, and it he had abounded, yet had Minerva much rather have given to him, then to have taken from him; and by misfortune he had got a wound on the arm, in the time of Tatius his hottest pursuit, by one that he desired not to kill, though he died himself within three days after of that hurt, leaving behind him a most violent grief and uncomfortable sorrow in the heart of Minerva. There was none left her then but Adraste, who had from far foreseen this storm; though when he said so, he was not believed. Should she now have recourse to him, after so often making herself merry at his predictions, and demand counsel of him, having before so often slighted his advice? It must needs be, to whom indeed should one resort, but such of whom they have had so oftentimes sufficient proof of their fidelity? she dispatched then a Gentleman to him being at Paris, and she in the Country, to lament her misfortune, accuse her incredulity, and demand his advice in a case of such importance. Adraste had much rather have given her help then counsel, but he could not; his father was yet living, and he managed but what he allowed him, which scarce sufficed for his own entertainment. Queen Margaret gave him indeed some times a quarterly pension, but it was casual, and not certain, had it been sufficient, nor sufficient, had it been certain. He truly loved Minerva, and if she had given him time to provice it, he had rather sold what ere he had in the world, then have failed her, but she asked his counsel in a thing that was already past and done: and though he knew not that it was concluded of, for all that he doubted much it was exceeding forward. For Minerva pressed by the importunities of Tatius, after all the shifts and doubles that the craft and subtlety of women could invent, yet was at last constrained to marry him, but in clandestine manner, and to the end to deceive and cast him off, as she had done the other, getting a promise from him, that the marriage should not be consummate until six months after, in which time she thought to take some order in her affairs, and find means to pay him. But Adraste knew not of this, he wrote unto her then in these very words:  

Adrastes Letter.  
WHat I have heretofore oft said, proves now too true. It rests then in you to make it appear in human things whether there be predestination, ere free will; since if you be forced through necessity to imbarce this your misfortune, I shall henceforth believe it altogether bootless to foresee, or to forewarn the event of things, since they are by no means to be avoided. If you be not, I shall believe you Mistress of your will, and that it is not in the power of any living man to force it. It is hard to constrain such as are yet in the obedience which you have dispensed with, nor can such a thing be done but with much grief, and more misfortune. You know it by the experience you have had; and if others ought to weigh it well as once, you are to think upon it twice. But why complain you of unhappiness, since you will needs be so? Is it not well known that it can never be unless yond will, there being naught so free as marriage is? Think not that these complaints again shall serve you for excuse, they at the first indeed were not amiss, when you were but an Infant, and in the power of those respected more themselves than you. And how be it that then you were free from fault, yet know you well, what you yourself didundergo therein. The authority of friends no more can here constrain your infancy. If you do well, the glory will be yours, if ill, lament you of it to yourself, for no man else will grieve for you, but I, that cannot choose but grieve that you the Mistress of perfection, should be destinate to things so disagreeable. If so you be obliged by any man, 'twere fit you gave him satisfaction in't, but not unless you will at price of yourself, think but what must follow, what you are to do, and of the pleasure you shall take in't, if so your discord bring you once more, before the judges. But I believe it is to little purpose that I argue, and my reasons will not serve so much to profit you, as to my own discharge; However, had I the honour to see you, I might perchance say that unto you, might bring you about to another mind. And if it be not now too late, and that the pleasures you do expect from this your Lover, not precipitate your better counsels, I yet may have a word or two with you before it be long. But if the ill be helpless, and you must drink of this medicine, prepare you it so, that it be profitable to you yet. 'tis all the counsel I can give, in that of which I know not how to advise myself, that could have wished this comfort in my loss, that at the least I had seen it profitable unto you. Fairest Minerva adieu, I cannot keep me more from my lamenting, than I can from loving you; well may you be unto another, but I can never be to any one but you; and as for you I do believe that being unable to be what you ought to me, you will at least be what you may. If you have wept the death of your Arnolphe, now lament the life of your Adraste, that never can esteem it so as the honour to have power to lose it once in serving you, and her to rest yours.  
When Minerva had once received this Letter, she became afflicted with two most sensible and violent griefs, one from the loss of a friend she loved above herself; the other from possessing an Enemy she hated more than any thing. In the one there was no remedy, nor in the other but a very little hope. And is it not enough, said she, that I have lost the man more dear to me then all the world beside, but that I must be forced to marry one, most hateful unto me of all the earth? Oh Adraste, how justly now mightest thou scoff at my vanity. Adraste mocked her not; but seeing Tatius Quartermaster in her house, and watch so near all manner of resort thereto, as that there was no approaching her but by his means, he did conceive he had no more to do, and that 'twas fit he then should lose desire, when he had left to hope. Tatius slept not the whilst, The six months agreed on passed, the marriage indeed was consummated with all secrecy, but her great belly ere it were long made seen the whole mystery, and constrained them to celebrate publicly the marriage they had so privately made behind the curtain. So was Minerva almost as soon brought a bed as married, & married to a jealous fellow that would not fail to accomplish those unhappy presages of Adraste, that armed him with resolution, and constancy, and knowing love best to be cured by some other love, lost the sorrow for his first Mistress in the affections and service of a second and new one, Minerva wrote to him yet some little time after her marriage, but such a Letter as the extravagance showed well the ill seat of her wit and judgement; she wrote him word, That she was much satisfied from the contentment which she had purposed to have given to him, or at least to have let him see the desire she had to content him. All the rest of the Letter was but testimonies of good will, well wishes and offers of remembrance, protestations, and oaths to esteem him above all the World, and desires of his company, Adraste answered. That after much pondering the contentment she said she had determined to give him, and the satisfaction which rested to her in having made known to him such her desire; he by no means found that the one or the other was come to him, without she thought she had contented him in saying that she was well pleased at his contentment, that she might well have afforded him other satisfactions which had more obliged him then such, and from him might have rendered herself better, than those the people gave her▪ but she seemed to show her good will when she had no longer power to manifest it, and offered now her well wishes to render the loss of her affection the more insupportable, that all these protestations, and these oaths made of her good esteem of him, gratified him not, that it was oncly a dainty she whipped by his mouth, mocking him that had so often entreated her to honour him less, and love him more. That since there was no means for him to succeed and inherit the affections of the dead, whose his had preceded, he prayed heaven that he might be deceived in his predictions rather than she in her election, and that she might enjoy as much contentment in what she did possess, as he had sorrow for what he did loose. As for his company, that he wished it no less useful unto her, then hers to him was dear; that he already had rendered her the addues she sent him, with more weight and measure than she did receive them, and if per adventure she doubted it, the greatest pleasure she could do him, was to examine it. Minerva seeing Adraste thus in merriment, believed he was no longer in love; and as we know not the price of things till after their loss, she found the discretion and fidelity of this Lover, too late, and when she had not means left her to gratify them. Moreover as things never appear so much as when they are opposed unto their contraries, the harsh nature of Tatius caused her now to taste the sweetness of that gentle one of Adraste: And she by means of the tyranny was practised upon her, bethought her of the Empire erewhiles she had exercised on him. The servile condition to which she was now reduced, made her not only lament the liberty she had taken to herself, but the sovereignty also which she had held on others. And conferring her present misery with her passed felicity, she esteemed her by so much the more wretched, as she remembered her to have been most happy. Tatius used her honourably, yet in all appearance, much rejoicing him in the good housewifery, and virtuous qualities of his wife, but in effect, she was confined to a private corner, where she had sufficient leisure to lament her follies. Her house heretofore open to all comers, where she had wont be often visited by her friends, indeed was not forbid them, but she shut from them, without leave so much as once to see her kinsfolks. And in the mean time Tatius entertained his guests, in which he was little skilled, for ne'er did Clown act well a Gentleman; and he being born in the City, and brought up a Lawyer, knew better how to entertain a judge, with his Writs and Motions, then good company, with the civilities and compliments are practised amongst Ladies and Cavaliers that live in the Country. Besides, the condition of Tatius was mean, but for the eminenco of his places, which having sold, he had nothing left him praiseworthy, without it were a few goods that could not long continue. His friends they thought much on't that he had put off all his Offices of credit and of profit, both which had made him appear eminent and in authority in the prime Court of Parliament in France, to live a private life in the Country, without any eminence at all, and that he had prejudiced his fortunes for a wife, that kept hers entire to herself: and the friends of Minerva seeing Tatius jack out of office, as we say, and without employment, were very sorry that she had taken a man that had put off the authority, which indeed only made him worthy of her. So things standing between the friends on both sides, it was yet much worse between themselves, Minerva by so much the more sensible of the ill usage of Tatius, as she little dared to complain, and Tatius by so much the more continuing to use her still worse and worse, as she continued to suffer it. Minerva lived three years in this bondage, which wereto her no less than three ages, perpetually thinking of some means to redeem her. At last having resolved upon it, think you not Sir said she, that the assembly of so many wrongs and injuries as you do daily heap on me, will not one day break upon and strike you too▪ for me, I should rather choose to dye, than once to give you cause to use me thus; But I confess unto you truly, that indeed I had much rather dye, then longer to endure them. Tatins not being used to be braved by a woman, much less by his wife, answered sternly to her, that there was no mean between them, but that she must resolve to endure the one or of the other. Minerva replied not to him, but bethought her presently what she would do upon this. The mishap or imprudence rather of Tatius would that he must to Paris, which ministered to Minerva an opportunity to order her affairs, and to dispose them in such manner, that upon the return of Tatius, she caused him to be told, that she had reserved two chambers to herself, which she entreated him to afford her, and content him with the rest of the house, which she left wholly to him. Tatius that looked not for this, would needs to her to answer her in proper person: but she would not suffer him speak to her, or by any means once see her: and in stead of now playing the Master at home, he found that she was at home in truth, and that he was become the weaker; So as neither prayers nor threats being able to shake the resolutions taken by a determinate woman, he was constrained to return back to Paris, whether she followed him soon after, with purpose to sequester her estate from his; very sorry that two children that she had had by him were the cause she could not be separated from him in body as well as in goods.    

The Argument.  
Minerva cometh back to Paris. The second loves of Adraste with her, are ruined by the practices and confederacy of Brasidas, and of Gracchus her Kinsmen and Lovers.  
CHAP. III.  
MInerva being disburdened of a charge, she thought herself very unfit to bear, turned her whole Meditations to the means by which she need never return under his charge; and to this effect having established some order in the managing the affairs of her house according to the necessity of her new Common-weal, she took her way presently to Paris, whither she was called not only for the execution of her design; but likewise for the accomplishing of her desires: For her usual residing in this incomparable City, where she had tasted so many delights, was become more deer, and far more pleasing to her, then that of the Country, where she had reaped no other than a bitter harvest. Tatius not less feeble in adversity, then insolent in his better fortunes, understood not so soon that she was there arrived, but he sent unto her to entreat so much favour as to be admitted to seeher. It was too soon to descend so low, as to beg leave of his wife to see her; in stead of the possession which he want, and aught yet to have had of her; and a wife which but three days before he not suffered to see any man. He should have done like Alcibiades that bore away his wife by force, through the public hall, and from amidst the assembly of all the people, where she had summoned him to appear. But he passed from one extreme to another, and fell from a most insupportable tyranny, into a dejected and most insufferable servitude. Minerva admitted him to come seeher, and this weak man thinking to mollify by prayers, her whom he had not had power to overcome by threats, and recover by humility, what he had lost by arrogance, not only made her all the offers due from a husband to a wife; but rather all the submissions that a slave oweth his Master. Minerva for her part did render him all the honour of the world, but without the least being moved by his prayers, or any way slacking her pursuit; most humbly entreating him to pardon her, if she sought the assurance of her life in that of herestate, of which she had not so much as thought, had not he himself enforced her to it. So were their estates parted, and by consequence their bodies; for Minerva said she had children enough for the fortunes she possessed, & not being able to maintain any more, she would by no means make any more: Poor Tatius, didst thou for this remove the earth, Eye heaven itself almost, to sequester this woman from her first husband, to the end to see her now again sequestered even from thee? Must thou make merchandise of thy whole fortunes and thy honours both, of whatsoever thou didst possess in all the World, to have a wife, which thou indeed hast not? Minerva having rid her of this thorn out of her foot, learned the news of Adraste, and having been informed of his lodging gave him presently to understand where hers was, and Adraste went thither to see her soon after; at their first greeting, they stayed some while to view one another, both equally astonished; Minerva with a little shame, and Adraste with some wonder. Well, Madam, said Adraste, (having saluted) you have found at last that I am no less veritable than unhappy, since my predictions have not only proved true: but unavoidable likewise. Would I had never spoke them, since they have proved so inprofitable, and were received as ill presages, which for the most part but forego mishaps. Indeed Adraste, said Minerva, I avow it, that you have shown more judgement by foretelling my misfortunes, than I have in myaddresses to avoid them; but you are not ignorant it is more easy to foresee, then to prevent such things by much. The cause why we sometimes wisely undertake the things, that do not always well succeed; being clear that it rests but in our powers to undertake, as wholly it belongs longs to God to give the event. You only said Adraste, have the art to make those things show well that in themselves are nothing so; which here I come not to subvert, much less yet to complain of you whose fortunes I lament more than my own. So have you indeed more cause to plain my miseries, then to complain of my actions, answered Minerva, no one of them ere tending to your displeasure. But tell me now how rest I in your memory, and how may I hope to be therein reserved henceforward. Assure you Madam answered Adraste, you abide there better than ever, where I preserve you with much more ease, and far less trouble than I was wont to do: And as for what depends on time to come, you know we positively can say nought. And I have been so much deceived in the event of things are past, that I dare promise nought in future, else had I sworn to you ere this, that all the waters fleeting in oblivions stream, are not of force to wash you clear from thence; but by the incertainty of things have happened late to me, I judge that it may be that I may bear you long in mind, and with more ardure and more passion too, then ever yet: and likewise it may chance, the helps of reason, time, and absence, may do me the grace to have power to lose your memory. The greatest displeasure that a man can do a woman whom he hath ever loved or honoured, is to let her see that he loves her no more: for it seems an outrage done to their beauties. Minerva for all she was much moved, yet smiled at this answer, for amongst other parts of dissimulation, or of prudence, she had that, never to manifest the least feeling of a grudge, but on the instant of her revenge. She said then to him, that she was very glad to see him cured of an affection which her honour forbade her to remedy, provided that the cure were perfect, and not rather a stupifying of the apprehension of it; for than said she, such as complain the least, are they are most to be feared, for that their ill is by so much the greater, as their sense of it is the less: Moreover as the cure ought be entire, so should it be moderate, for that she had heard, that too perfect a health was oft the presage of a dangerous disease, and she feared a servitude by so much the greater as his liberty now seemed the more boundless; which she conceived altogether incompatible with his humour, that she thought unable, not only to undergo the disease, but more to suffer the remedy. Excuse me if you please, answered Adraste, I shall bear them both, so they come together, but I love not the one without the other; for that the remedy without the evil is to no purpose, and the evil without the remedy is insupportable. Well then, said Minerva, you assure me to be without the disease, and I promise you not to minister the remedy. We are then agreed, Madam, answered Adraste, I demand nothing of you, and you grant me my request: which saying, they fell both in laughter, and to discourse of such accidents as were befallen them since their last intervenue. Minerva related to him the indignities Tatius had done her, which caused her seek the assurance of her life, in that of her estate, with as much sorrow yet as any virtuous wife could have in the displeasure of her husband. I marvel not much said Adraste, at what is happened unto you after having been so often forewarned, before it befell you. I should have wondered if it had been otherwise. Since you merit it by your incredulity, though not in your actions. I cannot render you so small good will, but I wish you much better than him, though I grieve more for him, than I do for you; since you have lost a man whose acquisition was your mishap, and he hath lost a wife whose possession was his whole fortune. Comfort you so your friends said Minerva: yet more harshly, said Adraste, when they dare to complain to me of ills they suffer for their pleasure, and for not believing me. I am further than from daring to complain to you of the death of Arnolph said she. For that answered Adraste, I shall compatiate with you in your mishap; Arnolph being dead by an accident wherein you had no hand. There is much difference in the misfortunes we suffer innocently, and those we undergo by our own default. But if you be not receivable in demanding of my counsel or resolution, on the divorce of a husband, how think you to be in demanding it on the loss of a Rival; had I not as much cause to rejoice me for my own interest, as to afflict me for yours? And you Madam, that have said you will give me no help, how dare you demand of me my advice? I could do no less, answered Minerva, then to promise my refusal of help, when you assure me not to have any need. Well Madam, replied Adraste, but when I do assure you of need, will you assure me of help? When, how when, said Minerva? It is impossible to come ny fire without being heat; Adraste conversing daily with Minerva, whatsoever liberty he had recovered by his absence, & her marriage, became reingaged in the inevitable charms of her allurements, and strooken with the same amorous infection, wherewith she woundeth all the world. After long arguing in favour of his reason, he concluded yet according to the swinge of his passion, and judged it better for him to submit with all the world beneath the Empire of this so excellent a beauty, than he to resist it only. If he were troubled to resolve this, be sure he was more to confess it. He was much ashamed that he had played the fool, and rendered himself so flexible. It seemed strange unto him, to have slighted one he had adored, and again to adore the woman he had slighted so: he called to mind the first shipwreck he had undergone with her, and by that he apprehended the second, remembered him how easily he had been engaged in his affections, and with what pain he was retired. It seemed to him he did but break in two these chains were almost now worn out, to carry new more strong, and that he freed himself but from an easy hold, to re-enter in a prison far more merciless. That he should quit a Master that he had more cause to praise, then to complain of, who amongst the ills he had wished him, had not yet forborn to wish him well, and suffer underneath a merciful resentment of his passions. But love, what can it not in a gentle heart? At last, he confessed to her that more than her rigour, and his absence, the many perfections which he saw in her, opposed to the many defaults he felt in himself, had enforced him to practise a remedy more ill than his disease, which having cost him much to find would cost him more to lose. That her great beauties which wholly occupied his soul, being yet ravished from him, as all hope of their possession was most injuriously torn from him, 'twas no way to be deemed strange, if so despair had put to death desire, that could not livewithout it were in hope, That to save him from the tyranny of one Master only, he had been constrained to make him many; and not unprofitably to love one thankless object ever he had dispersed the stream of his passions, and divided his affections into as many places, as he found several sorts of objects. That erring like the Pilot that had lost his star, and rendering him like to the trees on the highways, that do bear fruit, but for the passers by, he was become infetterd in a chain so sweet in appearance and fair in effect, that he had willingly himself thrust in his arms, and did esteem him now more happy in the loss of his liberty, than he could be in conquering the whole earth. But that as all things have a certain revolution within the course of which, theyby a time return to their first heads, his destiny constrained him now return into that honourable servitude, in which she captivated the most beauteous souls. Minerva not less wondering at the love of Adraste, then satisfied with her own beauties, of which she had here an illustrious proof in this second conquest of this lover, answered him in these terms. If any other than yourself should talk to me thus, Adraste, either I should not believe him at all, or at least should fain not to believe him. But the knowledge I have of your goodness, makes me that as I esteem you veritable, so will I answer you from my own heart, believing you speak to me from the bottom of yours. And to observe the same method you hold with me in confessing your thoughts, I shall discover mine to you, and acknowledge that if I were in such condition as I could give me to any one, it should be you. But I will not forbear to tell you many things that hinder me therein, though you do know them near as well as I; to the end that if you do not receive the satisfaction you have promised you, you may lay the fault on your own errors, and not upon my will, that never shall be wanting in good wishes to you, nor to perform like deeds on your behalf. Minerva discoursing afterwards the causes hindered her from loving of Adraste, miss not to put that of god, in the first place, whom we ought to love and fear above all things; and you said she that love and fear him above other men, would cause me render him my enemy for your love. This divine reason is of such force, as there is no humane passion can or convince it, or withstand the being overcome by it. But if you does▪ esteem of god, which were so enormous an offence, where of the monstrous impiety could never be sufficiently chastised, or what could persuade you to make me believe that I could ever live, after being robbed of my honour in this World? And you that hazard oft so generously your life to save your honour, how dare you here propose to me the loss of mine? Is not the honour of us Ladies pray, all out as choice and delicate as that of men? And if you love me as you say, and as I do believe, why do you desire to lose me so? can you love my person, and neglect my honour? Madam, answered Adraste, my discretion may be shield unto your honour, and this same innocent fear you have of doing ill by favouring me, is void of likelihood. God is not the enemy but the author of nature, and the offence without scandal is no offence. Believe you that the natural affection, the author of nature imprinteth in our souls, is averse to the will of him that gives it us? and that the first thing he ever commanded, he should now forbid us? God wisheth us no i'll, but for the ills we do to our selus, nor takes amiss the offeces done to him, but those we do to our selus, for being maker of the universe, his care is most to perserve his workmanship, & his offence, at that, would hinder it, and not at that, which merely tendeth to the conservation of it. Then, is he, the enemy of violence, injustice, cruelty, and the ingratitude that tend to the subversion of love, and not of love itself, and he is angered that we turn his sweets to bitterness, and do convert to our damage that which he hath given us for our benefits: For as love is the cause of our greatest goods, so may it become of our greatest ills; but than it must be by our own improvidence, and not by his. See then, who offends most the divinity, Madam, or I that follow the laws of love, according to the end for which they first were made, or you that do endeavour what you may to change and to pervert his institutions; and choose rather to apply you to the counsel of a thankless and unnatural rigour, than the true apprehension of a natural inclination, that is not only permitted, but commanded. It is true, that God hath commanded love said Minerva, but that which is legitimate; all other affections being forbid, not only by divine but humane laws. In which I'll speak no more to him that teacheth others. A good cause defends itself; and one word is sufficient in a truth, whereas a lie needs the support of a large discourse. Both of them spoke against their conscience, and contrary to their own belief; for this discourse of Adraste was quite averse to what he thought, and Minerva's answer was no less far from her meaning. Adraste desiring to persuade a woman that would be persuaded, and whom he perceived to seek some honest means that she might love him without blushing, endeavoured by this talk to take from her such shame as naturally retains all women. In which ne'ertheless he knew well that he did ill, but one so common amongst men whose reasons are overcome by appetite, as it seems custom not only renders them permitted, but authorised. Minerva speaking truly according to her belief, stretched yet her thoughts unto such things as she might do, accompanying the coldness of her words, with the quickening flames of her fair looks, drew by the gentleness of her fweet charms, him that she yet repulsed by the force of her strong reasons, to let him see the beauty of her mind, in the refusing him that of her body, so as in yielding both one and the other to him, he should owe the favour rather to her love then to her ignorance. And permitting him some small privacies which did not much forbid the greater, as they seemed to promise unto him, caused him hope that she would do like the good wives, that often resuming what men ask of them, yet forbear not to do some part of their demands, but saying still they will do nought. Whilst Adraste so eagerly solicited Minerva, Brassidas and Gracchus both, came athwart his designs. Brasidas was a little of kin to Minerva, but not so much, but he could have wished to have been more near. A man discreet, wise, subtle, and a boon companion, chiefly amongst women. Gracchus was a little more earthy, and retained more of the Soldier, then of the Courtier, but ne'ertheless both of them brave Gentlemen, and both Lovers of Minerva, who seeing Adraste first in time, and consequently in right, however such a consequence is not always necessary in affairs of love, where the last comers are many times first received, agreed both together to ruin him. The occasion was offered them by the means of Asteria, one that Adraste saw some times, and Gracchus likewise, however for divertisement only, and each single without the other; notwithstanding which they often met there; Gracchus being then one day with Asteria, she would needs know the news of Minerva, and he knowing that she knew not her, but through the report of Adraste, asked her again what he said of her? Asteria either to give him cause of jealousy, or to make herself merry, said that Adraste did speak all the good i'th' world of her, but in his particular he thought no longer of her. And that others might now with his free good will visit her if they would, for he had taken his leave. Gracchus whether he believed her, or that he was well pleased to have such an advantage on Adraste, was so sottish, or malicious, as to report again to Minerva, for a truth, what the other had spoken in jest. And the ill fortune was, that Adraste not seeing her of 3 or 4 days, she was so weak to believe it. The next day after Minerva having agreed to go take the air with Brassidas and Gracchus, in the Tuilleries, and having given them notice of the time she would pass over the new Bridge, she by chance met with Adraste alone near his lodging, that it may well be, thought then of her, but not of the mischief she wished him, nor of the charitable office was provided for him, from so far as she could see him, she called to him, & having caused him come into her coach, told him as they went, the cause she had, or she believed she had, to be offended at his words. Adraste judged presently from whence it came, but he would say nothing behind the back of those he seemed the Authors of this imposture, which were as he believed, Brassidas and Gracchus, and by so much the less he spoke, by so much the more he seemed guilty, and to confess it, so as Minerva extremely offended at his words, took yet more offence at his silence by which he esteemed to confirm them. Brassidas and Gracchus failed not of the time, at the place appointed by Minerva, but were presently seen on horseback at the lower end of the street Dauphine, near the new Bridge. Minerva offered them room in her Coach, and they went both into one of the boots, Adraste being with her in the other. They were scarce set, before Gracchus turning him towards Adraste; so Sir said he, you have taken your leave, and parted with this Lady, for all which me thinks you are here still: I stay Sir answered Adraste, to tell you, that is a tale, and nothing so. In saying which they being set back to back, one against the other, laid hand on their swords, Adraste on that of Gracchus, and Gracchus on Adrastes, which they drew near half out. Minerva (and her mother that sat at the end of the Coach) both shrieked out extremely affrighted. Brassidas put himself between them, the Coachman stayed, and both of them sat down again without a blow striking, out of their respect to Minerva, who was yet irreconcilably offended at the-small regard they had had of her. She complained of wrong to the one and the other, and they both excused themselves to her, deferring their difference until a fitter opportunity. But Brassidas could not forbear to tell Adraste that he had done ill; Adraste hearing such words from him he esteemed, and who was indeed partly author of the quarrel, told him very hotly that he was none of his judge, and that he should do well to stay the meddling in his causes, till they were brought before him. Brassidas being before interessed in the business for love of Gracchus, was now become engaged on his own behalf. Note either of them had a sturdy Laquay, and each of them a sword, and that Adraste had but a little boy who bore none with him neither; so as if they would have took their advantage, the match had been ill made. The Coach drove along straight to the Tuilleries, whilst Minerva forthinking they would strive who should lead her at the going out of the Coach, and fearing some worse matter might yet arise in the business, very privately charged and conjured Adraste to take her mother, telling him that she had had promised this day to walk with them, and that she met him but by chance. Adraste asked her, why if she had made them such a promise, she called him along, and said that since he was first in time, if any one led her, it must be he. She than entreated him he would let her go alone, and promised that none of the other should lead her. Adraste deeming it unfit to enforce her to suffer herself to be led against her will, agreed to that. And as she came out of the Coach, every of them tendering his hand, she beseeched them leave her at liberty, saying she was old enough to walk without help of a leader. Notwithstanding, Adraste kept close on one side of her, and Brassidas and Gracchus on the other, without any one once offering to conduct Arlande, though she had more need of their help then Minerva, not out of incivility, or want of courtesy, but through excess of pride, and courage, fearing in leading the mother, they might seem to decline the daughter. They walked in this posture so far as the grande alley of the Tuilleries, and from thence as far as the Echo. Adraste and Gracchus interchanging some braving looks, arose, observed one another, not speaking one word till they came to the end of the alley, when, the King entered at the other end; and Minerva that had shaken all this while, took Adraste aside whom she had not spoken to since their coming into the Park, more than to the rest. And just the same fear a poor woman might have, (said she) to see two men of her company fight, have I to this minute had, not, but I thought ve had both sufficient discretion to forbear doing me such discourtesy, but that I mistrusted myself of sufficient merit to retain the violence of your first motions, till now the Kings coming frees me from the fear, and you from the means to change blows; I conjure thee Adraste, by that great power which thou hast made me believe I have in thee, not to trouble the delights we expect in this days walk with thy company. You have been sufficiently troublesome already, though I think innocently, so as I could wish that true was told me of you, and that I had not had the honour to meet you at all this day; not but your company is dear to me, that being the cause I entreat you now indeed to reserve it for some other time; for now I cannot entertain you for fear of offending them, nor them for the same fear of offence to you. And this little time I spend with you, makes me doubt I have distasted them, since I know well you would be angry to seem talk so long to them. Adraste was no way aggrieved at this discourse, for having cleared himself to Minerva, and driven his enemies to wind ward, he was soon weary of the company, had lost what ever could be called pleasure in it, in the bitterness of this dispute, he desired much to converse with Minerva, but he as much shunned all common entertainments, as he sought particular. The coming of the King took from him all cause of fear that he could be suspected to shun their worst of daring, being sure they would do nothing in his presence to any man, much less to one they had not undertaken when he was alone: he gave Minerva then this answer; since I came not here without being called, it shall besit me I conceive not to retire without your leave. Which since you have so freely given me, I may well take, and in obedience of your commands, go hence, as by your summons I came hither. And more than the contentment of obeying you, I too shall bear along with me the satisfaction to have cleared your doubts: and to have let you see, in my as freely parting, as address, that you have not less power to abandon me, then to bring me to you. Yet I must here entreat you to acknowledge privately, the wrongs you have done me now in company, and in the evening, yet to honour me with that free entertainment of which I now deprive me willingly to obey. This day said Minerva, I cannot, but to morrow will dispose so of my affairs, as I will afford you two hours of the morning. Adraste kissing her hands, made a low reverence to her mother, and went his way, hasting after the King, without salute, or once looking on Brassidas or Gracchus. Having o'ertaken the Court, he entreated the first friend he met, to take a turn with him, and leading him towards that side of the Park where he had left Minerva, he told him; how he had been constrained to give some offenceto a couple of Gentlemen that had no just apprehension of it, or perhaps dissembled their grudge, in respect to the company, or it might be for that they scorned to be two to one. That he had entreated him to walk this way with him, to the end that the others seeing them together, might have occasion and means to make a party of two to two. And is it for this you took me from my attendance on the King, answered Oriste? so was he called, yes, said Adraste. There are such fools indeed in the world, replied Oriste, amongst whom I did little think you had had a place. And what in the Devil's name have you to do with them, did you not tell me even now that you had given them offence? It is true said Adraste, and I love not to give offence, but presently I will give satisfaction. That is not amiss, indeed, if you will ask them pardon, answered Oriste, or make them some other submission to repair the wrong you have done them. But you have not offended them as yet but in words, and you would wrong them now in deeds? you have but hurt them, and you would, kill them right out? and call it satisfaction, and reparation of honour? It belongs to them to repair the injury you have done them, by doing you a greater wrong, words, by the lie, the lie by a box on the ear, and a box of the ear by blood or death. But you have wronged them, and would give satisfaction by increasing the offence, and repair your fault by rendering it altogether irreparable. As for me, it is a philosophy of the times I understand not. Stay till they come to us, and we will talk with them, but to go seek them, is to run to meet a man's mishap, and for pleasure to throw one's self headlong down a precipice. True said Adraste, but you know a common error makes a law, and we are now a days governed more by the examples of fools, then by the reasons of the wise? In saying which they passed and repassed across the wood, into the same walk, where Minerva was, between the hands of Brasidas and Gracchus, Adraste saluting Arlande, and Minerva, not so much as looking on the others, and they resaluting also without the others observing it. The next morn Adraste expected a challenge very early, and having stayed till eight of the clock in his lodging he came by that time she rose to Minerva's, where he was scarce entered, but one told Minerva; that Brasidas and Gracchus were at the door. Tell them I am not well, said Minerva, and that I desire them to hold me excused, that I cannot accept the honour they do me. Let it not be so, answered Adraste, for my boy attends me below, by whom they may know I am here. What shall we do then, said Minerva? I would you were all at several ends of the World, far enough from hence, & where my head might scape breaking in your quarrels. Madame, answered Adraste, ye ought yet distinguish between the innocent, and the faulty; It was not I caused the jar, you know best what is now to be done, you prayed me yesterday to retire for the love of them, you may to day pray them to retire for the love of me. And if you should wish them never come again, after the knowledge you now have of their malice, it were but justly done. Sir, said Arlande, Brassidas is my kinsman, I, nor my daughter can well forbid him the house, nor those he bringeth a long with him. But go tell them said she to one of her servants, that my daughter is at mass, and that I am busy here with Adraste. Arlande said this, well knowing they looked not for her, and that the ready way to return them, was to say her daughter was not within. There was three or four Churches thereabouts, to all which they went, and Minerva thinking with herself they would not fail to go thither, and not finding her, they would come back to her house, was much disquieted; for that she would not refuse them entry, or deny herself to them twice together in one day, and to turn off Adraste, it was out of all likelihood. When she was once ready, he would have waited her to the Church, but she excused herself, and stole privately from him to go thither alone, leaving him with Arlande, who told Adraste what a shame it would be to her daughter, if her cousin should find him with her in the street, in stead of being at Church, and the misfortune might follow, if Graccus choler or his honour, should so o'errule him, as now in her company to take satisfaction of the injury done him, which the day before he had for the love of her dissembled. Adraste did not trouble himself to answer her, but taking his leave, followed Minerva from Church to Church, and while he sought her in one▪ Brassidas and Gracchus found her in the other; and she found no less pain to dismiss them, than she had had to rid her of Adraste, for they importuned her no less to wait her back from Church, than he had to bring her thither. But at last she escaped them, and returned as she went, after having drawn a promise from Gracchus, that he should not call Adraste to account for any thing that had past the day before. In the mean time Adraste returned very discontented at Minerva, it seemed to him that she having promised him an entertainment to day, should not have left him as she had, to find out his enemies; and that she was not stolen away so much for any devotion she had to Church, as for the desire she had to see them there. But next day he was much more troubled, thinking to go make his complaint, when they told him she was gone out to walk with them. Then presently conceived he the plot was not combined against him, but with her counsel and assent, and that she had not only approved, but designed it. And so returning back, his breast fraught with more despite than love, and not so much reason as rage, after having resolved now to break with her once for all, he wrote to her,  
THat as he had pitied her weakness, seeing she suffered herself to be rather persuaded by passion▪ on the part of his Enemies then by the truth of his words; so he received no small contentment, to see that for his having cheered himself before them, and for ever being too d screet and respectful on her behalf, and at her instance on theirs, he was now deprived of what they possessed for having been the contrary. That the time had been when this privation now so easy to undergo, had been most difficult for him to believe; but considering that of all things that most provoked him, and the chiefest cause of his vexation and worst tormenting passions, it was easy for him to endure the loss of a good, the possession whereof was so extremely damageable. Wherefore he would now as with a sponge wipe off the fair impressions which he had formerly admitted in his memory, and he entreated her to favour him so far, as not to oblige him ever by the replacing them. He avowed it the mediate will of Heaven, without which he had been as unable to execute, as rash in undertaking this design. For which he only was to thank her ingratitude, that thinking to work him so much ill, had been the cause of so great good to him. And that he did beseech her by this last, and by all other, and so many vows, no less religious, then unprofitable, which he most foolishly had rendered her, that henceforth she would never more call them to mind; assuring her he should esteem him fully satisfied for all his services, when he should find they were forgot, and that she held them so indifferent, that he had never cause to joy in or complain of them.   

The Argument.  
Adraste closeth again with Minerva, comforteth her on the death of Arnolphe. Commotions in France, and diverse adventures upon that subject.  
CHAP. FOUR  
WHat delight soever the company afforded, could not be so pleasant to Minerva, as this Letter was bitter to her. But howsoever she took it extremely ill from Adraste, she would not yet lose him so. No though she knew not to what purpose to reserve him, for she had sufficiently manifested the little good will she bore him. But there are some women that delight themselves to render all men amorous of them, and they affecting none. Or it may be she held this maxim of the wise, that say a man should not break with friends, no not for any cause whatsoever, for that such as are unfit for one thing, may yet serve to another, and it may be she intended to accommodate herself by Adraste to some other purpose. Whatsoever it were, she forbore to answer his Letter till her choler was passed over, nor wrote she to him then; but passing some days after by his lodging, she caused him to be told, that there was a Gentlewoman in the street asked for him. Adraste came down, and Minerva made him come into her Coach, where she was then accompanied only with one gentlewoman, and going to take the air. She told him that she had not answered his Letters, for that she could not bethink her of terms sufficiently powerful to make him senceable of her anger. So then Madam, answered Adraste, if you have not given me offence, I stand not obliged to you for it, but your ill memory, that had not means to find words sufficiently capable, to express the offence you intended me; 'tis true said she, but you are a naughty man to write such Letters to me. And you are then a naughty woman, answered Adraste, to enforce me to it by so many just and rightful causes as you have. If I have given you such, replied she, and have so little reason in my actions, why have you so little judgement in your love; you have less reason than me to love one that hath none at all, and by the extravagance of your unfound mind, accuse me of your own defaults. Madam, answered Adraste, I have caused you to see most clearly that you are in the wrong, since you cannot find means to answer my Letters; But how should you find reasons, that could not indeed find the offence. Whereby it follows that being you have done the wrong, you cannot have reason on your side, since wrong and reason cannot be united in one subject. And yet cry you that I am reasonless, to love one that hath none. I answer you that though I am reasonless, it follows not but you are so likewise, as I have proved, without denying but I was myself so; And on the contrary, I have always endeavoured to let you see that I had little reason in me, ever to show that I had so much love for you. Since if I had, I could not have loved you, or at least but in such sort as I had been loved again of you. And if you were reasonable, you would love me as I love you. See then wherefore I love you in two sorts, (without reason) first, for that you are reasonless, secondly, because I am so also. As to the extravagances of my diseased mind, I apprehend them to my own advantage. Remember you what I have ever said, that my weaknesses, and failings were the things that I desired to cause you see. 'tis well I am there arrived. Minerva fell a laughing at these words, and as particular complaints do usually succeed the general; Adraste complained of her, for that when he had left his entertainment to his enemies, upon her promise to afford him one more private, and favourable, she had not only turned him off to her mother Arlande, but herself had stolen away from him to go to them, had deprived him of the honour of her company, and conduct, to afford it unto them, and had wronged a man whose goodness was so known to her, thereby to favour others whose malice was to her no less manifest. Minerva excused her on the just fear she might have of the bloody effects their quarrel might have produced; said that the same fear had caused her not to suffer him to lead her; and that she had also denied it unto them: And on the contrary having found Brasidas & Gracchus at Church, she had prayed them, not only to forbear to lead her, but to see her. Notwithstanding that Brasidas being since come to see Arlande as his Kinswoman, and Gracchus accompanying him as his friend, she could not hinder the Visitations, nor the Walks Arlande admitted of, it being very uncomely for the daughter, to play the Mistress before her mother; not thinking also that it would have becommed a woman of her quality, to testify the least animosity against them, at all to show she affected him. In the end she knew so well to plead her cause, as she gained her suit; Adraste asked pardon, and the wronged party made the amends. This day consumed in complaints, and such like satisfactions, took yet away all hate that the last falling out seemed to have engendered in their hearts, how ever it placed not there the wont love (not in that of Minerva's for that she yet mourned for the dead, on whose behalf she seemed even to despise her life. Nor in that of Adraste, for that seeking in these disgraces to save him from the ambushes of Minerva, he was already fallen in those of Cariclea, which he would have dissembled, but Minerva entreating him to help her lose the remembrance of a man whom she had loved, he again begged of her advise how to acquire the affection of a woman that he adored. You have already so acquired her, answered Minerva, thinking he had spoke of herself, as you need not care further but of means to preserve her. Would to God that he you love were alive said Adraste, and that I were in possession of her I desire, I believe I should have less trouble to preserve than I shall have to acquire her. How can that be, said Minerva, that you should be in possession of her you desire, during the life of him I lament, if you desire not some other than me? And how think you also that it can be believed, answered Adraste, that I have acquired the affections of one, that lives not but in the death of an other? I have the wrong indeed on my side said Minerva, and you the reason on yours. Adraste, to engage your thoughts upon such an object, as hath not engaged theirs; But since I discover thus my malady to you, if so you cannot give me help, as there is none in death, I pray at least refuse me not your comfort, and be it so that in losing you for a Lover, I may enjoy you as a friend. Madam, answered Adraste, it hath been the greatest unhappiness that hath done me outrage, to see how unapt you have been to think the one or the other of me: But I shall never cease to be both, to you, so long as God shall give me life, and you no cause to die by the ill use you daily do me. The night book of their discourse, which else they had not known how to leave. Minerva having prepared to retire to her house in the Country, and apprehending in the solitude that place offered, the sorrows that Arnolphes death did now make her so lively feel in the divertisements of this so excellent City, again conjured Adraste, that did sometimes apply him to such things, to write somewhat in way of consolation, and in verse, on the death of Arnolphe, an importune request to pray a Lover, to busy himself in the commendations of a Rival; and the more for that Adraste meddled but unwillingly in making Verses, seeing so many as he did, come off with little credit in that subject. But Arnolphe was dead, and he hoped in pray sing him, he should at least flatteringly soothe his Mistress, and insensibly insinuate in her favours, yet the more; unwilling to give the repulse to a Lady, to whom he had given himself, without whom he could not rest, and with whom he could not live, he endeavoured to render him pleasing and agreeable so far as to celebrate for her the affections of him that living had o'erthrown his own. So after having brought Minerva home to her house, and being retired to his own lodging, he made the same Evening the following Stanza's, as you see, which the next morning he sent to her at her uprising, to let her see with how much care and readiness he did embrace all manner of occasion, did at all pertain unto her service. The Verses were these.  

Stanza's On the death of Arnolphe to Minerva.  

CEase fair one, cease your mournful plaints lay by,  
Arnolphe is not dead, though absent hence,  
More than the Sun removed from off our Sky,  
In shady dark, hath any residence.   

No he's immortal, and amongst the Saints,  
And vainly you importune Heaven too late,  
That hath no ear to lend to such complaints,  
But must in all things too give way to fate.   

Great jove himself that with one thunder might,  
Dissolve the earth, all things annihilate,  
Saw maugre him, brave Hector fall in fight,  
And Troy in dust, lament her ransacked state.   

How often moved, eye pressed by ' his Favourite,  
And his fair daughter, did he think, to hide,  
But destiny withstood, and did deny it,  
That goodly Empire, from the Grecian pride.   

For in the Eternity of vengeful fate,  
Before was Priam doomed his sentence past,  
Else Pallas power, nor juno obstinate,  
Could have his land o'errun, or laid so waste.   

But your Arnolphe here a blessed man,  
Though beaven should chance refuse him & deny you,  
Is happy yet, that he did serve you when  
He lived, and more to be lamented by you.   

And is not one death then enough, but you,  
Will with your tears, bring back his soul to breath,  
And he must so die twice, and you would now,  
Double your griefs, and twice mourn for his death.   

In vain then fall those tears along your face,  
Nor can they move the destinies decree,  
And if they could obtain you any grace,  
That grace were yet, more ill than death can be.   

Minerva that the Heavens, caused to come down,  
Here to be seen, perfections object still,  
Ought she to afflict her, for the love of one,  
That to acknowledge it, hath power nor will.   

You moan his body, or his soul lament,  
If't befor's body you complain, 'tis gone,  
And if for's soul, your grief hath worse extent,  
For you a good, in place of ill bemoan.   

Leave to low minds, these bootless tears these moods.  
Can so much heart, so soothe the sense of cross?  
We should not drown our reasons, in those floods,  
Nor lose ourselves, in weeping others loss.   

The room's too fair to be th'retirement still,  
Of a guest so foul, as is perpetual moan,  
And they without cause, use themselves but ill,  
That pitying others cruel are t' their own.   

Do you then celebrate's immortal fame,  
And with proud marble here, his corpse enshrine,  
Then let some happy pen divulge his name,  
Throughout the earth, where ere the Sun does shine.   

This doth accord with great Augustus' mind,  
And your brave heart, that want not be so grieved.  
But t' feed your soul with sorrows so unkind,  
And griev'e he's dead, is to lament he lived.   

Quit then your sorrows, yet your grief make even,  
And know when you lament that natural throw,  
Common to all the World, ordained by Heaven,  
Your plaint is most unjust, or that is so.    

These Verses mortified not so many flames in the breast of Minerva, as they produced tears in her fair eyes; & this cure was one of those that stir up much more grief, than they appease. Yet marvelled she at the strength of Adrastes affection, which had born him to a compliance so contrary to his passion, and how soever she was extremely ingrate, she could not help it, but she found herself extremely obliged to him in it. But her departure some few days after, did quickly efface this small good will. Yet she saw Adraste once before she went, thanked him of his pains in her comforts, and left him more affection than she carried away with her. For she was then most steadfastly allied to the first object of her love: And Adraste hung so even between the affections of Minerva and Cariclea, that they called him the Knight of the cloven hart. A little time after some Princes of France took arms, pretending reformation of the State, and comfort of the people, whom the Soldiers much solaced, by the discharging them of whatsoever they were able to carry away for them, Tatius that had so well managed the affairs of his house, would now needs meddle with the government of the Kingdom, and seeking so to readvance his private fortunes upon the public, took part with them. The small number of men that were of his condition, caused that they not only embraced him, but renewed the lustre of his ancient titles, by the glitter of a new dignity, making him chief of the Council of that faction, and not putting him in lesser hopes then of the Seals of France. He took this occasion to follow some means of reconciliation with his wife, whom he disposed thereto very easily for the part she pretended to in the hopes of her husband's fortunes: And Tatius sought her the rather for the need he had of her assistance; for although he were not settled in his new office, he needed money for his use in it, which he knew not how to raise, but on the caution of Minerva, who freely became bound for him, deceived in the hopes of this false prosperity▪ Fortune was not so favourable to him as she promised: for that such as had armed for the State, and Republic, coming to a Treaty, used not a word but of their own particular interests; and left not the people only more miserable, more ruined then ever; but also Tatius discharged of his Office, and his wife burdened with part of his debts. This last affection of Minerva being founded on the hope of advantage, could endure no longer than the foundation; so as that was no sooner ruined, but this fell to the ground, and Tatius and Minerva to as ill intelligence and accord as heretofore; which brought her back very suddenly to Paris. Adraste failed not to go see her so soon as he knew she was come; But in her absence the affections of Cariclea, had so occupied his heart, as it seemed there was small room left for the reestablishing those of Minerva. And besides dissension being as it were inseparable and ever fatal to the Realm of France, where calms do but presage the following storms, and where those storms are never calmed but in the occasion of greater and more furious ones, and chiefly in the youth and first years of their kings; This last emotion was not so soon appeased, but there arose an other by so much the more to be feared, as the pretext, and cause was more honourable in show & plausible to most. Which obliging the king to make an excursion into Normandy to assure him that Province, consequently obliged Adraste to follow him, who a more faithful subject then a Lover, preferred his sense of honour, and courage to his apprehension of his amorous delights. He let him proceed as far as Roan yet, and then to Deep. But hearing he intended to put himself into Cain, where the Castle declared itself against the City, and the City for his Majesty against the Castle; he should have been exceeding sorry not to have been at the first place, which the King had ever yet in his own person beleaguered. He left then Minerva, and Caricha, at Paris, where his desires, & ease, would still have detained him, and made all diligent haste to travails, to pains, and perils, where his devoir did call him. The history of this siege not being our subject, it shall suffice to let you know that the good fortunes, providence, counsel, and diligence of the King conquered him, this place, in less than three days. And three days after all that great Province which gave him means, and leisure to prevent his enemies, as we hope to make it appear elsewhere more seriously. But Adraste seeing the war ended on this side, before any man had once means to give notice of his abilities in the least measure, and the King to take the way to Manns, took that to Paris, without other cause then to see his two Mistresses, by whom he was variably agitated; He loved them both not only through his inclination merely, but also with design, to the end the one should hinder him to give himself wholly to the other, that his sufferance should be by so much the less as it should be divided; and by so much the better moderated as it should be the less. An excellent remedy in affairs of love, had not his too perfect fidelity hindered him to put it in practice, for that he served himself as than most happily with it. And after having sometimes seen one, and sometimes the other, he quit them both again to look out the king, that was as then at Manns with his army. The departure of Adraste, the absence of Brassidas and Gracchus; the disgrace of Tatius, and death of Arnolphe gave Crassus' opportunity, who was then at Paris, somewhat to renew his affection with Minerva, but so far only as the terms of a common wellwisher. Adraste having found a gentleman of his acquaintance called Chabrias, a man of great abilities, and no small execution, who being married some three or four days before; had left those lawful pleasures of a bridegroom, to embrace the travails of war, met near Manns an other Cavalier, who told them he had found some Thirty Commanders about two or three leagues from thence, which it was said were of the enemy's party. Adraste and Chabrias had over taken & left behind them a company of soldiers belonging to the Queen, that were to join with the king's army. They then entreated this Cavalier to advise them of their intentions, and pray their Captains to follow them a gallop, whilst they went on before. The gentleman failed not to give them the same advice, and the company having overtaken them at a small Village where they stayed for guides, they put themselves in front, and went forwards altogether to a great Town where these people lay entrenched. But they found they belonged to the King, and that they had but travailed themselves and their horses in vain, especially Adraste, who being hurt sometime before in the leg, drew such store of gross humours to the part diseased, by the violent motion of this post, as it became almost so big as his head. There is a fine house near Manns, and I dare say the most beautiful, and delightful of the Country, the owner whereof was brother in law to Chabrias, a perfect gentleman. Adrastes hurt constrained him to stay there, though in the absence of Chabrias, and his brother, who had both followed the king to Flesche, but there was a Lady whose virtues obliged him no less to celebrate her memory, than heaven which since took her in the prime and flower of her youth, constraineth all such as have seen her to lament her death. She was a summary of wisdom with beauty. The abridgement of all humane perfections in a woman, and the mirror of her sex. Adraste having rather assuaged the soreness of his wound, then perfectly healed it, by the rest and good usage he found in this so sweet a retreat, parted from thence upon an advice he received that the King would be gone with all speed from Flesche, and came thither before the departure of his Majesty; But so ill disposed as he had like to have died. He fell very happily yet into the hands of a Chirurgeon, not a less sufficient, than an honest man, who always dressed him with singular dexterity, but he could not be so soon healed, for that the accomplishment depended not so much on the Surgeon's remedies, as the repose of his person. And the King marching directly to Pont de Se, Adraste said as Pompey once, It is necessary that I go, but not that I live; Le's away, no danger shall stay me; And easing his leg in a scarf, he got on horseback the next day after the Army dislodged, road in one day as far as that had marched in two, and with so good hap as he was there time enough to lose his horse that was slain under him, in the entrenchment the enemy had made before the bridge. This was a marvelous glorious days work to the King, to whose name (after God) we may impute the affright that seized the heart of his enemies; and honourable to all such as endeavoured to become remarkable therein: Amongst whom Nerestan was none of the least, commanding that day as Marshal of the Field, who got a musket breach through the thigh, whereof not long after he died. I refer such to the history, as would see the particulars of the taking of that place; but will say by the way, it being no part of my subject, that sixty Perdus, backed with three Regiments, trod underfoot three Thousand men entrenched, and gained the bridge which needed but to have been drawn to have stayed them. That they were but thirteen which at the first entered the City, whereas there was at the least thirty or forty Commanders of the Enemy which issued, without those of our part so much as daring to speak to them because of their weakness, nor they to ours, by reason of the affright they were in. That more than sixty of their soldiers, shut themselves up in the Castle, and one of ours amognst them that was not known till the next day. The Leaders of the Perdus were Malissy, and dead Massott Leftenants of the Guards; the latter slain since at Clayrac. The Volentiers found with them in the City were amongst others, the Barons of St. john, & of Monrial, with three gallant Soldiers of Languedoc, that Adraste met upon the way with Tauraut; and but for the hurt of his leg, and loss of his horse, that took from him all means of being there, he had been companion of their fortune. I have through the default of my memory, lost the names of the two first, which hath indeed caused me do the like by others: The third was called Albanas a young gentleman of some Eighteen or twenty years of age, who seeing a Sergeant of the Guards contest upon the command Malissy had given him, to pass the bridge to get help from the King swame the river of Loire by night, and went to Mounsieur Crequi, who sent Mounsieur Miraumonts' company thither. The king lost not in this day any gentleman of quality but Marais, and two young gentlemen of the Guards, whose names have escaped me, Of the enemy that were lost there, a man cannot well say the number, for that the affright forced them headlong into the river, which drowned the most of them. But the next day there were buried some hundred or sixscore of the slain bodies. The Earl of Saintagnan was there taken prisoner, the marquis Focillere, and the Viscount of Betan-Court, honourably wounded each of them in the arm with a pike. The fear and astonishment was so great, that the King talking after to the Baron of Meilam in Brisas. Adraste being by, told him that a poor fellow finding a horseman alive, and armed at all parts in a ditch, took from him not only his Arms & horse, but his clothes also, and left him there stark naked. A great many of people were ill lodged there this night, and Adraste in particular, who having no less angered his hurt by his labour in the fight, then by his travail on the way, had the cold Air for his general entertainment, the heavens for a covering, and the earth for a Couch, and all for want of knowing his friend's quarter, and the means to carry him thither had he known it, having lost in the disorder two Laquays, and a couple of horses that he left behind him. But amid so many wants, and incommodities he had water enough, of which he drank plentifully at the expense of the river of Loire, on whose bank he passed the night of one of the longest days of Summer, more coolly than he had the precedent day, but amongst the dead & wounded bodies, or people gathered together on all sides, in whom he had no knowledge, or trust. The next day he found his horses with one of his footmen, who had looked every where for him, not less estrayed than himself, having lost his companion that was never seen since: And the king being gone to lodge in the Castle that had rendered the same day, and the lodgings being all disposed off in the City, and Suburbs, though none to Adraste, that had no body to send to demand it, and was too much busied to go himself, for having passed the night without sleep, and the day before without meat, he no sooner found his Laquay, but he sent him for Provision to the first Cooks: and having assuaged his extreme hunger, passed the most part of that day in the shade under a tree beneath which he had taken his repast, the violence of the travail he had undergone, the want of sleep, and the grief of his wound forced him to give to rest, such time as others employed to lodge themselves, by the same means letting his horses take their rest, and feed, that had no less need of it then himself. But when he saw it grew late, and that the heavens covered with clouds (whose thundering and lightnings threatened the earth with a sudden storm) caused him to fear another night worse than that he had passed, he got on horseback to go to the Castle, well hoping that if so be he could not find any officer to lodge him, it was impossible but he should light on some friend with whom he might retire. But it was already dark before he came there, each man toiled with the labour of the day precedent, was retired betimes. The King himself was in bed, and the Guard of the body had already accommodated their couches at his chamber door. He could have wished to have lain amongst them, but his horses were abroad with his Laquay, and the fear to be denied, the Scotch in France being none of the most courteous of the world, though he had the honour to be the King's servant, caused him that he chose rather to suffer what ever ill might happen to him, than the shame of being repulsed. Having stayed then till the Captain of the Guard of the body, would shut in the Castle gates, he went out, it being night; and one so dark as a man could not see but by the beams of the lightning in it: and for his better comfort, it reigned so fast as there was not any man left in the streets; So as when Adraste was got out he found not his man or horses where he left them. Was not this cripple finely overtaken? he called, he hallowed, and made such a noise, as some Soldiers as were got to covert under the penthouse or a long the streets, told him that there was a boy a sleep between two horses, that neither wind, rain, nor thunder had power to wake. He groped out his way thither, and having roused his youth, got on horseback, not only despairing to find lodging, but without knowledge where to look it. Notwithstanding being extremely a dry, and thinking these Soldiers could likelier show him a drinking place, than a lodging, he prayed them to direct him to some Inn where he might drink a cup. They carried him to the White-Crosse, where Mounsieur the King's brother, his followers lay. Adraste perceiving it was the Mounsieurs quarter, he conceived hope of finding some courtesy there. There were many people before the gate, some desiring to go in, and others calling for wine, who gave way to him. Adraste coming near the gate which was shut, and desiring to speak with some of the Mounsieurs gentlemen, he was so blessed that one of his friends that was within knew his voice: but not so well but he asked him his name for better assurance. Gentleman said Adraste, that knew not to whom he spoke, you will know me better by face then name, oblige me so much as to open the gate, and you will see I am the King's servant. At last he was forced to say it was Adraste, and at that name they opened the door, caused him to enter, and they embraced him. Adraste entered not as into an Inn, but a Paradise, ravished with a contentment by so much the greater as he had little hoped it. Noblesse, so was this friend called that let him in, caused a bed to be made for him, for though supper were ready, they perceived well that he had more need of repose, than a repast. But there could be spared but one Chamber only where Mounsieur de Vendosme, having made it his kitchen but two days before, had left such an infection as a man could scarce endure the ill smell. But it being a happiness to be within there, in comparison of the ill weather abroad, and a greater to have a bed, where others lay on benches, he laid him down. There is nothing like necessity to give a value to things, nor do things so appear or are esteemed but by their contraries. Prisoners deem nothing like liberty of which they are deprived, and which they neglect when they may enjoy it. Adraste could not have believed there had been such felicity to lodge in a stinking kitchen, which he would not once have looked into at another time, if the misfortune, and necessity wherein he was become had not caused him find the difference between rest and labour, peril and surety. His horses and Laquay lay and supped in Fresco with diverse others in a Garden that was on the backside of the Inn. On the morrow after having thanked his hosts, he went to seek the Harbinger, that bilited him in the Suburbs of Saint Martin's right against Chabrias, and near the bridge, and sufficiently commodious. Scarce had he entered his Lodging, but one habited like a Soldier, having saluted him in the street, entreated harbour of him. There is a certain kind of fate, that causes misfortunes often to encounter their like. Adraste observed this man with compassion, seeing him in such a case as himself was but lately; had he been hurt, dashed in the rain, or in the dark of night, as he was. My friend, said he, it is not long since, that if you had requested this of me, I could very hardly have done it you, but having now means, and knowing the wants that you are in by that I have suffered myself, I shall be very loath to put you off, though I know not who you are. Sir, answered the other, I am such a one, who have seen you in Paris with such a one▪, and coming now out of Italy, I am very inconsiderately fallen into this perplexity, endeavouring to follow the Court with a friend, until the King should return to Paris. Adraste looking him more near in the face remembered it was a Merchant whom he had seen married at Paris, to a fair Gentlewoman, for whose love, and of a brothers she had of excellent wit, he became yet more obliged to pleasure him; so as he not only afforded him the accommodation he entreated, but he took him a long with him as far as Bordeaux, where leaving him till their return from Bearne, he afterwards accompanied him so far as Saintis, But this adventure of Adraste nothing to the subject of my Discourse, hath made me stray a little from the affections of Minerva, which now let me again resume.    

The Argument.  
The reprisal of Minerva in affection with Adraste: a dangerous adventure of his, going to see Minerva. A walk of Adrastes with Minerva, and some others in company with her at Ruel.  
CHAP. V.  
THe King having appeased this disorder on this side Loire, turned head towards another, which arose about Garonne, after having made some small stay about the Clain. And having settled peace in Guien, proceed as far a s Bearne, where he put in execution the decree he had made four years before against the Hugonauts, in favour of the ecclesiastics, and then returned in all glory to his chief City. But that belongs to the History of France, and not at all to ours. Nor have we spoke of it but to avoid a more tedious discourse which must have been made to continue the adventures of Adraste, whose particular return comprehending in the general, we have not now to say, but that having still followed the Court, he came therewith to Paris, where from the morrow of his arrival he was taken with a quoridian Fever which brought him so low, as it was not hoped he could ever get up again. He had the help of an excellent Physician in his art, a worthy man, his intimate and perfect friend, to whose care and goodness, next under God, he stands obliged for his life. Amongst his visitants Minerva was one, that came to see him, not only contrary to his expectation, but his hope also, for the continuance of his absence, the travail of the journey, and most of all the violence of his sickness, had so efaced all impressions of his love, as there remained not so much as any line or draught thereof in his memory. He was not in the height of his disease, but in the greatest weakness of his person, so as when his Fever somewhat ceased on the one side, it seems that this visit prepared for him a new cause to re-alight his affection on the other. But yet being visited more by Chariclea, then by Minerva, the assaults and batteries of the one, ruined and oreturned even to the ground whatsoever the other erected. Reason and Civility willed that he being well should see such as had visited him sick. Of which he acquit him very religiously to all, but Minerva whom he saw not, in doubt that freeing him of one malady, he might fall into an other, by so much the more to be feared, as those of the mind are generally more dangerous than they of the body. Contempt is the greatest vexation to a high mind, especially when it comes from such of whom they have made esteem▪ or from whom they have been accustomed to receive honour and respect. Minerva having been so perfectly honoured of Adraste, could not endure without despite, that he that had not lived but in her, and for her, and of the life, and health of whom, she had testified so great a care, should visit all such as had seen him but herself. And her indignation was by so much the greater, for that she knew he failed not in this duty for want of civility, nor of knowledge. He offends not, said she, of ignorance, but contempt, and believed that it was of purpose. In the end Adraste must needs go see her, for she had sent so often to his lodging as it had been discourtesy, and ingratitude to have done otherwise. She congratulated his recovery, she civilly complained of his incivility, and prayed him not only to see her, but also to write unto her. Adraste well saw that these were so many snares set by Minerva for his liberty; but he had scarce power to refuse a thing which he had first demanded of her, had he not been prevented. And as love is an Enemy not to be vanquished, but by the absence of the thing beloved, very hardly could he avoid being overcome by such approaches as these were. Two strong conceits wrought in his thoughts, like two contrary winds at Sea, with a perishing vessel; the most violent which was yet most pleasing, counselled, and almost constrained him against his will to love this woman, the other more gentle, and yet more troublesome, did utterly forbid it. And as his imaginations figured to him the matchless delights he might gather from the passion of such beauties; his memory again presented to him the most affrightful torments he was sure to suffer but pretending thereunto; and the diverse shipwrecks he had undergone in the same Port, did counsel him in any wise, not now to re-imbarke him there. But the means likewise for him to avoid it, (he that loved not his own eyes without it were for seeing her, in whom he had already harboured the chief felicities of his life) was away. In this conflict of difficulties he addressed him unto herself, as sole and sovereign Arbiter of his thoughts, begged of her to restore them back the rest she had bereft them off, and to render to herself the same contentment, which her cruelty had ravished from him, in outraging the constance of a Lover, and betraying her own proper desires, through the ingrateful misacknowledgement, whereby she did receive his pure affections. As Minerva had been provoked and agreed at the indifference of Adraste, she was now well pleased to see him stirred again with love of her. But being a discreetand subtle woman chiefly in the art of feigning, in which she outwent the most exquisite of her sex, she so far as possibly she could hid him from her intents, that were to re-ensnare him. And as the ordinary custom of women is to oppose their honour to such as speak to them of love, Minerva forgot to hold up this buckler against such arms as Adraste could advance, talking to him, yet ne'ertheless in such a manner of the sense she had of the one, as she put him not in despair of such as he had of the other. But they so long had known, and were so well acquainted with one another, that they could not possibly so well dissemble it, but that they espied each other behind the best curtain could be drawn. Minerva proposed extreme difficulties in the love of Adraste, and Adraste as many resolutions upon those difficulties of Minerva: she alleged first her marriage, which absolutely hindered her to be any way lawfully sought. Adraste put her in mind of Arnolphe, whom she had loved before, and since, and whom yet she loved after in death, however she was straightly obliged to love him, that lived, and was in affection before the other. By which he let her see that the marriage she alleged, was but a pretext, by which she covered her ingratitude, being assured that if it had been the true cause that hindered her from loving him, it had been so as well for another as him. I loved Arnolphe before I married, said she, and that love which indeed I bore unto his virtues, nor that which as yet I bear his memory, did ever wrong my honour, where yours tendeth merely to the subversion of it. Your honour is easily protected in my discertation, answered Adraste, and though mine be one thousand times more dear to me then my life, I should choose rather a thousand times to lose it, than ever so little to have tainted yours. But you are too wise a woman, to be ignorent that honour chiefly doth insist upon the managing, and is not incompatible with love. You are too wise a man likewise, answered Minerva, to think what you say; But if so be I should grant you any thing so unfit to be granted, what reason have I yet to quite me of Arnolphes affection, to reinvest me in those of Adraste? it were but to pass from one extreme to another, and not only from a love permitted, to a love forbidden, but from constancy, to inconstancy, and lightness; since you are no less fickle than he was ever constant: and howsoever he be dead, the virtues that I loved in him are immortal, and in such measure living in me, as I have no memery of life without it be to think of, and to live in him. One part of this discourse was true, but the other artificially feigned by Minerva, to engage Adraste the more, and to let him see how much she did deserve to be beloved, in showing him how capable she was of love, and how much she could cherish the affections of a living man, since she so long retained those of a dead one. I discourse according as I think, said Adraste, but you talk not as you think: nor content to express your want of reason in your words, by accusing me of lightness, it seems that you will make it appear that you have less in your actions, by the unprofitable affection you bear to the ashes of Arnolphe. The cause you have to divest you of which, and put on mine, being reason itself, that should ever counsel you to prefer things profitable to those are hurtful, the recreative to the afflictive, and the real to the imaginary. There are three things in the world which produce and do contain all the rest, which be honour, profit, and pleasure, and from his affections you cannot so much as hope of one of them, but on the contrary you must expect trouble, damage, and shame; whereas you may find them all in the affections of Adraste, with so much precedence, that if the other were yet living, he must himself be constrained to avow the preeminence, and you to acknowledge the desert, if love were to be judged by the endeavours, and by reason. Minerva without approbation, or reproving the reasons of Adraste, proposed still new difficulties, and sometimes declining her own interest, imitated such Decoys, as to gain an other man's money, do willingly lose some of their own. Why if it should be so, said she, an affection cannot be so easily shifted as we do our smocks, heal me first of my passion, and then will I cure you of yours. It is most certain, Madam, said Adraste, and I have approved it but too true in that I undergo for you; But where are now those so sufficient reasons by the which you have ere-whiles endeavoured to persuade me that I might easily discharge me of mine? Why serve you not yourself against yourself, with the arms that you so well do handle against others? Why think you it impossible to free you from the passions which you have for a shadow, having to fore believed that it was easy unto me to acquit me of those I have for you? If the subject of my love be more excellent than yours, and that I be more easy & capable of love than you, as sure it is too true; does it not follow then that your passion is less than mine, and that you may more easily discharge you of it then I? But how will you that I should heal you of a passion which you have for another, if you refuse to receive from me the remedy you did desire of him? I have given myself a little liberty in enlarging of the extent of this discourse, that it belongs to the History, and is necessary to the end that I pretend to therein. If it be a little too long, Lovers will not be much displeased therewith; And others may pass it by, or more seriously fix on some other object. So it is that Adraste again setting on foot this discourse on the last speech of Minerva, employed all his five senses to cure her of a disease which indeed she had not, or least wherewith he was more infected, than she, in which it happened to him just as it did to Clement Marot, who seeing his Mistress bleed, and the Chirurgeon telling him that with the ill blood he would likewise draw from her the ill humour that rendered her so cruel to him, and that the new blood that should increase in her veins, should mollify her spirit and render her more capable of the impressions of love, added afterwards, that it was true, and that she did become more gentle, and susceptible of love, but the thing was, he concluded that it was not of his love. So Adraste hath purged Minerva of this fancy, in hope that by efacing from her heart the portrait of Arnolphe; he might the easilier set there his own; rendered her truly amorous, but his ill hap would yet, 'twas not of him, as then. I say then, for that he hath since found that it was his good fortune; And that he might well say as once a great Captain did, that he had been lost, if so he had not then been lost.  
Adraste having once again seen Minerva, continued his visits so thick, as it seemed he rather dwelled with her, than went to see her. In the morning he used there from nine a clock till noon. After dinner he stayed till supper, and after supper until midnight. And howsoever his company was so frequent, yet hindered she not the diligence of his Letters, that followed and forwent him twice a day, as doth the light both usher, and attend the Sun: So as, either by Letter or by presence, Minerva could not open her eyes but she saw Adraste ever before her. From whence proceeded the jealousy of Crassus, who as we have said, was again restored to her amity, if not love. The first note whereof that Adraste received, was from herself, that had diverse designs therein. First she desired to know what he thought of it, and knowing well that Adraste was ignorant that she was beloved of Crassus, in discovering the love he had for her, it showed she had none for him: And in manifesting his jealousy, she would render Adraste jealous of Crassus, as she had rendered Crassus jealous of Adraste. For she as it were swimming herself in pleasure at the vexation of another, even to the torment of her own soul, and suffering the most extreme Martyrcomes, but to procure small ones, it seemed that her repose was in the midst of pains, and sufferance, and the calm of her spirit consisted in the impetuous shocks, and violences, wherewith she agitated others. She did affect a rough and high going sea in love, and did esteem an affection soft and gentle, withered, and fading, if so it were not intermingled with the sharpness of some jealousy. Moreover in showing the jealousy of Crassus, because of Adraste, she manifested to Adraste the affection she had for him, for from the jealousy of the one apparently followed the affection she had for the other, it being certain that Crassus could not be jealous of Minerva for Adraste, if he believed not that Adraste was beloved of her. To which she added this Art, to fain that she did so much hate and had in horror that passion, that if Crassus had been otherwise pleasing unto her, and that his demerits or his services had obliged her to wish him well, yet was his jealousy such as might ruin and well overthrow what ever good will she could have for him, and confirm all such affections as he pretended to subvert in her. But Adraste being no wait moved with the jealousy of Crassus, only entreated Minerva shre would preserve him her affection, which only he desired to keep, and feared to lose. That but it, all other things were very indifferent to him, and the passions of his enemies so little regarded, as he beheld them rather with pleasure, than offence. Minerva was much deceived in this answer, for she thought to quicken his affection by the jealousy of another, believing like them that esteem of nothing well that is not dear; that amorous delights cannot be pleasant, if not sharp. But dissembling, as full well she knew, and was accustomed to do, she by so much the more approved of this humour of Adraste, as he cared little for the jealousy of his Rival, and made show to love him the better for it; In the mean while bethinking her of other means to heighten his affection, insomuch as this had failed. We have said that Adraste visited her at many hours of the day, but chiefly after Suppers, which she had forbidden all others, of purpose to afford it him only; and which he so dear valued, as he never failed to let slip one without going thither. They were lodged in the Suburbs of St. Germane, but a good way one from the other; For Minerva lodged near the Market, and Adraste by the River side. One Evening as he went to see her according to his custom, he took along with him a young gentleman named Polynices, and a Laquay which she had sent then unto him to borrow a book; they were no sooner out of Adrastes lodging, to take the way that leadeth along the ditch from porte de Nifle, to that of Bussy, but they heard some walk after them, and turning about, they saw a man muffled up in his cloak that made great haste, having his sword under his arm, and who having overtaken them, followed the same way they held upon the Causey, which is along by the houses. At the same time they perceived there were others yet, that kept them behind the piles of dirt, which the passage of Coaches & Carts causeth commonly in winter along by the ditch. And presently Adraste perceived that he that had overtaken them, slacked his pace, and reeled as he walked, as if he had been drunk. This man said he to Polynices, counterfeiteth the drunkard, and he's not so, for we saw him walk otherwise then thus, and very upright and lustily, and believe me not another time, if it be not to put some trick upon us. Be it what will, answered Polynices, I think he will gain little by us. In which saying they walked on still. Adraste bid the Laquay to go forward some five or six paces with the light before, and not to be surprised, drew his sword from out of his hangers, and bore it upright in his hand, and Polynices did the same by his likewise. They walked thus some thirty paces, and overtaking this Roister, that stayed to the same purpose. When he was amongst them, and he perceived the others which were not far off, he began to call aloud, Who be those that laugh there? no man answered a word. But Adraste holding this for suspect, and believing it was the word given amongst them, as the event proved, bade his footman go on, and Polynices follow, keeping himself two or three paces before him Mounsieur, quoth then this gallant to Polynices, in siding him, and counterfeiting the stranger, can you show me the way to St. Germane gate. No Mounsieur answered Polynices, scoffing him, I am not off this Country, more than yourself are, nor do I know the streets of the City. I am glad of that answered the other, what's that he would have said Adraste, who extremely mistrusted these devices. St. Germane gate replied Polynices, St. Germane gate Sir, quoth the Impostor. Look you where 'tis said Adraste, you are at it, or at least in a fair way to it. I thank you Sir replied the Rogue; who not two steps after, seized on Polynices sword, saying, what will you draw your sword? So soon as Adraste heard talk of swords, he drew his; but howsoever it were as suddenly as he could speak, he had not so soon drawn it, but it was laid hold on, and their light put out at the very instant; which saved his life, for those that laid hands on him, casting themselves altogether, and at once upon him, one wounded the other in seeking to kill him. So as of many thrusts made in the crowd, and in the confusion of this darkness, there was but one touched him, and that upon the arm. All the others lighting on the parties themselves, on whose behalves they were made. But feeling his sword engaged, and seeing himself in the midst of so many enemies, as the greatness of their number hindered themselves, he heard some cry out kill, kill, and at the same time others, Oh you kill me; which put him in such a fury as having recovered his sword in two or three shocks, he made himself such place, as the field, and fought battle rested on his side. As for Polynices, Adraste thought him dead, for that he had heard him call out Murder, Murder, and having seen him fall to the ground; he believed certainly they had killed him. But these thieving Rogues having taken their flight, and the Neighbours being come in at the noise, with their weapons, & lights, he found that he had disengaged his sword, and quit himself of them with the loss of his cloak, and some light hurts he had received, wherewith he was become less bloody, then miry. Quite contrary to Adraste, who found himself more fouled with blood than dirt, though it were with that of his enemies; For the thrust he received on the arm was so favourable, as it passed not the skin further than the flesh. He lost not his cloak, but his Hat falling off, and his Galloshooes, both one and the other were presently found in the Street, with the sheaths of their swords. And howsoever that after the distemper of such an encounter, he had more cause to retire to his lodging, then follow his design; so is it, that apprehending more the affright Minerva might take at this news, than the damage might come to him in the visit, he believed it was a small cause to deprive him of a good, which he believed could not be too dear bought, not with the greatest mischief of the world: And this hindrance not having served but more to re-inflame the desire he had to see his Mistress, he took only another Laquay with another Torch at his lodging, and in the same case he was in, he came presently with Polynices to that of Minerva; he found her and the Laquay yet shaking at the affright they had ta'en, and he recounting to her the death of Adraste, and Polynices: For having seen them laid hands on, and environed by so many, he bleeved not that they could escape, and for him, it was easy to flee, for that they had nothing to do, but with his light, which being at first put out, they gave him very good leisure to retire. So soon as Minerva saw Adraste, she seemed to rejoice extremely, And I assuredly believe it was no way feigned, whatsoever hath been said, that this ambush was laid, and Minerva had not sent for the book by her Laquay, so much for that, as to bring him in compass of the snares of these Rascals; which could never enter in the thought or belief of Adraste. You have prevented me of an ill night's rest, said she, which this companion went about to prepare for me: I believe you could not have bestowed a visit on me this good while, or so pleasing, or necessary as this was; But tell me, how happened this misfortune to you? Madam, answered Adraste, your Laquay is not so blame worthy as you may think, for he saw me in such case, as there was more liklihood that he left me dead, then alive: But it pleaseth God that I live yet for your service, and to bestow on you more necessary visits, and more pleasing nights then this. And then he recounted at large to her what had befallen him since Supper, whilst the uncloaked gentleman Polynices entertained her women with the same discourse. Very well said Minerva, than I bid you good night, and desire you come no more at such hours to see me. That is to take good nights from me, answered Adraste, and not to give me good night, this same command not to see you any more by night. It shall be what you please, replied Minerva, for I shall indeed rather choose to take from you good nights, then suffer upon my occasion that you perchance have your life taken from you, as you have now very narrowly escaped with it. Adraste accepting her will for reason, retired with his good, or ill night, after having told her, that God did reserve him to some better end; and that on no occasion his life could be so well employed, as in the loss of it, for so worthy a Subject.  
Adraste being retired without any further mischance, passed the night as accustomed in the thought and contemplation of an enchanted Lover, by the charms of a fair Mistress. The next morning rising very early, he went to take a turn at the Lovure, where he was informed of the departure of the King. It was at the time of the great assembly at Rochel, which being made against his Majesty's permission, and continued contrary to his command, gave cause to the Court of Parliament to declare them that held it rebels, and to the King to arm himself, for the defence of his authority. Adraste went from thence to the uprising of Minerva, carried her these sad news, not so much lamenting the public misfortune that threatened the State with a civil war, as his own particular condition, that forced him leave his Mistress, to use his life in a quarrel wherein he had so little interest. For howsoever he were not constrained by any place, or benevolence of the Kings, he was ne'ertheless born and enforced thereto, by the laws of his own worth and honour? But since that nothing induceth you said Minerva, to follow the King but your honour, you are not obliged to follow him other where then in service. Let other men than go along and wait on him, whose offices and pensions do oblige them to attendance every where beside, and do you stay until he does sit down before some place, or that he hath made some overture of war wherein you may be seen to do the service you desire: and think not then that I will make it difficult to give you leave, for that your life being of smaller esteem to me by much then is your honour, I shall rather choose to command then to forbid it you. Adraste was easily persuaded to stay with a Lady, whom indeed he could not endure to part from, but seeing he had not liberty to entertain her as he wished in her house, where she was watched by her own people, gained and corrupted by Crassus, & the prime of the Spring, inviting every one to see the beauty of the Country, he entreated her to bear him company to Ruel, to the end that no other but the Nymphs of those fountains should be by at the last farewells he would take of her. Minerva that desired but to pass time away, rendered Adraste his desires in that, by contenting likewise her own. But what she might easily and absolutely of herself have done, was accompanied with so many limitations and circumstances, as the pleasure of it was ever less than the sufferance, were it that by the difficulty she would render her favours, the more estimable; or were it a quality inseparable in love, that often promiseth much sweetness, where naught is reaped but much bitterness. Reason, and what was decent not suffering that she should go alone with Adraste, caused her to take with her an old Gentlewoman that was rather her Governess then Servant, with two little children that she had had by Tatius, and would yet have Plancus and Melite, beside of the company. Melite was one of her friends, and Plancus a new Captive of Minerva's whom she had ensnared without Adraste once perceiving it: whom she made believe, how she could tender him amorous of Melite. Adraste agreed very willingly to that, thinking that whilst Plancus entertained Melite, and that the Governess should be busied with Minerva's children, he should have no ill opportunity to govern her. But the difficulty was to get from her house, and people unsuspected, for she would not by any means that they should know of this journey, for fear it might come to Crassus' ear. And this Lady otherwise exceeding able; had already given him such Empire over her, as not so much as ever remembering Tatius that was her husband, she let herself be troubled with the jealousy of a man, that she said was nothing to her, and that she seemed not only to be unable to love, but also one of whom she could not endure to be beloved. It is most certain that such as be in love are blind, for if Adraste absolutely had not been so, he might by this have seen that Crassus had more interest in his Mistress, than himself. But he believed more in her words, then in his own eyes. To the end than that Minerva's people should take no notice of the design, she willed that Adraste should wait very early in the morning at Church with a coach and four horses, that Plancus and Melite should come thither another way without either of them coming near her, and that she would meet there at the same time with her little companions. The Coach and horses they were ready almost before day; scarce was the Church door opened but Adraste was got in; he had heard at the least two Masses, before Plancus, or Melite came, though they failed not at the hour appointed them, but she that appointed it failing them many hours after. And after having waited one or two, which were so many ages to the impatience of Adraste; who had sent three or four Messengers one after another, that brought back word, that she was ready, that she was come out, that she came; she arrived at last about ten a clock when every one began to despair of her coming at all. And in place of excuse for having made the company stay so long, she would needs persuaded Adraste that he was extremely bound to her for the pains she had taken in getting so soon away from her household, and affairs both: for she told him that she had an occasion of extraordinary importance at the Palace, which she had neglected for his love. Adraste replied not a word to that, but letting her say what she would, got him into the Coach with her, sufficiently manifesting by his silence, and looks that he was more offended at her words by which she would excuse her fault, then at the fault itself. They were soon out of the City keeping the direct way to Ruel, when Minerva angered at Adrastes silence and grudge, asked him whether he had desired her to accompany him into the Country to air themselves there, or his ill humour? and seeing he still forbore to speak, she continued, I am very unhappy to quit such company as adored and reverenced me, to find me slighted here, and to have neglected my affairs, to offend them I thought to have obliged. Turn about Coachman, said Adraste, without answering Minerva, and drive to the Palace, that this Lady may by no means neglect her business. It is not possible to express the despite she took at these words. He shall turn I assure you, said she, or I will go back thither a foot. But Melite blaming Adraste, and gently entreating Minerva that would by all means have returned, persuaded so far as they followed on their way to Ruel. Minerva notwithstanding having got out of the Coach, Adraste took her under the arm, and led her along a fair way more than a mile, whilst the Coach followed them softly with the others that were in it. And as Lovers are soon angry, and soon pleased, and re-alight the fires of their affections by the breath of such brabbles, they had not so soon began to discourse together, but they became agreed: For Minerva cared not if one offended her, so they asked pardon of the offence. And Adraste cared not to offend her on those terms, if it were a giving her offence, to resent the offence he had received from her. Arrived at Ruel, the first thing they talked of was dinner; after which they fell into discourse, which they themselves would be much troubled to resaye, watched yet by that importune old Beldame, who unable to follow them walking, left not yet to importune them with her eyes thorough every Ally of the plots, and parteries into which these excellently beautiful Orchards are divided. Notwithstanding, the burden of age, and the care she had of the little ones in her charge, gave leisure and opportunity yet to our Adraste, somewhile to enjoy his Mistress in the cool of a shade, whilst Plancus and Melite entertained each other in another place, where in the presence of the Nymphs and other lonely deities of those sacred fountains, their waters were taken to witness the eternity of their flames. Adraste summoning yet, things more firm and solid, swore that the Heavens should change their course ere he his Mistress; and that the earth should sooner leave her firm stability, than his love its lasting quality. And Minerva swore that waters should rise upward, and fire descend downward, ere she would leave to love Adraste. But those things she swore by being light, and transitory, could not produce but lightnesses, no less agreeing with their qualities, than her nature. After having pleasantly past the remainder of this day, they took again the way back to Paris, so late as they durst stay, but they got not thither without danger, for the Coachman being drunk, drove his Coach so carelessly over a bridge in the way, as for lack of take heed, the Horses, Coach and all that was in had like to have fallen into the water, but God was pleased to show them the precipice only, & keep them out of it. The rest of the way, they talked not but of the journey of Adraste, Minerva wishing it as short, as happy to him; and Adraste beleeching her not to let such, (as then he being present desired to cross his fortunes) any way to ruin them in his absence; it being a certainty that such as sought to overthrow him, in her affections being now with her, would not forbear when he were gone. Minerva complained of this his request, as grounded she thought, upon the mistrust Adraste had of her saith and constancy, and showing him the Sun that as then yet shined; so long, said she, as this so glorious a Planet, still shall be the light and comfort, of all mortal men, so long shall you be mine; I could pardon one that had not known my mind so well as you, but you are by so much the less excusable as you the better know it. Adraste excused him, if the danger to lose a thing, the preservation whereof was so extremely valued by him, and the loss so ruinous, had constrained him to entreat her to preserve her affection to him; which should he lose, he must for ever grieve the mischance, and never cease to accuse his fate or indeferts, and keeping it as now she did assure him she would; he should part thence with such felicity, and comforts in himself, as he promised fortune, never more to to take offence at any luckless chance she ere should put upon him. In conclusion of this Discourse they came to the City, & to went set down Minerva at the end of the street wherein her house was, for she would not suffer them to accompany her any further, not for fear of Tatius who was far enough off, and for whom she cared little, but for fear of increasing the jealousy of Crassus that lay at watch in the same street, where he had taken a lodging to wau-lay all resort to Minerva'es. And for that she desired they should believe yet that she cared not for him; Adraste poor man that saw this, gave, as I say, more faith to the witness of her words in the contrary, than he put in his own eyes that saw it. For this cause it is; They say that love is blind, insomuch as passion hood-winketh all such as follow him, troubles their judgement, and takes from them their very knowledge. Plancus went home with Melite, and Adraste retired to his own lodging with intent to write to Minerva, as if it had been some long time, since he saw her furious effects of a violent and extraordinary affection, which we will now leave, the sooner to see the end of the first part of this Book.   

The Argument.  
The diverse pursuits of Crassus and Adraste. The departure of Minerva, her return, and confidence in Adraste. The sudden disfavour of Adraste on the Eve of his parting, and the Letter he wrote to Minerva. As also the reconciliation of Adraste with Minerva, and his departure for the Army.  
CHAP. VI  
THat very Evening was Crassus advertised of this walk of Minerva's with Adraste, (they say he was so diligent in those things as he went even to the Devil himself for intelligence) but his Empire being as yet not well confirmed, he durst not complain but modestly to her, and was contented with reason back. But the means by which he established his government, were quite contrary to those of Adraste, as the men, were nothing alike. For Adraste proceeded with freedom and all manner of ingenuousness, and Crassus went forwards by stealth, and in many winds and turns, hiding a profound design, under an excellent Artifice. Adraste knowing that a generous spirit aimeth chiefly at glory, and holding Minerva for such, rendered her the honours Crassus could not; and without meddling in her affairs, endeavoured only to conform her to his pleasures, hoping that his compliance, gentile fashion and affection, should render him more worthy her love then his Rival. Crassus' took another course, for finding that he had not in him those good parts that sufficed to win the heart of Minerva, & tender him preferable to so many others at all parts better qualified then him, of all whom she was honoured, and adored; under pretence of officiously embracing her affairs, first he got her papers, and writings into her hands, and not long after, her jewels, to the end that both the one and the other, should render him necessary, since he could not render himself amiable; and that this necessity, and fitness, might become love, as it had done with Tatius, though he had more cause to shun, then imitate the example, had he been counselled by his Reason, and not by his passion. And Minerva, that already once before had been taken in the like snare, after having been often forewarned, suffered herself yet again to be caught, but it happened not till after the departure of Adraste. In the mean time two or three days after the journey to Ruel, the King leaving Paris to go to Saumur, caused Adraste to provide to follow him. When see, upon an advise that Arlande was fallen sick some forty Leagues from Paris, Minerva resolved presently to go see her, her affection overcoming all difficulties that opposed her endeavours, which indeed were then no small ones, for the want of a Coach, the abundance of fowl weather, nor the inconvenience of the ways, could any whit divert her therein. Crassus' had the first notice, as he to whom the packets of Minerva were still addressed, who being unable to accommodate her with more than one Nag to carry her, it was needful to make use of Adraste, but he was ready to be gone; and to borrow his Horses at the time of his departure, was somewhat out of season. Notwithstanding which, Minerva told him, if he were not urged to depart by any necessity, she would entreat him to lend her a horse for some five or six days. Adraste was so far from refusing a horse to Minerva, that he could have wished himself one, for the happiness of such a burden, and already envied the honour of the beast should bear so sweet a burden; which for all that had been but a miserable good fortune, for she returned him his horse so jaded, and crippled, as he never did him service after. But Adraste wished he had been as much worth, as himself, or as much as he could hope in the world, and the the had died in her service; believing that his life could not be better employed, then in so happy loss of it. But he was not content to send her a horse only, he went and offered himself to be her guide, all other occasions set apart, and most humbly entreated her to give him leave to wait upon her. She thanked him, prayed him to stay her return to Paris, or news of her there at least, and to take the charge on him, of sometimes seeing her children for her, whom she left in the hands of the Governess we have before spoke of: and parted the same evening in extreme bad weather, accompanied only with one man, and a maid that attended her. Adraste bore her company, until such time as she commanded him return; and being forbidden to follow her any further, he accompanied her yet with his eyes so far as his sight gave him leave, and then exceeding pensive, he returned not to his lodging, but Minerva's, to cheer him for her absence in the entertainment of her children. Who in the first innocence wherein they were yet, not knowing any thing of their Mother's absence, caused in him no less pity of them, than she caused love in him. In the mean time while he busied himself there, a knavish Laquay, with whom he had increased his followers for the journey intended, having before taken notice of some moneys he had to that use provided, intended to lay hands on it, which he so happily brought about, that at his going from thence, Adraste found himself first without Footman, and so soon as he came to his Lodging, without money, which was indeed a divertisement, but very hurtful to his purse, and little wholesome for his passion, for it yet hindered not, but he thought still on Minerva, that to say truth, took up his whole thoughts: And in the violence of that grief he suffered by the absence of two or three days, he apprehended what he was to undergo in the length of so many months, so as he was not only burdened with his present ills, but likewise with those were to come. But Minerva having found her Mother in better state than she expected, came back to Paris eight days after her departure, with the same diligence she was gone from thence: and by her return dispersed such clouds as darkened the serenity of Adrastes spirits, that might say with one, 
That as her parting caused him grieve amain,  
So greatest joys with her returned again.   
The first day of her arrival was passed in compliments, gracious favours, and kind welcomes The second, however Adraste never feasted uninvited, as the French hath it, nor took notice of any others affairs, but when he was thereto required, she entreated him to persuade one of her Farmers to give up the Lease of the lands she formerly had made him. This Tenant of hers was a clown, if ever were such, and yet a more knave than clown; So as he deserved to have been well cudgeled, nor would Minerva have ta'en it amiss. But Adraste loving the reputation of his Mistress equal with his own, and seeing it was not for the honour of the one or the other to beat this Looby, rendered him, how extremely so ever brutal, yet so capable of reason in the end, as he promised not only to give up his Lease, but also to become conformable to the will and pleasure of Minerva. Minerva as then had few thoughts to which Adraste was not made privy, for in recompense of his service, she communicated her secrets, at least such as he had not interest in. For proof whereof, she recounted to him an action of Tatius, which well noteth the great confidence between them. Tatius being privately some time before come to Paris, got one day unperceived to his Wife's house, where staying below in a little Parlour, he caused Minerva to be called down thither, who not believing she might honestly refuse to see her husband, not mistrusting any ill, came down to the same room, where he stayed her. After having saluted, Minerva praying him to walk up into her chamber, he told her, that he had but a little while to stay there with her, and he desired not to be seen, no not of her servants, and that being borne away by that extreme affection which he ever had for her, she must believe that this visit so unexpectedly made, and by stealth, was a sufficient testimony thereof. But thou most fair Minerva, continued he, having ta'en her in his arms, art thou not in pity any whit sensible of my misfortunes? Sir, answered Minerva, I am not so insensible & stony but I suffer some impression from your passion; and in your disgraces do compassionate yet as in mine own. But you know well the cause that parted mine from your interest, and I wish no other judge in this case, than yourself. Indeed said Tatius, I did not use you I confess as your demerits did oblige me; but excuse the passions of a Lover, pardon him that does repent him, forget the ills that I have done you, and but now remember you of all the good that I have wished you, you shall make nature a liar, if you become not then as pitiful, as you are fair, if you have not the same sweetness in your mind you carry in your looks. They were all alone, for the servant that had called down Minerva, was gone out, and Tatius enjoying those rights the opportunity, and his condition afforded him, and reducing so his words into actions touching the heart of Minerva, which was not made of wood, or marble, as partly by consent, partly by force, he re-entered the possession of those favours he had formerly lost. But so soon as he had satisfied his own desires; See but the thanks of this disloyal▪ and ingrateful soul. No man can witness, said he, that I have now been here, Think not I came for love of thee, but of my own revenge; to the end, that after having left with thee what I can utterly deny, I so may give thee lost. Lo here the wicked act of Tatius, which amongst the most remarkable basenesses that ere were perpetrate, may hold the place of the most enormous treason, and the most faithless wickedness, that husband ever committed 'gainst a wife. Minerva never trusted this secret but to the fidelity of Adraste, who never abused that trust, or ever wronged her in it, and if he hath spoke on't since, it hath been still to her defence, 'gainst such as have accused, and blamed her much, for living from her husband. And to make seen what cause she had to be for ever doubtful and mistrusting such and so inveterate and settled a malice.  
As Adraste had no care that tended not to the service of Minerva; it seemed no less that she had no inclination but tended to the love of Adraste: She spoke not but of his merits, remembered her not but of his services, nor in appearance, thought of any thing more than of the means to acknowledge them. Yet this fair sunshine, but presaged a storm. Sailors have cause to sear a calm too smiling, And physicians think it not amiss to doubt a health too perfect and secure; for as the one doth but presage a furious storm, the other argues still a dangerous disease. But when that sickness doth succeed excess of health, Raines, a great wind, or storms ensue gross clouds, no man at all is moved thereat; for that already were foreseeen the signs that usually precede. But when that in a time clear and serene, the face of heaven is in an instant bound about with clouds; Or that we see a man to die at going out of bed, that did arise in health; 'tis then we do become afraid, and that amazement, seizeth us, for that we are surprised, and by so much the more astonished, from these accidents as we could not foresee the event. So had there been but any cause, or a pretext that had preceded the disgrace of our Adraste, here, he had not marvailed at it aught, for he knew well what kind of soul he had to deal withal. But all at once when he the lest expected it, and that he did esteem himself the most in favour with his Mistress, not knowing why, or doubting how, he found him fallen in her contempt: and in the place of recompense and those kind favours, whereof his tried affections, and his services did render him most worthy, he did yet undergo the scorns and chastisements, which he had no way merited. He had not three days to stay in Paris, when going to see her one morning a little later than he was wont, he found she was gone to Church, whither very readily following her, rather in desire to see her, then for any other devotion he had: It is no marvel that God permitted him to be so ill entreated. She had in her company only the Governess, and had already heard Mass upon the arrival of Adraste, who having bid her good morrow, presented her his hand to lead her home, dinner time pressed them not so, but having sufficient leisure, fair weather to walk in, and the place they were in, inviting them thereto; Adraste, that thought he might have better liberty to entertain her in this walk, then at her house, entreated her to take a turn in the Garden of that fair house, belonging to the Queen Mother. And Minerva admitted him to conduct her, as well to entertain him, though very differently, and with an entertainment, and welcome much contrary to the desires and hopes of Adraste. So, as he pressed her to recompense his services, and at the least, would needs have some kind favour from her; for him to bear along with him unto the wars. Minerva changing her discourse, did tell him straight, that his so frequent visits, and disorderly addresses unto her, had scandalised her much with all the Neighbours 'bout her house, so as she was enforced to entreat him come more seldom there, that esteeming his company as she did, she could not deprive her of it, she said, with little grief, of which she did believe that he would have his part, but knowing likewise that he did esteem more of her reputation, than himself, she hoped he always would prefer that good, to any pleasure that he could receive from seeing her; that would the best she might temper her sorrows for not seeing him, with the remembrance she would keep of him; And never should she have so living in her breast, ought else beside as that everlasting memory of his deserts. Adraste having such a lecture, upon the Eve of his departure, lost all manner of patience, and straight it came into his head, that it was but an effect of the jealousy of Crassus, and that contempt he had ever had of him till then, turned into fury; He remembered him of the advice Minerva herself had given, and how oft she had said that all her house was still averse to him but she; and casting an eye upon the Governess, accompanied her, he did believe, as it was true indeed, that nothing but her counsels, and seducements could have power to make her capable of his disgrace, and her maliciousness. And as amongst a multitude of things one knows not what to choose, or leave; So Adraste did not know in so great choice, and such diversity of Reasons, what to answer her; so from the abundance of his Reason, did proceed his want of words. At the last his passions breaking silence, this he said. Madam, so long as you assured me that it could not alter your affection, I have scoffed my enemies, and made me merry at their jealousies; but now that you do let me see the contrary, by a discourse so out of season, and all sense, it is no slighting them. And I see well to what it tends. Minerva perceiving that Adraste spoke this by Crassus, answered in his favour, and by her answer as it were partaking in his interest, she more incensed Adrastes fury, who not willing to continue this discourse further with a woman, and one he had so perfectly adored, left her to walk alone with the Governess, and went to Crassus his lodging, resolved if he met with him, to make him taken to his sword. But not finding him, he passed away his rage in dining with an i'll appetite▪ Minerva retiring home extremely grieved, that she had so reduced Adraste to despair, and apprehending what mischance might rise thereon, instead of going to dinner, went to bed tormented even to death, and much offended at the Governess, and Crassus too, the cursed Authors of so unhappy counsels. Crassus' coming to her hereupon, and then much out of time, desiring to impart his passions, found so ill a welcome, that having very handsomely received her leave to be gone, he took her at her word, and went not only away from her house, but out of the City also, though not very far, for he returned within two days, were it on his own motion, or that she sent for him. Adraste having sent away his Equipage before, but after the King▪ changed the desire he had to call Crassus to accounted, into a much better design of serving his Prince, and more bravely manifesting his courage in occasions more honourable & more dangerous indeed to take his journey the next morning, with a Horse and one Laquay only, which he had caused to be left for him, he was though to conclude his leave taking, and bid some adieu which as yet he had not done, and he determined to depart without once bidding farewell Minerva. Who returning the same day from Vespers, and seeing Adrastes Laquay who waited him with his horse at the door of a Lady's lodging by, asked him where his Master was? Madam answered the Laquay, he is within here. Why replied Minerva, and is he not yet gone? not yet Madam but his Equipage is already well forwards on the way, these words touched the quick, for Minerva thought Adraste had not been so near ready, nor that he could have resolved to part without bidding her adieu. But whatsoever she thought, dissembling it before the laquay, she said to him well my good friend tell him, I pray, that I do kiss his hands. The Laquay failed not to tell his Master so at his coming out from thence, which did not alter him at all, but on the contrary the little day which yet rested importuned him more than that, and he wished night were passed, to the end he might the next day make a great journey forward on his way, and by so much withdraw and bear himself the further from this thankless and ingrateful soul. Notwithstanding which he had wrote a Letter that he determined should be delivered to her when he was gone, by which he gave her to understand.  
That if he had followed the stream of his first motions, to which the violence of hers had born him, he had let her see an action, which she not only had permitted, but the indifference that she had manifested unto him, had clearly engaged him to. That he had sought, found, and ruined the honour which she did so much esteem, or else himself, which yet he could not think; or at the worst it had been the best, that could befall him, for that his life was so unhappy by her means, as it must needs have been a great good fortune to have lost it. But since upon reflection in himself and having less regard to his own passions, then to the interest she had in them (whatever oath she had taken to have none) he had believed that it should no way misbecome him, go his way to a place, where a more great and honourable danger might make seen to her, his more obdience and courage, than he could render her in the defeat of one, so miserable, whom he did deem sufficiently punished in the vexations she would procure him. Besides he was not willing to ruin so many incomparable proofs of affection, as he had daily manifested, by one action that might be the least displeasing to her; and not expecting that there could be found content for him after (for her pleasure) being banished from all that he enjoyed in the whole earth. That this had caused him hasten his desire, lest some new accident, with the remembrance of so bloody a discourtesy, bore him not yet to mend himself as he could. And however that he parted thence, deprived of the honour of her sight, by her so cruel doom, with as much spoil and ransack as an extreme fury could possibly make in the breast of a man, he yet did bear along with him, those his affections to her as freshly living even in this her great disfavour, as if she had honoured him with all the graces, that she could confer. Which now he did not say to bend her aught to pity; for he in giving her this last adieu, did give it also to all hope to see her face, or once to write to her more, but 'twas to let her see the constancy and excellence of his tried love, since that he did conserve it yet, within the midst of loss, and that how low and base compared with his were those affections which she yet preferred to his.  
Adraste bethinking him of means to deliverher this Letter, was visited by three or four of his friends, that caused him to sup at home, and to pass with them the remainder of this troublesome day. After Supper, taking the air with the same company along the walk by the River, which is right against the Lovure, and talking of his departure, as one that meant to be on horseback by eight a clock in the morning, he felt one pull him behind, and turning head, he saw Minerva's Footman, who having caused him break off discourse, and bid adieu to the company, presented him with a note from his Mistress, which Adraste as then did not open, nor could he have read it without light; But hast thou said he, to the Laquay, nothing else to say to me? No Sir, answered he, but that I most humbly kiss your hands. Well then, return said Adraste, and presently bear back this Letter to your Lady, which I had thought should not have been delivered till after my depart, and having given him his Letter, went into his lodging to read Minerva's, that was to this purpose.  
These lines that bring you my adieu, since I myself cannot otherwise give it, may assure you that I do wish you a happy journey, and a ready return that am your servant.  
Howsoever Adraste were extremely incensed against Minerva, he became so appeased by the reading this note, as he resolved to see her that Evening, though it were very late, In which might well be seen he was truly amorous; And that Minerva knowing him no less easy to be regained, then rejected, caused these devises with him on assurance or rather presumption she had of regaining, or calling him back at pleasure. Going then to her house, they told him that she was in bed: but if he would go up to her chamber he should not fail to see her. So went he up and having sat him down on her bed side, after saluting her, but with countenance somewhat cool, and shameful, said she to him before he had leisure to speak. Now you see my goodness very true, said Adraste, yet are you as slow of compassion, as ready of anger, if you were but as quick to heal, as you are to hurt you might yet be better. But what will you say of my easiness, said she, that had not the heart to let you part, without calling you back. Nay, what will you say of mine, answered Adraste, that had not the spirit to go my ways, after so many indignities, without returning upon so small a sign, as you gave me that you desired it. Call it not easiness, it is obedience in you, answered Minerva, or rather your duty, you cannot be a slave, and a free man, both at once, nor to be to me, and execute your own designs, without conforming them to mine. It is then less in you answered Adraste, without you will have it easiness to call back by reason, him you had banished without cause. It was an easiness in you to take from me your company, and a generosity, to render me again, since there is nought so slack and ill as is ingratitude, nor any thing more generous than is a free acknowledgement & requital. You say your pleasure, answered Minerva, and I have done as I ought. As you ought Madam, replied Adraste, was it a part of your devoir, to forbid me visiting you the Eve of my departure, behoved it you, to have permitted me so long, just then to bar and keep me out. Behooved it you to have so many times given notice to me of my Rivals jealousies, to banish me upon the first complaint I made of them, and openly so much oppose your passions, to my Reasons. Nay, said Minerva, le's abolish now, and quite forget those things; I protect the absent 'gainst the present ever. And you are ignorant what I have said to him on your behalf, you being away; and you perhaps think much at what he holds himself contented with. Madam answered Adraste, absolutions and forgivenesses, if so you mean, are still for crimes, as recompenses are for services. You have cause to wish you could forget the wrongs you have done to me; And I have reason ne'ertheless to urge my satisfaction. As to the cause that others have to please themselves, or to complain them, of the usage, good, or ill, that you afford to them, I not observe, or near, or further off. I have told you heretofore, that your deportment was so just on my behalf, as that the very wrongs which you have done to me; to me, have yet seemed good. But I complain that any one should ere control both mine, and your carriage, that people no way interessed in the one, or other, should yet take upon them both. And above all I needs must grieve, that you, that ought not once to grant your pardon to the thought, should have so much approved the effect, as that in place of being offended 'gainst that tyranny, seeks to subject you, to the furious jealousy of one; you take offence against your humblest vassal, that hath never owned a thought, but how he might honour you. Well then said Minerva, if I have done you any offence, I hope you now are satisfied? And Madam from what satisfied? from seeing you so beautiful within your bed, answered Adraste, that indeed were well, if so we could be satisfied by sight. Is there a greater satisfaction to see the party that you love, replied Minerva. Not any said Adraste, so as we likewise may possess it too. But otherwise the sight of what we have not power to enjoy, doth serve but to torment us more. And by so much as it is dear to us, even by so much it breedeth our vexation more, and chiefly when it rests in the possession of an other too, and one that altogether is unworthy of it. They did proceed so far in this discourse, as the whole house at last were fallen a sleep, some here, some there. Adrastes boy that had attended below in the Court, seeing that it was already so late, that they were all fallen a sleep in the house, retired to his Master's lodging, and left him there; believing he would pass the night as he did. But Adraste, and Minerva, slept not, it being scarce long enough to finish one part of what they had to say. And at last, there was not any thing that parted them but day. Minerva, being afraid that Adraste might be seen to go out of her house, entreated him to go his way, and that he would see her again before his departure. Sweet light, doth rejoice the heart of all mankind, and which of all things in the world, art most delightful, and most beautiful, how importune, as then wert thou? and much displeasing to these happy Lovers here. And oh sweet night, offensive only, that thou wert too short, permit that I express the rest of their kind language, each to the other then, by thy own silence. And that I never violate the sacred mysteries, of thy loved shades. Adraste seeing that he needs must part, and judging of the pain, and sufferance, he was to undergo in parting from Minerva, when as he must away unto the Camp, by that he now did feel, in but retiring to his bed. Oh me my greatest bliss, said he, why should we ever part? what ominous star, what Spirit of portent, or what cursed state is it, hath power to force me to it? Alas, I do but hunt, and run in quest of that false honour that deceiveth me, to leave that true and real glory, that does render me content. Nay Sir, go on, said she, you cannot part from me, for I shall ever follow you, at least in my imaginations, since that it is not less within my choice, to live within your sight. Oh me my better Genius! said Adraste, then. I here consign you over my life, and do conjure you there withal, that you do still remember you of this your promise made. Assure you said Minerva, I shall sooner lose the memory of my name, than ever of this promise made to thee. And that I sooner will be drawn to leave my life, than this possession thou hast put me in. I swear this by thyself, that art the only thing I wish to swear by under heaven. And adieu my dear Adraste, content thee yet with this my full assurance given. My goddess, then farewell Adraste said, in going back, Once as yet, farewell, And again once more, farewell. Adraste being parted from Minerva, as from his own Soul, how ever no less contented in her favours, than an other jason in his conquest, retired to his lodging by the light of the morning, which he could more willingly have cursed, then saluted, for having so soon brought back the day: And going to rest at such an hour, as others rise, and as he had believed he should have rose himself, instead of being on horseback at eight a Clock, according to his forecast, he found it was almost eleven, when he was yet in bed. But he had promised Minerva to see her at ten, who perceiving the hour passed, went to Mass, and to meet him, she made choice of the next Church to his lodging. But Adraste being up, said prayers, and broke his fast almost together, and both in haste, with a gentleman that had stayed for him, even since the morn, to go along with him. So soon as he had dispatched such encumbrances, as ordinarily do hinder men upon their leaving such a City. At last he got on horseback, after one thousand adves of his friends, and went on passing by the Lodging of Minerva; there yet, to enjoy one moment of the pleasure, of which he now went to deprive him utterly. Minerva having commanded at her going out, that they should tell him at what Church she would be, He prayed the company ride on, whilst he went back thither, though it were a good way off. But he would have gone much further: Minerva being gone on foot for love of him; well might he go on horseback for the love of her so far. He found her at the church, just as the mass was done, when her devotions being finished, she rested wholly in expectance of him. After having prattled some while at the Church, he led her back to her house, there to chat at more liberty, and having withdrawn her again unto her bedside, where he so happily had passed the former night. Good gods, what said they not? Oh Love! how much renowned mightst thou render me herein. And I again might render thee most famous to the world, if so thou wouldst inspire me now, but with a part of those adves they taken. Minerva heretofore more cruel than a Lioness, was then become more gentle than a Dove. Adraste holding her between his arms, transported with this object of his high felicity, and present happiness, remembered now no more the great misfortunes he had passed. Oh happy condition of a blessed and perfect Lover, had it not been disturbed by the apprehension that he had of losing it. It was passed two a Clock, before Adraste could remember him to take his leave, or that Minerva thought it time to dine. But Adraste fearing to spoil Minerva's dinner, & Minerva being afraid to hinder Adrastes journey, both of them gave way to the necessity of a separation, and in the end resolved them of their last farewell. But God knows with what violence their souls met in the kisses of their lips; and then their hearts feeling the one to approach the other, leapt with such force, as it did seem they would have changed place. Adraste never ceasing to conjure her love him still, and to write to him oft. Entreated her now to bestow a favour of him, that he might bear in this war, and with the title of her Cavalier, or Palladin. The favour was promised, but not given, because Minerva did desire to have it a scarf of such a fashion, as would take more time, than she as then had to make it up. The quality of Paladine was yet conferred on him, as we shall term him in the second part of this history; which we hope ere long to render you more pleasant, and Heroic than this First.   
The end of the First part.   

DIVERS AMOROUS Epistles wrote by the Author to the same Lady, during the time mentioned in the precedent story, and not therein spoke of.  

The Argument.  
That neither his love, nor the perfections of his Mistress could be possibly spoken of, but imperfectly.  
Epistle 1.  
Madame,  
I Was extremely rash to dare once to entertain the first conceptions of my love: nor am I less unhappy in my desires to manifest their resentment. An extraordinary passion like mine, should not have been expressed by an ordinary means, like those of the common sort. I should have died without speaking, hiding the depth of my disease in as profound a silence, that the novelty of a respect so great, might have invited yet some pity. It may be she whom the most to be lamented sorrows of life, hath not had power to touch, might yet have been made sensible by a too late compassion of my death. And Madam, think you as you please, 'tis not so sure, that now I talk, as 'tis most certain that I die, and that these here be groans I utter, & not words, for that a passion so extreme learns rather how to sigh, then speak, nor think that mine are less for being ill expressed, for that doth best explain how great they are. I never speak of them but to their prejudice, and still confound me in willing to express them. For would I show the ills you cause me undergo, the words torture and martyrdom, are too too gentle to express what I from time to time do suffer; and would I entertain you with the good which you forbid mere to hope, the words delight and glory, seem to me but low. Would I manifest my obedience and my service to you, the qualities of slave and vassal, to me, seem not sufficiently humble; and should I go about to speak your power▪ and your demerits, why the titles of Empress and Goddess are not sublime enough. So as Madam, be it that my wit confounded in the excellence of yours, be unable to endure the brightness of it, be it that yours incomparably elivate above mine, be not less inaccessible, than you yourself are altogether inexorable; be it that the chaos of despair whereto your cruelties have reduced me, do take from me my speech, together with my life, or be it that as there is no thoughts can equal the greatness of your merits, so is there no words can reach the greatness of my thoughts; be it what it will be, Madame, this is sure, I cannot speak, or of my love, or your perfections; but imperfectly; and that a style most new, and words unknown, behoved to express as yet so rare and most unheard of things.   

The Argument.  
Upon his Mistress forbidding him to love.  
Epistle 2.  
YOu yesterday gave me in command, not to love, which I confess I have ill obeyed, for be it, for the afflictions I feel in that cruelty, be it, that things forbidden are ever most desired, I have not had the power to think another thought since you forbade it me. Madame, there is no kind of duty that I owe you not; command me that I shed your enemy's blood, or that I spill my own, I shall not leave one drop within my veins; I shall oppose the violence of times, and of the elements, nor is there cruelty of chance or fate, to which I shall not willingly expose myself to obey you. But either cease you to forbid me love, or otherwise forbid your image to pursue me, since that doth watch me every where, and leaves me not or liberty or thought, but what it doth inspire, or else you may as well forbid the Sun to enlighten the whole earth, the earth not to produce her fruits: you may as well forbid the waters to descend, and fire to mount on high, since all these functions are not half so proper unto them, nor yet so natural as 'tis most natural and proper unto me, to think on and to live in you. But Madam, I beseech you say, what Empire else but yours hath ever reached so far as to the thoughts of men? what tyrant but yourself, forbids to think of things desired? Is it not sufficient that I obey you in things most difficult, but you will yet command me those impossible? shall then so much respect and passion, with so much violence and lasting too, avail me nought, nor ever bend the cruelty of your so pitiless spirit? how many years is it I have sighed for you? is it not time at last to yield, is not my constancy as yet sufficiently proved? shall you not reap more glory and contentment to preserve me, then to betray yourself in my ascertained loss. Madame, I have told you heretofore, that no desire so violent bides in the heart of man, or mad indeed, as that I have to possess you. But I shall rather choose eternally to undergo such rage and violence, then seek my remedy in any thing displeasing to you. Oh what mistrust, or what so feeble strength as now hath power to make you doubt a faith so known? If quite disfavourd as I am, I cannot choose but love you yet, and worship now in you even this ingratitude and cruelty, that makes me dye, what should I then do, would you but render me possessor of that grace, the only hope whereof doth cause me live? Madame, conceive the rest by thought, and think yourself of what you do forbid me think.   

The Argument.  
He saith that he loveth as well by election, as destinate thereto, and entreats his Mistress to examine the cause for which she dooms his death.  
Epistle 3.  
Madame,  
I Told you yesterday that I did love you, as of mere election and free will, but likewise by an absolute necessity, with an ardent, excessive, and a most furious passion, of which I could not possibly be healed, without it were by a possession, or by death: and that herein was neither end or meave; you Madam as if to slay the creature that adores you, were to do better, then to give him life, did absolutely then forbid me ere to hope the first means of recovery, upon necessity reducing me unto the second then, that is to say, you did condemn me unto death: unto what judge Madam please you shall I appeal? In what religion, in what school have you learned so bloody adivinity? Who hath given you such assurance as to persuade me after this, that yet you wish me well, and to command me live, when you have doomed me unto death? Who hath been able to persuade you to impose such rigorous laws, as do oblige me beg your pardon, even for the ills you do me, and for the love itself which I bear you? Madame, yet this once, and as the last, I do most humbly entreat you, but to examine the cause wherefore, and why, you kill me? It is for a most perfect love, which hath extended so itself as unto those, that naturally indeed I ought to hate. Was ere man found but me, that for the love of his Mistress, loved his rival too? But wherefore busy I myself to represent my affections here to you, that have confessed that you believe them much more than I know how to express. Do you represent them Madam in the true perfection I have conceived them, and see if for being too faithful, and for having in your love exceeded the most violent passions of man, it be reasonable that you cause me undergo the heaviest torments of mankind. Think that my fate, or good, or ill, dependsnow on your answer, and that I beg not here my life, but for to make immortal yours; and seen in the extended vastness of my sufferings, how boundless the perfections are, that render yet your cruelty so lovely.   

The Argument.  
He complains of the indifference of his Mistress.  
Epistle 4.  
Madame,  
I Should live ill satisfied as well from you, as from myself, might I not complain me of the ill you do me, of which the little care you take, is yet more cruel than the ill itself. That feeble spark of reason rests to me amid the blindness of so much amazement, lets me yet see in you, so much indifference, as not to see it I should take it for a blessing to have lost my sight. I know well you will accuse me of a raving, but to complain with reason of an ill suffered without cause, is, by no means, to rave. The long continuance of my servage Madam, and the advantages my affection gives me afore all such as honour you, makes me presume, I hold in your affection yet some place above the common sort. And you have told me so: but suiting ill your deeds unto your words, there is no company so ill, the entertain ment, and converse whereof you have not still preferred to mine. Madame, I will not comment on your actions, your deportments being so just on my behalf, that even the ills you do me, do yet seem good to me. But I complain of heaven, that hath bestowed on me so little merit, and so boundless love, according unto which proportions, the one bears me to adore and honour you, the other doth invite you to disdain and scorn me. Nor can I deny also, but that it seems extremely cruel unto me to see you hark to any other speech then that of my complaint. Nor that I conceive not an ill opinion of myself, by the slight esteem that you have of my sufferance. Yet Madam since that you are so pleased, I shall conform me to your humours, and make you see, that I have no content at all, but in what pleaseth you. But if my frequent visits tender you, my passions importune, I shall most humbly beg you will accuse your own perfections of the fault; that in the image of such beauties have caused me to adore even cruelty itself, and seek the vain shadow of contentment in a most sure and real martyrdom.   

The Answer.  
Epistle 5.  
Sir,  
I Expected the least of any thing such a Letter from you, whom I believed better than ever satisfied in my deportments and intentions. You judge both of the one and other rather by opinion then by reason, and falsely accuse me to have done you ill, since I have neither had the power or will, and that you never can reap the good I wish you. You have cause to say that I will accuse you of raving, and to call to mind that I have promised to love you more than others. This truth me thinks, should hold sufficient place in your belief, to hinder that any other contrary impression should ever usurp the room. But if you take the pains to remember you of what you do complain, and chiefly of the compliance, wherewith you say I gratify all the world, without remembering you; You will find they are but compliments, to which civility inviteth and obligeth me, and that they have been more liberally imparted to yourself then any man. I am never importuned by your visits, but on the contrary they have been so valued by me, that I desire the continuance, on condition that you give no more faith to any thing averse to the esteem I have of your demerits.   

The Reply.  
Epistle 6.  
Madame,  
I Judged what you would answer me before I wrote unto you, and well I knew, that you would not want words, whatsoever reason you might see deficient in. But I know not, nor can I, as yet, learn, on what deportment of yours I ought take up my satisfaction, for either I am very blind, or else I have not seen any so favourable, as might render me more satisfied than I have been. Notwithstanding you have cause to say, that I rather judge thereofby opinion, then by reason, for that I have pronounced them just against myself, which reasonably I never could. To say I accuse you wrongfully of the ill you do me, and that you have nor power nor will thereto, were not only against my knowledge, but also against yours, and cannot be said without gainsaying the most certain experience that I have proved therein: against which it is impossible to believe that you have ever wished me well. As to my raving I myself give sentence against myself, upon condition you confess that it proceeds not, but of too much love. And for the verity of your promise, I know not what place it may hold in my belief, to hinder a contrary impression, not having ever seen the proof that was not to the contrary. To remember me of things whereof I do complain, were but to afflict me more. It were better seek some means to forget them, as her, hath been their causer since that I neither can or ought hope other thing.   

The Argument.  
He amorously seems angry with his Mistress.  
Epistle 7.  
Madam,  
I Should indeed never write more, no nor speak, calling to mind how much both the one, and the other, have been bootless to me, and how much that faithful, steadfast, and most perfect affection which I bear you, continued of so long time, and with so wonderful a perseverance, might speak for me, were not you on my behalf, the most imperswasible woman under heaven; But the violence of my torments, and that rigorous usage wherewithal you entertain me, when I ought be rather cloyed, then starved with your favours, constrain me to lament myself, and to accuse you both of ingratitude, and cruelty. What is the matter Madam? have you lost the name and memory of him that hath not any, but to love you, & to serve you; And is it not enough that you are lovelesse, but you will be too without memory, without▪ knowledge? How long have I sighed for you? and you withstood, not only my felicity, but more your own. Remember you, that he that begs love on you now, is he, that of so long, hath been your suppliant, and that it is not a vain humour that invites him to it, but the truest passion love did ever yet enforce. Content yourself in that so violent resistance you have made till now, against your own good hap, and suffer you yourself to be o'ercome at last, by an invincible spirit. All things invite you to it, and nothing lets you; your honour is protected in my wariness, and my discretion, and this same innocent fear you have to do amiss, in my favour, is altogether causeless. God is no enemy of Natures, but its Author, and the offence committed without scandals is no offence; for this'tis said that they are blessed whose sins are covered. But Madam, the men of the first times, having composed their civil Laws, did after give them out unto the people, as divine, to the intent to render them the more venerable, and themselves the better obeyed in their Authority. So Numa, made the Romans believe he had the Laws he gave them from the Goddess Egeria. And Lycurgus persuaded the greeks that Apollo had given him his. Stand you not then on so vain a scruple, which indeed is no other than a bare pretence, to hide your cruelty. And if you still doubt of that so faithful constancy, of which you have had so long experience; Alas! with what manner of proof have I not testified the same? which notwithstanding, if so be there yet remains one I have not rendered; may it include my life, and all that ever I have, command me here that I present you with it; that so living and dying in obedience, as in affection, I may cause you find me more worthy of the good you refuse me, then of the i'll you do me.   

The Argument.  
He comforteth his Mistress, on the death of his Rival, and manifesteth the excellence of his Love, above all other affections.  
Epistle 8.  
Madam,  
YOu commanded me to ease you of a passion, gave you offence, and at the same time promised to cure me of another, gave me death; And howsoever I hope nothing less than the effects of such a promise, your repose is so dear to me, and your Empire so pleasing, as I have imposed silence on my own passions, to give care to yours, and forgotten all the ills you do me, to haste to your help, even in those which you yourself procure you. I cannot deny Madam, but your sorrows are natural, since they proceed from love, and from the death of a man you loved; you have not loved him sans merit, and you have lost him without possessing him, so as you lament him justly. This is a truth, and cannot be denied without offending the resentment you have for him; But Madam, against whom complain you of his death? Is it against God, who did permit him live, or against yourself most innocent of his death? If it be against you, are you not still the more afflicted, and the more sorrowful? And if it be against God, knows he not better what is fit for us, than we ourselves? Could not he have suffered him whom you love dead, to have been living, yet possessed by another Mistress, within whose arms you had less loved him, then in his grave? Could not he as well have taken you again, as him, thereby reducing you to that first nothing, which he made you of? Consider what you complain of Madam, and you will find, that it is nought, and that to be moan yourself, and vex your soul for nothing, is an inexcusable weakness; We well may pardon the first complaints that grief enforceth us to utter, for that there is no courage so assured, whom the violence of these first motions does not overturn; But this storm ceased, there is no more excuse, if Reason reassumes not place, & at her turn does not obtrude those passions, that had turned her out. It is for this Men say that the superior part of the Soul, should be like the supreme Region of the Air, that never is agitated with, or storm, or tempest. See here Madam, the difference 'twixt what you do, and what you ought to do, for doubtless, discourse, time, the necessity of death, and a thousand other considerations I omit, should before now have settled your resolution, to have borne a remediless mishap. Where see the quite contrary, instead of making your constancy appear, and shine in such an accident, showing by how many ways you exceed, in the beauties and perfections of your Sex; you give yourself over a prey to grief, like to some simple and ignorant woman; you shut your spirits up (which God ordained for heaven) within a grave, together with a dead Carcase, which he it may be hath deprived of life, even for the immeasurable love you bore him, you sacrifice your Soul to a most singular grief, and vainly run after a shadow, you are sure you never can o'ertake. Your Soul is the Temple of God, and you adore there, the image of a dead man, whom he permitted not that you should love, not whilst he lived. You make scruple of small things, and make no conscience of Idolatry, which you yourself do know to be the grievousest sin that can be perpetrate. The Laws allow a widow but one year, to testify her lawful sorrows, which for the most part be but in appearance neither, and you resolve to carry yours eternally within your soul. You will nourish a Wolf that devours you, embrace what betrays you, ruin your repose, outrage your beauty and your health, and cause yourself to die alive. To conclude Madam, you will openly resist the will of God, according to which you make profession of ordering yours. Who being our Father, loves us his children, & better knowing what we want, than we ourselves, rules all things by his Providence, and not according to our fancies. For if the world were governed by the various humours, and diverse passions of men. Alas! Madam, to what new Chaos were we then brought back? And if that sometimes he afflict us here, 'tis always yet to profit us, & never to our hurt, and even that ill he does us, is either still to make us merit some greater good, or else to cause us shun some greater ill. Complain not you unjustly then of what he justly doth. Think not that he hath suffered now this loss, for other cause then to acquit you of a greater grief, which howsoever you are unable to perceive, yet see you that his power is infinite, and that his judgements are unknown, and which 'tis better far to apprehend, then prove. But you will tell me the same you told me yesterday, that your passions are not so easily shifted as your petticoats. It is true Madam, and I find it but too certain in what I undergo for you. But where are now those so sufficient reasons, by which you have erewhiles endeavoured to persuade me, that I might easily put off mine? Why serve you not yourself against yourself, with those weapons you so well handle against others? Why do you think it impossible to free you of the passions you have for a shadow, having before believed that it was nothing for me to divest me of these I have for you? Is it that you are more capable of love than I am, or that the subject of your love is more excellent than mine? Madame, I will not lessen the merit of your affections, which you had never conceived, had they not been most perfect, of which it is no little proof to see them live yet, in you, after the death of him that caused them. Yet are they natural, and nothing is more common then to mourn for a lost friend. But that I had power to humble me so, to the pleasure of a woman, as for her love, I have loved even the rival that hindered me to be beloved, is a proof of an affection Madame, that in some sort exceeds the rule of nature. And in the which you cannot deny, but I surpass you, as much as you in all other things exceed me. As to the subject of your love, Madam, he was most certainly lovely, otherwise you had not made choice of him. But without wroning your election, or his merits, I dare say, that there was more correspondence in your humours, then in your qualities; and that more than the compliance and discretion wherewith he entertained you, and whereby chiefly he was praiseworthy, he was not possessed of so great perfections, as could make him merit yours. By which you may see, that the subject of my love being more excellent than yours, it follows that your passions must be less than mine, and that you may easilier divest you of them, than I of mine; yea, if so the cause remained; which being now no more, it is a marvel that the effect should yet continue. But Madam, I have given sufficient audience to your plaints, it is now high time that you harken unto mine, if not for my ease, yet for your own at least, since the most miserable may find in them some cause of comfort. You bemoan the dead Madam, and think not of those that die by your means. I do daily perish, and am evenat the last gasp, and that for your love: and yet have you the heart to sigh for another before my face, and the power to interdict my passions, to make me wed yours. I see a dead body preferred to me, which living I in affection yet preceded, and find you as insensible and wholly inanimate on my behalf as he is on yours. My whole labours, all my affections and best qualities, are altogether bootless; you know, without acknowledging my faith, you look upon my afflictions, without once being moved: and whatsoever might commend a perfect affection, you behold in me, not deigning ought to regard it. Thou too too much beloved dead man, whose condition is most happy, in comparison of mine! thou wert living beloved of the most lovely beauty under heaven, and thou art only he that art beloved of her as yet even after death. Thou wert not only beloved of thy Mistress, but thou wert likewise of thine enemy. In stead of persecuting thee even to thy grave, as thief and robber of my good, which thy remembrance hinders me as yet to have; I have honoured thy memory with my writings, which have so imprinted it in the heart of thy Mistress, as now there is no other impression can take place for that. Is there any compliance? Is there any passion or perfection indeed in love, that can come near to this? Madam I implore here the beauty of your wit, and the integrity of your own soul, in default of mine, that with this thought passeth away in transe, and leaves me not with other hope or desire, than here to see my life fail me with my speech.   

The Argument.  
He complains of his Mistress that she had failed him in a meeting appointed by her to walk.  
Epistle 9  
YOu sent yesterday to let me know that you could not come, and that I should not attend you any longer. I was told that you supped very late, and you chased me away, upon pretence that you would sup in good time. A man should be extremely purblind not to see that there was something more in this, than matter of Mastership, and that you having threatened to deprive me of a particular entertainment, would let me see, that you were a woman of your word. Hug yourself for it Madam, you shall never more be troubled, though I continue ever in torment. I shall not only leave you your liberty, but mine own, which I pretend not to withdraw from so worthy a servitude, where I choose rather to suffer extreme tyranny, than elsewhere to live beneath the perfects Empire. No Madam, what I pretend to, is to make you see in an unparallelled respect, an affection incomparable, and in a blind obedience mute and inconsiderate, how much inferior to me, I leave such as aspire to the glory of your love: and how much I hope to exceed them by those actions, which my courage and the violent ambition I have to merit you, do promise meto achieve in this war.  

The Answer.  
YOu conceive things otherwise then they be, and according to your fancies, whereupon you write to me as you please. I shall better answer you by word of mouth, then by Letter, and making you find your error, it will belong to you to make me satisfaction.    

The Argument.  
He justifieth his fancies.  
Epistle 10.  
THe party you left with me yesterday can tell you, how I knew not what to do with myself; after I had then lost you. When howsoever it were near night, it seemed to me a tedious day. There is a fair Lady near you, who lately told me, she would gladly see me. I light on him had procured me this honour, who endeavoured what he could to get me thither, but prevailed nothing, howsoever I knew not how to busy me, but in thinking of you turning and returning in my memory, such things as you have said to me, and those humours and conjectures whereof you accuse me, after having yourself caused them. I humbly entreat you Madam, take notice there may be fancies and humour without love, but not love without humour and fancy, and if you upbraid me with them as an error, it is yet a general one, and common to all lovers, above whom I have this advantage yet, that I order them so as they never trouble her I love. Most beauteous Minerva! glory of my thoughts, the sovereign good of my life, and extreme felicity of my soul, who can render a more faithful testimony of this truth then yourself? that can so easily moderate the furies of my violence. How many times have you stayed the most impetuous motions of my passions, with one word, yea with a look. No more than blame my humours that do rather merit commendations, since they make me honour the cause that brought them forth, and are not only proofs of my love, but also of my obedience.   

The Argument.  
Why his Mistress should not be moved at his Martyrdom, upon his departure.  
Epistle 11.  
THere is nothing so strange, nor any thing so wonderful, the accustomed use whereof, wears not out the astonishment. Observe, that death is most horrible, notwithstanding which, the habit thiefs have in murder, causeth that they kill men, not only without horror, but with some kind of pleasure and voluptuousness. The comparison is bad, but it is proper. I would say that albeit my martyrdom be without example, and that the novelty thereof, amazeth me, and renders me, myself, thereat affrighted, you are so accustomed to plaints, and to the tears of such whom you make sigh, as that you suffer not yourself to be the least touched at mine. No Madam, I believe your intellect extremely generous, and consequently pitiful, but it is beaten so with such discourse, as it but laughs thereat, and looks on me dying, not only with dry eyes, but with some sort of pleasure too. Oh Madam, were I capable of comforting the afflicted, I should, and not without good cause, begin with myself, rather than with those, whose jealousies are more worthy of derision, then of pity. You Madam, with whom I am to part this day, in no less sorrow then if I were to be separated from my proper life; expect not words at my depart, my sorrows will not suffer them: it will be much if I be able but to bid adieu, since that is the last word a man should use in leaving life.   

The Argument.  
He entreats his Mistress so torment him, to the end such pleasure as she takes therein, be increased proportionably to the increase of his torments.  
Epistle 12.  
Madam,  
I give you good night, letting you know besides for news, that my dolours are become more pleasing than they were, since I took notice of the contentment they bring you. Wherefore I entreat you not to lessen them, but to provide me new vexations, to the end your delights be increased proportionable, to the abundance of my punishments. For I am not content to undergo only the ills you do me, but I would yet too suffer those are done to you, and become the most miserable soul that ever lived, to render you the most happy. No Madam, I love not for my pleasure, I love for yours, and love not to torment you, but to vex myself for the love of you, by whom I desire still to be tormented. I say not this or to flatter you, or to decline your anger, I know that the one is bootless, and the other impossible. I speak it as a truth, by which I am thereto enforced, and to make it appear to you, how much my affections are elevate above all others, the vassals, and the subjects of your boundless Empire.   

The Argument.  
He excuseth himself for putting his Mistress in collar, by preferring a just complaint unto her, and protesteth that he will never more complain, since he seeth he cannot complain, without giving her offence.  
Epistle 13.  
Madam,  
I Were not a man, if I had not passions, nor a Gascoine, were I not violent, nor could I be amorous, were I not furious. But that these conditions are so eminent in me, that they have ever appeared to the prejudice of that respect, that subjection, or that obedience which I owe you; ay most humbly entreat you Madam, be you yourself the judge, and do not as yesternight ye did, when desiring with all the humility, and submission a slave owes to his Lord, but to lament a just resentment; you caused me feel the effect of such wrath as I ne'er merited, after the depriving me of an entertainment promised. For you alone both pleaded, and adjudged the cause, with such precipitation, not at all harkening to me, that I had more haste to obey you, without reply, then by reasons to defend myself, though it were most evident on my side, and that your award was not only unjust, but likewise injurious. But Madam, I beg yet of you, though it were yesterday forbidden me to speak, it may be permitted this day to write, and that you will receive this complaint, as the last I hope ever to prefer. For since I cannot complain without offending you, I shall rather choose to undergo all the rigours in the world, than once to complain of any one. You are Madam so just, as you never give cause of complaint to man, and if any one do of himself offer it, you return him such satisfaction, as a man much injured, could not but be well contented. There is none but me only destinate to suffer, not alone hopeless of satisfaction, but more, most ascertained to be checked and kerbed for all sorts of occasions, and for all sorts of people, which I should embrace yet as a favour, if no other but yourself might take advantages thereby. But you have entitled me unto the place that does give way to all the world, and forceth me give you away to others, for whom I should most gladly give my life. If instead of those whole days you say you will afford me, you would vouchsafe me only but one hour, to accept the adieu you have commanded me to come and render you, it would be easy for me to justify this truth. If not, then must I bear it away within my breast, together with an eternal sorrow to have most innocently offended you.  

The Answer.  
Sir,  
HAd I words so sufficient, as I had yesterday cause to be in collar, I should enforce you to confess that you are in an error, to take it ill at my hands. And if you please to be at the pain to to come hither, I shall not forbear to tell you, what I think therein, and assure you that I am your Servant.    

The Argument.  
He endeavours to maintain a wager he had propounded to have laid, that he would write no more to her, and begs pardon, that he doth not ask her pardon for it.  
Epistle 14.  
Madam,  
YEsterday upon the assault of my first motions, I offered to have laid a wager with you, of which having better considered, I find that I had reason to have done it, and that you were in an error to take offence at it, for what can I more in writing present you with, which I have not already sent, and said unto you? And if all that I have said, and all that ever I can say, will not yet incline you at all to pity, to what purpose should I trouble myself in a labour, that is not only bootless unto me, but likewise hurtful? For is it not true, that they are so many firebrands, to incense those flames, wherewith I am already most miserably burned? And if I must not hope for any ease therein; why would you that I should again enkindle them? If the most perfect love of the world, the most extreme fidelity, the discreetest modesty, and most steadfast constancy that ever was; if all these together so often tried, and so many times approved by yourself, have not power to leave the least impression in your breast, but that on the contrary, my complaints have served merely for your sport, and pastime; why should I obstinately continue to lament me of an ill, which you have told me, and my perseverance lets me see, is altogether helpless. In a word Madam, why are you pleased that I should ever ask you that, which you will never grant me? Would you not think a man extremely cruel, that should put his enemy to death, that had begged life at his hands? Yet am not I your enemy, and yet you use me in this manner, I and worse, for you do take offence both when I ask, and when I do not ask; But Madam, I have so perfectly conceived the greatness of your demerits, and find my words so mean, in comparison of this conceit, as the despair to attain it only, is a sufficient cause to make me hold my peace, and religiously adore in silence, what I cannot in my discourses, honour but imperfectly Here is the great offence I did you yesterday; Madam, I most humbly entreat you pardon me that I ask you not your pardon for it.   

The Argument.  
After his Mistress departure, he comforteth her in her afflictions, by the example of his own adversities.  
Epistle 15.  
Madam,  
AFter having bid adieu, and followed you with both my eyes, so far as the way you held would give me leave, I returned to go visit those pledges you left here behind you in the City, where the sorrow not to see you with them, renewed those griefs I had for your departure; And sending my man thither to day, Mistress N. let me know, that she would write unto you, which hath invited me to do the like. I can assure you Madam, if it be a consolation to the afflicted, to have companions in misery, you have great cause to comfort you in your sorrows, by the example of mine; which really are the most sensible I ever yet have felt. You have not wept alone, you have taught me the mystery, and a mystery that hath been altogether unknown to me ere since I knew myself. I most humbly entreat you that my sorrows may mitigate yours; that now at need you make use of your constancy, and fit your heart to bear all accidents that can arrive, and if so be the pity of yourself cannot yet apt you to it, let it for your Children order you therein. They fare here much better than you, and weep much less than him that now blotteth his paper with his tears. Adieu my fair and dear Minerva, I am afraid to be surprised in this exercise; And find no words that can express how much I am yours.   

The Argument.  
An Epistle of a Lady, to a faithless Lover.  
Epistle 16.  
SInce that I must write to one that answers not my Letters, take it not in favour of you, it is not to you, but to this paper I will tell my thoughts, and hereon so disburden me of them, as I will never more have them in mind, but to detest their Causer. You have not deceive me, for I long since foresaw my goodness unable to render you better than nature made you. Yet I accuse you not; for being so light and wavering as you are, what could you likelier follow then the motions of your own lightness. No I complain of myself, that have shut my eyes upon your actions, the better to give care unto your words, and believed rather in your feigned persuasions, then in the true knowledge I had of your humour. If yet you did but tell me the cause of this your infidelity, and not being able to find a just occasion, you took the pain but to search a pretence that were coloured with some false appearance, I would herein excuse you, against myself and seeking some reason for your fault, should myself put up the wrong thereof, to absolve you. But to talk to me of a servant that never sees me, is an excuse worse than the offence, of which though you may well avoid the displeasure, you can never be able to wipe away the sorrow. This then is my comfort, that you have no other reason for your change, than your own inconstancy. And if so that I have not ties enough to stay you, yet have I resolution enough to let you go; and have as much patience in your loss, as I had contentment in your possession. Go on then, add to the honour your courageous heart propounds to you to seek from far, the triumph to have unthankfully acknowledged my affections. But send me my Letters, for that I will not that you carry any thing of mine along with you, but the remembrance to have lost my good will, and the despair of being ever able to recover it. Adieu.   

The Argument.  
He justifieth his silence.  
Epistle 17.  
Madam,  
YOu have stayed a long while to reproach me of my silence. You have not shown so much patience to hear me speak, as you have manifested to see me forbear. Yet must I take this for a testimony of the esteem you have of me, for which I stand so much obliged, as I never shall be able to acquit me. See here how admirable you are in your persuasions. Had I wrote to all such friends, as I may have in Picardy, and yet had forborn to write to you only, you then had had some cause for your reproaches, and consequently I had erred in my silence; But I have not wrote to any one, where you have written to all such as you know hereabouts, not forgetting any one, but me only; You are too blame then, for not having writ to me, as well as others, and afterwards upbraiding me for not having wrote to you. But I cannot write to you without complaining, and I choose rather to be silent, then to importune you with a bootless complaint, whence I should have hoped as little satisfaction, as I have had by these already made. Here is the true cause of my forbearance, and not that I have better exercises then those that busy me in the entertainment of so dear thoughts as I have of you. What I have done since I had the honour to see you, hath been to so little purpose, as it is impossible here to set it down, had I not once been resolved for Comprigne to have seen you, but that I doubted of finding youthere, for that I was told you were gone to Paris, whither I am now returned to remain ever yours.   

The Argument.  
He dares not see his Mistress.  
Epistle 18.  
I Sent you that you desired, and I crave your pardon that I brought it not myself, for fear of that amorous contagion, wherewith you strike all such as approach you. Knew you with what grief of heart I endeavour to keep away, you would have pity of my life, which I had much rather lose for your love, then entreat you to preserve to the prejudice of that you have for an other. Having oft heard say that it is one of the finest subtleties of the world, freely to do that which a man should of force have been constrained unto. See here the cause why I endeavour to render me myself; to be able yet once again to give me back to you. Howsoever I hope nothing less than ever to see you mine as I am yours.   

The Argument.  
He complains of his Mistress absence, and of those would hinder him from seeing her.  
Epistle 19  
THere is no longer means of living absent from my life, since you are not with me, I am no more myself. I may be forbidden the seeing you, but never the loving you, or if they will forbid, yet can they never hinder me, such as owe me most good will, do testify the least unto me, and that by reason of my affection. But I choose rather to be little obedient to them, to be the more faithful to you. Live you then in this assurance, if so you will not that I die; and become assured likewise that my life shall sooner be extinct, than that fair flame that daily does consume it.   

The Argument.  
He comforteth a Lady upon some displeasures she had received.  
Epistle 20.  
Madame,  
I Received the notice you gave me of your remembrance, with as much contentment to find me hold any place in your memory, as sorrow for not being able to merit the same in my services. It is your extreme courtesy Madam, makes you say that you are indebted to mine. For the good will I have to serve you, hath hitherto been to no purpose. And had the effect equalled my good will, I had been more then gratified for it by the remembrance you have of me; howsoever I can never render you so many services, but I must still owe you more. The end and middle of your Letter testify some sense of trouble you have been put to, which I will entreat you lose, for as much as it serves not but to augment them. If so you have had irrepaireable losses, it is lost time to think of them; and if they be to be helped, it were fit to bethink you of means to redress them, and to that end to endeavour whatsoever may be done; and if nothing can, to comfort yourself that it hath not been your fault, that you have therein done what could be possible, that you are not obliged to do more, nor justly to grieve yourself for accidents you cannot avoid. Here be the remedies that I often practise on myself continually, since I first knew me, wrestling beneath so injurious a fortune, as the most miserable may find wherewith to comfort themselves, in the contemplating me. But I am estrayed Madam, and forget that I increase the number of your troubles by the length of this my Letter, which may witness for me if you please, that the desire I have to live, is not so dear to me, as that I have to preserve me yours.   

The Argument.  
He answereth to a Letter of Minerva's.  
Epistle 21.  
YOur note enforceth me to avow it, that you have a better memory on my behalf, than heretofore you have had acknowledgement; and that you do something acquit you of what you owe me, if so you can pay all my love with one bare remembrance; I find also that you have cause to bear me in mind, for if so be I have not rendered you the service, the memory whereof may be dear unto you, at the least I have given you no offence, that aught to render you ill paid. As for me I have a thousand reasons that oblige me to cherish yours, but one only forbids me, which is that I cannot remember me of you, without passion, and to suffer a man's self to become passionate, for a thing cannot be had, is but a folly. I have of late pretended to wisdom, and have believed myself but ill favouredly therein, as you may think, notwithstanding which, if so I cannot attain to it, I will at least seem to have done it, and begin by the forgetting of my passions, and of her that was the cause of them; it is true that it is but an ill way this, to begin to forget my love by renewing the memory thereof, and indeed of what should I ever remember me after once having forgotten you?   

The Argument.  
A Lady's answer to her Lover.  
Epistle 22.  
THe care which you have to preserve my memory, and the passion you feel for my absence, to my thinking, are less than the means you have to express them, notwithstanding I value them so, as I am not much displeased to see the new assurances you give me of your affections, which are not over-pleasing unto me, though I were well satisfied with the former. The fairest proofs and most desired effects you can give me of your good will, consists in your return: I imagine not that you have cast the affection behind you, that you had for me, but chose I deem that you ever laid it amongst the most eminent of your best thoughts, and that like enough you may draw your cr●●es after you, but cannot break them. As to the ●●cape you have made without my leave, I attribute it to your affairs, never having any design that tended to the diverting you from them; if I render you beautiful thoughts, it is not in such abundance, but I always reserve some to myself, for the entertainment of my solitude in your absence, you say that you resolve to attend my answer at Brux▪ else, and I am resolved to write to you thither by an express messenger, if so your coming do not prevent me. Adieu, I am your servant.   

The Argument.  
He makes answer to a complaint she had made of him▪ for his silence, and not writing.  
Epistle 23.  
Madame,  
ONe chanced to deliver me a note, which by the hand and the style I knew to be yours. I confess to you Madam, that I scarce understood any thing in it, and that as I have no cause to believe, that my good wishes are any thing valued by you, so have you yet less, to say that you cannot consent to the loss of them. You think not that such as love not, but in presence, know well how to love. I know not wherefore you say that Madam, to one that both in your presence, and in your absence, hath testified so much love unto you, and one that therein hath been so ill requited, as you cannot renew the memory of his affection, without refreshing that of your own ingratitude. You continue to write to me almost against your will. Indeed I cannot deny but in that you do me a favour, which I hold extremely dear, but with it you ought to avow, that my affections do merit a greater, and that for every word, that you have wrote to me, you have received many Letters from me, from any of which, I cannot think that you can draw argument to prove, that I desire not the continuation of yours. And to demand that I should clear your scruples thereupon, is it not, to demand new proofs of a passion which you cannot be ignorant of, without belying your own experience? you say that should be much contrary to your desire; so sure should it be to mine that hath never tended but to honour you (though to no purpose) and that cannot yet repent the time therein lost. Thus would I entreat you to write to me, answering my Letters, as I reply to yours, and arguing with me reasonably, without framing to yourself such chimaeras, as have not for support, but your own fantasy. You will be thereby more satisfied, and I more contented, since my contentment depends on your satisfaction. I am not in the mean time your servant, but I shall always be so, whilst it shall please God and you to let me live.   

The Argument.  
Upon some discontent a little before his departure.  
Epistle 24.  
Madame,  
IF so be this paper be not as unwelcome to you, as myself, I entreat you here peruse a word or two which my extreme dolours hinder me to come and tell you. I nurse sufficient ills in my despair, without the need to have had them more exasperated by the interdiction of your speech, and of your sight. Yet ne'ertheless are any of them so cruel, but I would rather undergo them still without complaint, then be displeasing unto you. No Madam, I am sufficiently possessed of my affections, but not so much to the prejudice of my obedience, that they shall ever give you cause to term yourself a miserable one. I know not what you think; but I wish no part in heaven, if there be any manner of misfortune upon earth, I would not undergo, to render you in happy state thereby. Adieu, I go to breath forth my afflictions, in some place, whereas my worst of sufferings never shall offend the due respect I owe to you, and which I ever shall preserve to you even in my own loss.   

The Answer. 25.  
YOu have made an ill construction of my intentions, if so be you think that I desire to banish you my sight, since yours have ever been too dear to me, to value it now no better. And you shall much offend me if you do not bid adieu by word of mouth. When you shall enter into yourself, you will I assure me confess, that you are in an error, & that all such things as you accuse me of, are the furthest may be from any design of mine.   

The Reply. 26.  
IF I have ill interpreted your intentions, you may blame yourself, that have always hidden them in words so mystical, as I have been unable ere to penetrate. I well might think you interdicted me your speech and sight, when I perceived that you would neither see nor yet give care unto me. And that hath caused me to resolve to bid adieu by Letter, not to offend you, but to avoid your offence, and to punish myself for the sin I have committed in loving you too perfectly. But since you let me know that I should give you offence, if so I should not come, to present it you by word of mouth, I shall collect whatsoever remains to me of life, to come and tender you that word, the sole and only thought whereof is killing. I believe I shall confess me in an error, if once I do re-enter in myself, for really I think not therein ever to re-enter. Yet am I not so besides myself, that I shall ever forget me so as to accuse you of any thing; no it is I, that I accuse of all the ills I undergo, and I, the man that doth impute them still to my misfortunes and my ill deserts.   

THe next Epistle he wrote unto her, is the last mentioned in the story, where we leave him departed for the Army, from whence having sent her six or seven several Letters before he received one back, being returned to Paris, he wrote the following Epistles, which may give much light to the Reader, of the argument of the second part, that was near finished, but could not wholly, for that, what the Author intended otherwise (as may be thought) fill out an unhappy tragedy signed with his own lives blood, after he had four or five times victoriously returned out of the field, on several appeals, honoured with the better on his enemies, by whom he was unfortunately murdered, near the bedside of this Lady.   

The Argument.  
Being returned to Paris, he found that his Mistress had hearkened to some ill reports of him, whereof he complaineth, and for that she had taken from him such hours of visitation, as he had hardly acquired to give them to another. The first occasion of breach between them.  
Epistle 27.  
YEt ought I not to die, without so much as one word speaking, nor see myself condemned in a cause so just, without defending me at all. I had thought to have smothered my complaints in silence of my death. But the griefs are too too smarting, and the injustice you accuse them of, oblige me to defend them. Madame, when I remember me of my departure, of my absence, and of my return, and do consider that in all the three, I have not cone any thing, but still adore and worship you amid the most affrightful and the hazardfullest divertisements could be; and that in recompense of this, and of an infinite of love, which I have testified to you, you in the instant, and almost on the first day of my arrival, picked a quarrel with me, upon pretence as false, as my affections are most true, and as remote from my deportments, as two extremes can be the one from the other. When I call to mind that you have too forbidden me the honour of your entertainment, and of visiting you at the hours, which I acquired by such, and so many cares, and which you now have taken away from me, to give them to the jealousy of a watchful spy, that day and night orelooketh, and controls your carriage, and continually besiegeth your person. When I see the importunity of his tyranny unworthily preferred the merit of my services; and that there is not that troublesome, or prattling gossip, that doth not importunely approach your ear, and entertain you three or four hours without the least offence; where I am only he to whom minutes, I and moments still are interdicted, being forced to pass whole days entire at home with you, to attend the opportunity to speak one word, and notwithstanding after this, to go my ways unable once to do it. It is impossible such bitterness succeeding such sweets I promised me, and which you caused me hope on my return, can be digested and passed over without complaints In one thing it may be Madam, I have failed indeed, I mean in that I have dared before you, ere to sigh them forth, to whom no sort of plaint as yet was ever just. So have you accused them of injustice, and wrote to me that you have not loved the possession of my amity, but to consent unto the loss of it; which is a strange conceit, and I dare say not yours for you have too much judgement, ere to love a thing unto no end▪ without it be to lose it. For me, right well you may lose me, even when you please, there's nought so certain, Madam, and I shall readily serve you therein against myself: But for my love, you never can, and if I would, I have sworn to you that it shall abide eternally. And once again I promise you it shall: but never importune, or with such tyranny as doth extend unto the deprivation of your liberty; But on the contrary, I never shall pretend once to stretch mine, but to depend always & absolutely on yours. Here is what I had wrote when your man gave me your Letters. After dinner I shall tell you more if so you please.   

The Argument.  
Upon that she had answered to his former Letter, how she was enforced to her grief, to suffer anpleasing company, and that she was sorry she could not admit of his entertainment, as she would. He returns that the party whom she feigned her to be unable to be rid of, was rather commanded to stay, purposely to keep him off. And that he needed not his assistance in such case, knowing well that she might absolutely command, and forbid him what she pleased, in full assurance to be obeyed.  
Epistle 38.  
INdeed Madam I apprehend you freer of your elbows then of your heart, as we say, and that the party you feign ye unable to keep off, is rather commanded to stay with you, purposely to keep me away, and by his presence to deprive me of that, which otherwise you cannot deny to the justness of my desires: For how should it possibly be, but having so good a wit, a judgement so excellent as you have, and both accompanied with so sublime a spirit, you should give such power over yourself unto a man that is nothing to you, so as he should not give you leave to dispose of one poor hour, that I have any time this month begged at your hands; if you had not expressly bid him so to do? And what indignity were it, that he upon pretence of service, and affection, should so possess him of your estate, and of the liberty of your person, that not so much as a breathing time should be free to you? And if that it be so Madam, you little need the use of his assistance, you know sufficiently by former experience, that my will is no way moved, but by the spring that order yours; of which the least demonstration you may please to make me, shall be my fate. You may absolutely command, and forbid me what you please, in all assurance of being obeyed, I, were I most certain of death in the performance. Yet have I taken an ill course, since that which is refused to my submission, and obedience, is borne away by a strong hand, or at least constrained to render itself to importunity. But if you do not deceive me, but are really besieged against your will; whence comes it that you have such power in me as to command me go or stay, just as you please, and that you have no liberty to take a moment from another, to gratify me? Is it not that it is only I, that fear you, and that you fear all others? Is it not that you love their importunities, better than my discretion? and that you will be troubled, and not served? So had it been better for me to have done as others; for by the means of tormenting you like them, I had possessed your entertainment as they have done, or they had been dispossessed thereof as I have been, and the disgrace had not exceeded the demerit of the action. Notwithstanding Madam, I shall never repent me to have served well, I had rather been punished for well doing, then noted for ill: But I most humbly entreat your pardon, if so I cannot brook this passion sans complaint, nor lose my time, my understanding, and myself, for you, without ere sorrowing for it. I have told you oft, that you might render me the happiest, or most miserable amongst men. But you can never render me what you may make me lose.   

The Argument.  
He complains of the languishing he suffers in her absence, and entreats her presence of her, as the only thing sufficiently able, to chase her image from his thoughts.  
Epistle 29.  
Madam,  
I Thought by the request I made unto you yesterday, to have given some bound and order to the confusion of my thoughts; but I have done nothing but multiply my own impatiencies; I am mortally wounded in the imaginative, nor is my grief less certain, for being imaginary, you cannot conceive, nor I express, the havoc your image hath made in me, since yesternight; It hath not failed to persecute and follow me unto, but past the Altar, respecting nought the sanctity and freedom of the Church, as if it would withstand and hinder me from worshipping of other deity than yours. Beauteous Minerva, have pirtie on so many languish which I do cherish, and do amorously embrace for love of you, that are the cause of them; Afford me your presence, that only hath the power to chase your image from my thoughts; And if in opening a vain this morn, you have lost blood, If so you please, command that I replace therein of mine.   

The Argument.  
He begs of God, he will inspire him with words of force to make her more favourable. And he complains, that he had been made to attend all the day for an Answer.  
Epistle 30.  
I Beg of God he will inspire me with words that may be pleasing unto you, and that I may foresee the means to incline your heart to me, and to persuade you to become more favourable. I lately wrote a word or two unto you, and I have attended your answer all this day; Have I done you the offence, that hinders you to write? No, you pay not back with silence, those offences you believe that you receive from me. And if I have done none, why hold you me in the uncertainty of this expectance? I shall trouble you yet more to complain of this. I were better bid you good day, and be silent.   

The Argument.  
She answers to his precedent Letter, that she knows not what to say or send word of, and complains much of the importunity of those that visit her.  
Epistle 31.  
I Cannot tell what to say or send you word of, not knowing at what hour I may see you: Never was woman in the world so importuned as I am, or rather Assassinde. I have not leisure so much as to write, be it never so little; Nevertheless I shall afford you some hour after dinner, or else it shall not be in my power, Lament I beseech you, and believe me your servant.   

The Argument.  
He replies, that if she knows not what to say or send him word of, he knows less what to do.  
Epistle 32.  
IF so you know not what to say or send me word of, I yet know less what to do, being much more grievously assassined by my dolours, than you can be by your importunities. Notwithstanding if what you say be true, I lament you, if not, I am the man the most to be lamented under heaven. You might disabuse me in one word, and as I shall believe what you say to me; I shall likewise do whatsoever you command me. I am afraid you will cause me spend this day as others. Patience is a virtue. I cannot choose but obey you, and attend my life as your favour and grace.   

The Argument.  
He prays her not to lose her peace of mind in the affairs, wherein she is busied. And so falls in discourse of his passions, and sufferings for her love.  
Epistle 33.  
BEauteous Minerva; Accept if so you please, the good morrows wherewith I present you, together with this advice, not to lose the traquilitie of mind you owe yourself, in such affairs as you are now agitated with. Alas! I trouble and torment me on your behalf, and for your occasions, and have no care or thought that I can possibly withdraw from yours, to apply them to my own. Madam, I say not this to witness my affections, you see them better in my silence, then in any discourse of the world, they can be manifest. For all my words, and all my actions too, being bootless still to me; finding myself reduced to all extremity, you pitiless, and resolved to see me die, most careless of my ill, or of my remedy: what should I hope from any thing I possibly can say? Besides I know well this that I say now, is from the matter quite, and that you, finding yourself engaged in things that more concern you, will now, or not regard them them ought, or else but slightly stay on them, as you were wont to do. And how can I believe that this same Letter here should nearer touch ye yet, than all the passions you have seen me vent, and all the ascertained dolours you have known me undergo, even with as little sense, and less compassion of my ill, then if you had seen me suffer for another one. So as if for a rare and singular proof of my affection, you wished to see the mad discourse of one distract, and reasonless, this same is it. Yet Madam, is there found a kind of ease in the complaint of things remediless, and some manner of consolation in the relating of mishaps, which certain aught to be permitted to the miserable, like myself, and which yet I will not stretch so far, as to the importuning you, but rather choose to burn and hold my pe●ce, as hoping in your help more from your pity, than my own complaints▪ Good day Minerva, fair one, once more good day, and again once more good day: permit I here do give good morrow to my Lady your mother too, together with the antiquity of thiefs, which I did promise her. But 'tis to you indeed I ought to have presented it, as to the greatest thief on earth▪ For if they be the greatest thiefs that make the greatest thefts, what greater robber can there be, than one that steals away our hearts?   

The Argument.  
She answers, that if he knew how much she partakes in his sufferings, he would rather lament her then himself, and that no one should ever esteem better of his merits, nor so cherish his affections, as herself.  
Epistle 34.  
IF you knew how much I partake in your sufferings, and how often I wish some means in my power to remedy them, you would rather lament me then yourself; no one shall ever esteem better of your merits than I, nor more cherish your affections then I do; if so I could assure you of this truth by effects worthy you and my own desires, I should not now make use of these misbecoming words, which ne'ertheless I entreat you to accept, for that they come from her that honours you the most.   

The Argument.  
He saith that it is impossible he should undo him from the thoughts, that have undone him. Represents to himself the time he hath lost, in serving her, what she hath taken from him, and what she hath yet left him. And concludes, that it is high time, that he retire all naked as he is, to some desert, whither her image shall not be able to pursue him further. But that all this discourse vanisheth on her presence.  
Epistle 35.  
IT is impossible I should ever undo me from those thoughts have utterly undone me. You are with me as Helen with the Trojans. So oft as they in absence did consult on her affairs, they concluded that they would discharge themselves of her: but if so be that she were present, than they did resolve they would retain her yet. So when I call to mind the many years, that I have spent in serving you, where seeking to obtain you, I have lost myself, there is no reason but doth counsel me to put you off. But what! I have lost all care of my affairs, the repose of my mind, the health of my body, the pleasure of life, and the remembrance of myself. You have taken from me my memory, understanding, and will, and have not left me my life, but to prolong my torments, or for the pleasure that you draw from them, or for the glory; since you receive such honours yet therein, as are not rendered unto any other one. Is it not time all naked as I am left, I seek to save me in some desert place, where your pursuing image ne'er can find me out: but this discourse doth vanish all, if once I come in sight of you; and I in stead of my supporting it, become as one that dumbly plays the Amorous, demanding strait your pardon to have had the thought; o'ercome, not by your reasons, but your beauties: And in your absence is it yet much worse; I weep not, no my dolours were full light if I could heal them with my tears: I die in passion not to be believed, whilst you do cause, and yet do sleep secure and careless of my ill. I was yesterday to have seen some Ladies, to have diverted me, intending to have spoke to them of love, as unto them indeed I did, but it was still of yours, or rather indeed of mine. Pressed thereupon to name the cause from whence my sighing did proceed, I told them there, I sighed not for a woman, but a deity. My goddess, then adieu, receive part of the sighs you cause, which bring you a good morrow, and know the King departs on Monday without fail. I am to go this morning into many places, whither I shall not carry other than my body, howsoever I have much to do with the best gifts of my soul. Of which if so that you be asked the news, say boldly, that it dwells with yours, in Flying-heart street. I his sufficeth not, I must add that you have lost one half of my Letters which I entreat you to look out.   

Argument.  
He complains that they would debar his visits on the passion week, and that it was not a general rule: but his greatest grief was, to leave her in the hands of her enemies, whose drifts he discovereth to her, and offers himself to undertake them.  
Epistle 36.  
Madam,  
NOt seeing you yesterday at Church, according to that you have told me, I judged you were retained at home by some unhappy discontent; but I was ignorant of means to inform myself thereof; for to have sent to you, it was at such an hour as you had not dared to have returned me answer, and for to have had me come unto you much less: I too, remembered me of what you said, concerning visits on these days, of which I think full well, and should much better yet, were it a general rule for all, and not a particular exception for me only. But if it were not amiss as yesterday, it is yet good to day, and to morrow better, and I being to depart on Monday, shall consequently go without the honour to see you, for whom I not only am and stay here, but for whom only I live, which is not the greatest of my unhappiness, though it be extreme, since having always placed your pleasure above my own, I easily can resolve of any thing contenting unto you; but my misfortunes being to me a much less burden than are yours, it is the greatest sorrow I can have, to leave you in your enemy's hands, from whence it seems you have no will to free yourself, and from whence my mind foregives me, that you will not part, but by the light of some debate. Madame, to say truth, it is not for me to talk of this: for as it is fatal to me to foretell you verities, it also seems that you are destinate not once to credit them, and that you have no faith nor cares, that you can lend to any one, but such as will deceive you. By so much the more as you are good, and generous, by so much are you subject to deceit, since generosity is always opposite unto distrust. Who doth no ill, suspecteth none, and one that doth not think ere to deceive a friend, beneath the shadow of affection, cannot believe that in an other, they cannot once conceive in themselves. But feel you not the effects of some designs, that you have never seen? do you not see, that they have got possession of your goods, and of your liberty, and that under a pretence of serving you, they do but tyrannize? But though it be a marvel, I should herein confine me to so little speech, having such reason to extend me in so sensible a cause, for all this I wish not that my passion Madam, should yet render me importunate; but on the contrary I most humbly crave you will pardon me, if the sorrow to know you in these displeasures, and the fear to see you fall in others yet more great, have made me hazard the displeasing you. It is no part of my design, no rather may I dye then once to think it. You know how much I honour you. I wish no other witness of the affection I bear you, than yourself. Believe then, it is that which makes me speak, and that I look upon all other things, sans interest. Here then, accuse me not of humour, and of fantasy, upon mine honour there is none, if you call not humour and fancy an extreme passion to do you faithful service, for which there is no desire of honour, nor necessity of business, that I'll not quit, nor man upon the earth I would not undertake, and he by so much the more heartily than others, as he does undertake concerning you, and does not only mar the good of your affairs, but more the beauty of your days, in shadow of obliging you. Yet pardon me that I do take offence at the ill is doneto you. I cannot choose but do it, being so entirely yours, as that you have not any thing so properly belonging to you as myself. And after having pardoned me, give leave I bid you here farewell.   

The Argument.  
Having fought this morning upon the occasion spoken of in the former Letter, and having astonished his Mistress, by the recital of so unlooked for an action, he writes to her that her astonishment caused him to judge that she hoped some better end, or feared a worse. And shows that neither the one, nor the other, could be.  
Epistle 37.  
Madame,  
THe astonishment wherein I saw you overwhelmed at the recital of an action, wholly advantageous, as well for you as me, and whereunto I did not bring less consideration, for any thing might have regard to you, than aught that might concern my honour or my life, hath put me in care for what you undergo, and caused me judge, or that you hoped of a better success therein, or feared a worse. To hope a better Madam, it could never be, that one should render satisfaction in the field more happily than I have done, unto a man so offended in his honour, without the least submission made, or any hurt received; and for to fear a worse, I cannot think he hath received so much content therein, as that he covets much to come more there. And to what purpose were it indeed to return to the place from whence we of ourselves retired without the least obligement from another one? For me, I am well pleased to have rendered him the satisfaction, he did desire to see me with my sword in hand, and he hath seen me; but he hath not let me see, that he understood so well the maxims of honour as by his chartel he did promise me, since he did let me part from him without enforcing of the satisfaction, which he did pretend unto. See here the cause by which he most importunes me, to speak no more of this our combat, than I have done therein. For me, Madam, I am not so ill versed in the mystery, but I know well it will be said, we had no great desire to hurt ourselves, and that these sacrifices ever are by so much the less honourable, as they are little bloody: but it was to preserve my honour, and not to achieve thereof, from him that I came there, I have acquired enough in hotter places far, and as I do not fear the faces or the swords of all of any enemy; I likewise not desire to reduce them unto such despairs, as make them undertake more than their courage could. He was offended, and he hath done nothing that I know, but bear away the sad repentance of his own offence, and left with me the pleasure of it. Good day my goddess, send me back my man, to the intent he may direct me where you please.   

The Argument.  
He complains that she had judged amiss of a good action. Saith that he believed that she had seen the man of whom he spoke, and got from him the confession she desired. How conformable which was to his words, he should find when she should fulfil hers. And that he ne'er should rest, till he had made him avow the truth.  
Epistle 38.  
Madam,  
IF so I caused your astonishment this morning, by the discourse I had with you, you have now after dinner rendered me again sufficiently amazed at your judgement, and opinion thereof. I am become so much dismayed to see you doubt the verity of my words, and blame my carriage, as that there cannot be that fault, whereof I deem myself not guilty. I was this morning much satisfied in my proceedings, and it seemed to me I had done well inso easily rendering him content, that was so much displeased. But your opinion Madam, quite perverteth my whole sense; And as I rather do believe in what you say, than what I do myself, I now conceit whatsoever I did think well done before, most ill, for that you judge it so. And the worst of all is, that as on the one side you absolutely forbid me to do better, so on the other, you most openly enforce me thereunto. And if you knew how much I suffer in this thought, and how much I esteem me miserable in that sufferance, to lose the bliss of your presence, for having but too carefully endeavoured it, you then should have the most merciless heart that ever was, if so you had not pity of my life. But Madam, I believe you have seen the man of whom I speak, and got from him the confession you so much desired. I know right well, you will not tell me so: for you are forbidden to reveal it; but I shall find, if so it be conformable unto my words, when you accomplish yours, that promised me ne'er more to make esteem of his friendship; and in such case I demand not but the continuance of yours. But by the esteem that you shall henceforth make of him, I shall perceive or that you are no woman of your word, or else that he hath disavowed of mine. I assure you Madam, I shall never rest until I have enforced him to avow the truth of what I have said; And do assure you yet once more, that you shall not again blame me for having done too little. Adieu Madam, impart yet of your hand to him who you do utterly debar your sight.   

The Argument.  
He saith that he hath something to say to her, which he had not yet said, for that whatsoever he premeditateth to tell her in absence, flies his memory when she is present. Represents to her his languish and the put off's, wherewith she had from time to time protracted him, yet without complaint, for that loving her with an extraordinary affection, he was well pleased to testify it by respects in common.  
Epistle 39  
I Had a large discourse in my head this morning, which certainly I should not yet have delivered you; for whatsoever in your absence I premeditate to say unto you, vanisheth still in your presence like shadows before the Sun: But whatsoever I have said to you before, I found me greatly disburdened to see you, and to hear you speak with such freedom as yesterday you did, and by so much the more as I hoped it was with little divertisement, and much leisure: but the event did no way answer to my hopes, since in place of a day more favourable than I had propounded to myself, I approved it yet a hundreth times worse, more tedious, and unhappy. After having attended you from ten of the clock this morning, until twelve, your man comes to tell me that you cannot come, but that after dinner I shall hear from you, with advertisement that you were still extremely busied. To night returning from walking those fancies which you have so much blamed me for, I found Poliarque before your door, who entreated me to come in, as if it had been his house. I most humbly thanked him for his kind offers, and he perceiving that I did not accept them, at last asked me if I would not enter, to which I answered, that there was nothing in the world which I would more willingly, nor any thing likewise which I durst less. He marvailed at this, And I do marvel at it likewise, well knowing that the continuance only of my acquaintance, did give me better access to you, than he could proffer me: Nevertheless Madam, I tell you this without any kind of complaint; for loving you as I do with a more than ordinary affection, I am well pleased to testify it by respects incommune. I would only that they did cause you see, that they are such which ought to be invited, who you with ease may rid you off, and not those men, of whom one knows not how to be freed, for fear they do not render you like to that wife that was fain to be enforced, and torn from out the arms of her lovers. But see here if I be not estraied from the discourse I said I had to make to you, and if I should not mightily have erred before you, that have upon my paper so let myself be carried away, in thoughts so much estranged to the subject of my intentions? which was here to have cleared such difficulties as you have propounded to me, since I could not do it by word of mouth, and you see on what I am fallen. I hope well, it needs not neither, that this suit should be legally tried by form in writing, you will not always be so busied, and inexorable, but you will give me some time of audience to plead my cause; were I but so assured of your favour, as of your justice, I am sure I should not doubt of a good issue, which ne'ertheless I expect more of your grace then its demerits.   

The Argument.  
He persisteth still in the discourse of his languish, and some others which he framed in walking alone a long the Seine. At last he concludes absence, for absence, it were more supportable, far off then near, and that the more he deferreth, the more he draweth out in length the violence of his torments and vexations.  
Epistle 40.  
IF the afternoon were yesterday tedious, this morning hath seemed again to me an age. I had sufficient leisure to hear mass at little Saint Augustine's, and after that to walk as far as The good men's, in which walk I have been agitated with such variety of imaginations as now I cannot say. I had no other company but one servant though somewhat too much of him; for besides that many times words escaped him that disturbed my thoughts: I held for enemy whatsoever opposed me their entertainment, and sought so carefully to order them, as to be solitary in them at the better leisure, (if I could have separated me from myself) I should have done it. It behoves Madam, since I am unhappily deprived that good of seeing you, that at least yet I retain that of entertaining you in my contemplations, and that augmenting with my tears the waters of Seine, I should oblige some of her deities one day to make you the pitiful recital of my sorrows; Yet I believe that such as think that certain deities do haunt the banks of Rivers are mistaken much; for had there any one been there, they must have ta'en some note, and consequently then some pity of my ills, and I had not returned from thence disconsolate. Yet it may be that they perceiving my griefs remediless, chose rather not to seem to see them, then vainly to insinuate their good wills, to cure an ill, incurable, or such a one at least, as merely did depend on you alone to help. At last Madam, having well weighed my passions, in a confusion of diverse thoughts, in the revolt of my best wits, and in so profound a forgetfulness even of myself, as with much a do dared I hope once to return from hence: I thought it did behoove me yet to lend some ear to what my reason did enforce, and not to stop them still 'gainst all that ever she can speak; that it is not enough for us to manifest courageous hearts against our enemies, but that we ought employ our constancies against ourselves, and use the utmost of our powers to vanquish us; for that the fairest victory that can be had, is that we do obtain upon ourselves; that absence for absence tis-easier to endure far off then near, for that you shall be thereby the less importuned; and I by so much the less afflicted, as I shall not see my enemies near a good, which I am constrained to decline. That at last yet I needs must come, & that which reasonably I should not do, I shall yet by necessity be enforced unto. This is the most cruel and the unhappiest resolution to which my i'll fortunes possibly can bring me: but things inevitable cannot be avoided; Of needs I must be gone, of force I must depart from you, and the longer I defer this parting, I do but the more enforce the violence of my torments. My devoir, the good of my estate, and my honour calls me away, and nothing stays me here, except your company, of of which I am deprived. It is not possible to tell you now the havoc, and disorder, which these thoughts have caused within my breast. Yes, you know more there of then possibly I can relate, but you know not of all that I do undergo therein. But Madam, you know well I she them not in hope to make escape, I may perchance extend, but cannot break your chains, but wheresoever I go, I still shall bear along with me their weight, together with your figure in my breaft, when e I shall never honour aught like it. You that know better than myself this that I say to you; pardon if so that I herein do still appeal to you, and if that henceforth I forbear more to disturb the peace of your fair soul, by the outrageous furies and despairs of mine.   

The Argument.  
He conjures her take some pity on his languish, and not still to detain him in the solitude she had the day before. Complains that he having so little time to spend with her, should waste it so ill, that he abides here but only for the sight of her, and yet he sees her not, but amongst such company as do deprive him of her sight.  
Epistle 41.  
IDoe conjure you here take yet some pity of my languish, have some regard to the constraint I undergo by my not daring to approach your sight uncalled. If so again you will afford this day unto the company you did the last, I shall again become overwhelmed in the same solitude I was, and in the self same sorrows which do as yet remain with me, for having so little time to stay with you, and employing it so ill, not being here but only for the good I reap in seeing you, and not seeing you at all but in such company as do deprive me of your sight. But if so be that this disfavour were yet recompensed by some particular grace, I then should be persuaded that this your ill usage were to hide from me that small good will you bear me, and that I were not absolutely lost, for that I might believe I had acquired something in you. But you will not afford to me the time you know not what to do withal. Our walks and visits after supper too, are taken away from me: others may see you in bed, where I can scarce at Church, and yet have you the heart to let me part with this discomfort in my breast, even I that likely you shall ne'er see more. This very thought is now my murderer: but here I call to mind the argument I had with you this morn: how that you wished me well, or that you did not wish me well; and if so be you do, why then should I afflict you by this same recital of my ills; and than if not, why should I afflict myself for an ingrateful one. I left you three of my Letters, to which you have not answered yet, but not to oblige you any whit thereto; no, could I oblige you unto any thing, it should be to love me, as I do you, above all other things on earth.   

The Argument.  
Upon a quarrel which he had had on her occasion, of which she had endeavoured an accord, upon some terms. He entreats her to pardon him if so be he would not endure that it should be conceived in that manner.  
Epistle 42.  
Madam, they have spoiled our accord in going about to amend it; they could not believe that I was in case to fight, without believing the contrary of what they saw, and of what I said before I dream● of a challenge. Wherefore I most humbly entreat your pardon, that I cannot endure it should be conceived in such terms. I beseech you likewise, Madam, not to think that it is to render me difficult in what you desire of me, nor yet to show me a brave fellow, I am sufficiently braved by my sickness, that not only hinders me from sighing, but from agreement likewise; and I believe but for the visit and pardon which you were yesterday pleased to afford me, I should not this day have been in case to accept it. Fair Minerva, good day, since that honour is so much esteemed of by you, let it please you that I live and dye honourably, and for that otherwise I cannot merit to be yours.   

The Argument.  
Being pressed to an honourable agreement, and threatened with her disfavour, in case he should refuse, he saith that she urged him to a thing that she would upbraid him with so soon as he had done it. Notwithstanding which, he would consent to whatsoever she should do, to testify his obedience to her.  
Epistle 43.  
Madam, you now urge me to a thing, which you yourself will upbraid me with so soon as I have done it, and you threaten me with another, the very conceit whereof oppresseth me so, as I am unable to undergo it. I esteem much of the merits of that Cavalier whereof you speak, and am his most humble servant: but he and you both must pardon me if so I cannot think I ought to put mine honour on the protection of any other than my own sword. Nevertheless, Madam, to manifest that all impossible things are yet easy, where it ought concerns, or your contentment, or the inviolable obedience I have sworn to you, I shall assent to whatsoever you please I shall do, to the intent to live ever in quality of your most humble and over-obedient servant.   

The Argument.  
Upon some coldness in his Mistress, he saith that he dares not so much as send to her house to know when she will be pleased he may come thither. Nor yet can he but do it, having so little time to live near her.  
Epistle 44.  
Madam, you are so severe on my behalf, and I so unhappy in giving you offence still, (however innocently) that I dare not so much as send to your house to know when you will be pleased that I may come thither, yet cannot I choose but do it too, for that the less time I have, the more precious it is to me; four days have passed since I interrupted your affairs, or that I gave you means to show me the ill looks you did this morning. Wherefore, Madam, I most humbly entreat your pardon, if so I seek to husband what is left to my best advantage, and if I pray you forbear to heap all your indignation on the head of a poor innocent, that lives not but to dye yours.   

The Argument.  
Upon a promise she had made him to afford him her company and entertain, at 5 of the clock, he sent to see if her watch were not stayed or put back, or if she had not yet again some other demur, to put him off to another time.  
Epistle 45.  
IT is at least 5 of the clock here about, but for that all watches go not alike; I have sent to know if yours be not stayed or put back, or if so be you have not yet again some device to put me off till the morning. It may be that thus protracting time, you hope to weary me out, or that you may find some occasion to break asunder what you have so often stretched and extended. 'Tis true, I may be wearied with importuning you, but never can by honouring you, and that you may at pleasure break any thing with me, but the chains that fasten me to your service.   

The Argument.  
He excuseth himself of an action to which the violence and indiscretion of a bad woman, had born him, in the lodging and presence both of his Mistress, for which he humbly entreateth her, either to pardon, or punish him. So taking again a discourse in hand that he had left, he humbly entreats her to weigh the importance of it, and to afford her one hour upon that subject.  
Epistle 46.  
THe discourse you began with me upon the arrival of the good woman, and the bad action she enforced me to commit, have incensed new turmoils in my breast, the sense whereof I feel in the indisposition of my body likewise. Not Madam, that I am sorry for any thing she said to me, or I did, but that it was in your lodging, and almost in your presence, which I would have as religious a regard to, as to the Temple or the Altar. But I am outraged in the resentment you have testified therein, and feel so great sorrows for that I have really sinned against the respect I owe you, that I should never receive comfort therein, did I not know that her impudence provoked my modesty, and that you yourself, Madam (pardon that I dare to say it) made the first way unto this mischief, by opening your door unto her. Moreover, Madam, it was not for any offence she did me, that I offended her, but for the clamour she made in your lodging, which I was not able to endure, so as I left not my duty, but to enforce her to keep within hers. Wherein, Madam, I confess I have done amiss, and most humbly entreat you either to pardon, or else to punish me for it: for any one of them shall content me, so you may be satisfied. But as to that discourse was entered into by you, I hold it a thing so serious as you never did that act wherein there might be more judgement or discretion needful then in it. I will not write thereof unto you, but forbear my advice: for besides that the interest of my passions might render it suspected, I am still so infortunate in such things, as I know you would choose the contrary, to that I might counsel you, as you know well you have done erewhiles in the most important actions of your life, the repentance whereof is not yet absolutely passed, You know too, Madam, that there is no passion in the world so dear to me, but your good is yet much more valued of me; & when you do let me see that it is for your good, I shall forbear to oppose it, and most faithfully serve you therein against my own affection, and against myself. But be you not so rash as to precipitate a design of that importance, without scarce thinking of it. Remember you how often I have been unhappily certain in my predictions, and how many deaths I should suffer to see you commit a second error worse than the first. But I beseech you grant me the favour I may have one hours' discourse with you to morrow on this subject, be it a walking, or any other where that you shall think convenient, to the end I add not such an apprehension (to those sorrows I groan under) as to abandon & lose you, you, that have begot hopes in me much contrary to this despair.   

The Answer.  
Epistle 47.  
I Pardon you yet again this one time, but more of my own goodness, then o'ercome by your reasons, and I will to morrow afford you an hours conference, if so it be in my power.   

The Reply on the same occasion.  
Epistle 48.  
YOur Indulgences be not absolute. Yesterday you pardoned me, and to day again you punish me, by forgetting your promise. I am nevertheless ready to endure all, as one that you know yours.   

The Argument.  
He saith that he will write to her continually, since she hath commanded it, and will never lament him, for that she hath forbade it. Confesseth that he wants the good parts might oblige her to wish him well, and that he hath but too many ill ones, to merit her bad usage, saith that all things work according to their properties, and that he having a heart of flesh, and she one of stone, it must be that she should be as insensible of his affections, as he is quickly sensible of hers.  
Epistle 50.  
HOwbeit I do but irritate my ill in going about to express it, and that it is some kind of ease to me to complain, I will ne'ertheless no way cease to write to you, because you have commanded it, and never will I lament me because you have forbidden it. For besides that complaint is bootless and extremely hurtful; it seems `to me injust that I should complain of the ills which I suffer but justly, either through th' excess of your deserts, orthrough the want in me. No Madam, I learn now to acknowledge the wrong I do you, in complaining of you unto yourself: and as I most humbly crave you mercy, I likewise confess that it is at myself that I only ought to take offence, for that I have not sufficient good parts, to oblige you wish me well, and that I have but too many ill ones, to merit your bad usage, And then, it must needs be too, that all things should work according to the constitutions of their proper and immediate natures. A man should be but laughed at, that should complain because the day is light, and the night dark, it being a thing so well known, that the one cannot be without clearness, nor the other without shade. Wherefore then should I expect less on my complaints, for that I see you so obdurate in the behalf of my passions; since that he that made me a heart of flesh, made yours of Marble? Must it not then be, following our own constitutions, that you are as obdurate, and insensible of my affections, as I am quickly sensible of yours? But who renders me thus subtle, to produce such reasons as arm your cruelty, against myself? Is it not a proof of the greatest perfection in love, to which the wit of man can attain? You Madam, amongst the many slaves which you have captivate, have you ever heard whispered of an affection so perfect as mine, or once heard speech of an Empire so absolute and powerful as yours. But it is unworthily done of me to betray my passions, in going about to speak them. Learn you them then, of yourself that cause them, and believe me more capable of the sufferance therein, then of the expression thereof.   

The Argument.  
She answers that the cause why she prayed him to write, was, that her deserts could not be commended, but by the judgement he gave thereof. That she sorrowed that a passion so worthily entertained, should be for a subject so uncapable of the acknowledgement.  
Epistle 51.  
IT is not with design to irritate your ills, that I have prayed you write to me; It is for that your Letters being welcome still, and perfectly well composed, cannot but greatly oblige those to whom they are addressed, and me more particularly, that more particularly do honour you. I agree not neither that you have so many defaults, and I so many perfections, they be words of courtesy, which serve rather to make known your demerits, than mine commended, which indeed are no way recommendable, without it be in the judgement you give thereof. I answer not to the marble heart, whereof you complain, since I have told you by word of mouth, whatsoever can be written thereupon. And it is true that you sigh, and not unworthily become passionate, and I am sorry that you do it not, for a subject more worthy the acknowledgement thereof.   

The Argument.  
He replies that if she knew the greatness of his passions, she would not say that he did worthily entertain them, but that he injures them. And entreats her to give him leave to come and learn at hers, the subject for which she desired he should become passionate, according to her promise to him.  
Epistle 52.  
IF so you knew how great and many more my passions are, than my sighs, you would not say that I did worthily entertain them, but rather that I much injured them; And as to the marble heart to which you will not answer, you cannot better then thereby, make seen that you yourself are wholly marble. You are aggrieved that I sigh not for a subject more capable of an acknowledgement thereof. I most humbly beseech you Madam, to give me leave that I come to your house this afternoon, according to what you promised me yesterday, to learn it of you. And likely I may as well sigh for some other, when you have commanded it, as I have power to leave sighing for you, when you have forbidden it.   

The Argument.  
He saith that if he did not by obedience, what he also doth through affection, he knows not why he should write to one that is little moved by his Letters, as the posts and corners of the walls, to which our Bills be usually fixed. That instead of animating an image, and rendering it sensible of his passions, he hath rendered her senseless, by the virtue of his sighs. And of a heart of flesh he hath made one of impentrable stone.  
Epistle 53.  
IF so you had not commanded me to write, and that I did not in obedience; what I likewise do through affection, I should be much troubled to say: wherefore I write to one, that permits not herself to be once touched at my Letters, but rests as little moved therewith, as the posts, and corners of walls, to which men use to fix their writings. 'tis said, a Lover once of old, through the force of sighs and vehement desires, did animate an image, rendering it sensible of his passions: But I by the power of such sighs, and vehement desires, have rendered you sensible of mine, and of a heart humane, and naturally pitiful, my hard mishap hath made an inaccessible Rock. It is indeed a Prodigious marvel, that I should still continue opinionatly obstinate, in seeking means to mollify your disposition, having so long since had sufficient proof, that my perseverance daily more hardeneth you, and whatsoever can be imagined in love, to decline the cruetly of a woman, seems but to heighten yours, and make a temper still more impenetrable, Why then do I persevere? I know no cause, unless it be that having no manner of reason in what I do, it belongs not unto me to give a reason for my actions, and that not doing any thing but what you please, you are to render reason for what I do. Tell me then you, why 'tis I busy me to present to you a passion in paper here, that is no more unknown to you, then to my soul; and each one sees so clearly in my face, that even my man hath simply told me, that they at yours, report that I but pine away, and languish for your love. It is most certain true, I do, and that for a subject so solely worthy of my languish, that I should deem me most unhappy not to do it. But yet it does belong to you, my beauteous Goddess, not to forbear until this passion hath reduced me unto such extremity, as your too tardive pity may deprive me of my life, & you of the most faithful subject ever lived beneath your Empire's laws.   

The Argument.  
Having forborn three days without writing back one word to him, (whatsoever may be said in her answer) for missing this morning, she seems astonished at his silence, and commandeth him to ask her pardon for it.  
Epistle 54.  
I Cannot believe you can accuse me, having so much cause to lament me, and marvel that you have not sent unto me this morning, being you know well, how much your Letters pleasure me as a contentful divertisement. You should demand my pardon for having failed therein, since you are yet to remain here some time in this City.   

The Argument.  
After so many complaints and delays thereon, upon which he had resolved to speak no more, then in one Letter, he intended to send her on his departure, he yet gives her answer, and bids her farewell.  
Epistle 55.  
AFter having born my patience even unto despair, and having let my heart fret and eat itself for 3 or 4 days, regardless of my ill, howsoever you have put me off as many times, from eve to morn, and then from morning, until eve again. In the end, you send your man to me to inquire of my health. I told him you knew better than I, and then I was resolved to have said no more: for whatsoever reason I can have, yet am I still in fault if I complain, and find no other satisfaction to be had, than acccusation of an ill dispose, and humorousnesse. My intention was thereupon to have born my unhappiness alone, not speaking or once writing to you, more than a Letter, which I meant to send you just upon my parting, and which I really thought should be the last of all my life. For what other thing can you expect from me, then to see my rage converted against those that are the causers of my banishment, or by a worse stroke be turned upon myself? Madame, if so I lived not with you, in more respect than they are capable of, or ere can render you, I might come to you as well as they, nor could you shut your door against me, in opening it to them, without the giving me just cause to make complaint. Am I not then extremely miserable, to lose the happiness of seeing you, even by the means that ought to acquire it me? To see me punished for the honours that I render you, and they recompensed for the offences they commit against you? And if in other things we were equals, and they were able yet to honour you like me. Me thinks, coming from so far, and having stayed so long time here, but for the sole desire of seeing you, now that I am upon the instant of my departure, and my visits, it may well be, the last that I shall ever render you, aught in some sort to be preferred before such as you have time enough to see when I am gone: but of these things I had resolved to have spoke no more. Two reasons yet oblige me here to mention them; the one to show you that I have no other humour in it, then is most reasonable, and would to God it were much less, the other in answering of the note was given me from you. You have reason, Madam, to say I cannot accuse you; for how should I accuse one, of whom I dare not once complain? You safely may continue your blows, and well believe that if I have not accused you of the ills which you have done, and as yet do unto me, I never shall accuse you of those you do procure me. For the cause (you say) I have to lament you, you know well, Madam, it is unknown to me, at least as much as the depth of your intentions, in which I never entered yet, without it were in that did nought belong unto me. You know, Madame, likewise, that this is not the first time, you have commanded me to lament you, on such occasion as there was more need by much, that you lamented me, though by much less than there is now. Yet I have ne'ertheless lamented you, and I as yet do grieve for you▪ though I have never been lamented, nor do know the cause as yet, for why I grieve. You are astonished that I sent not to ye this morning; you flout me Madam, for my astonishment, and cruelly you here renew the impatience and the anguish that I groan beneath, in the prolonged expectance of what you should have sent me. As to my Letters, Madam, it is true they were not drawn but merely for your content, and for your glory, and if so be I knew my pen, or tongue were animated yet, from other object then your self, I never more would write or speak, whilst I had breath; so am I indeed at the next door to do nor one, nor the other: but they have served you for a may-game, your sport, and not divertisement, and have procured me more ill, for one poor word taken amiss, than I have had of good, from so many commendations, which I have not less worthily expressed, then rendered you. You will that I demand your pardon, Madame, hold you to that, I have my knees as pliant, and my heart as humble too, as ere they were▪ but than it must be only in my thoughts, since, that your sight is positively so denied me, and that I cannot think that the little time you have to afford me your company, can wipe from off my soul, the sorrows that I feel, for that you have made me lose. Adieu than Madam, amid the sorrow of such griefs as bear me away, I yet shall carry along with me, the contentment never to have increased the number of those importunities, which make a rape upon your liberty, nor never to have dispensed with the obedience which I owe you.   

The Argument.  
Meeting him yet by chance, and being made friends, she fails again of her promise to him, which obligeth him to break with her once for all, and send her this his last farewell.  
Epistle 56.  
When I met you yesterday, I thought it had been for my good, but I find to day it had been for my good, but I find to day it was but to render me yet more miserable. I had set up my rest, and as there is more sufferance to resolve of an unhappiness, then to support it; I had already digested therein the worst of bitterness, for that I was resolved. But this unhappy encounter hath as it were reburied me in the ills from whence I was almost gotten, and have caused me to find them by so much the more sensible, as they happened to me unexpectedly, and upon the promise of a false good, that hath caused me a thousand real evils. What can I have done unto you since yesternight, Madam, who hath obliged you to do me the displeasures you have caused me feel this morning? which I begged of you, and you promised me as the last I had to pass in this City, I did put you in mind of it last night, and having rose this morning by 4 of the clock, I expected news from you until 8. At 8 a clock I sent my man to you, who after a long stay returned to tell me that you went unto the Friars to mass: you came not there until upon eleven: the mass lasted till 12. and then I perceived you in conduct of another, to hinder me from coming near you; you that the night before would by no means permit me to lead you. Is not this right worthily to acquit you of your promise? have you not cause to inquire if I be not in better humour than yesternight, having so well satisfied me? but this is not all, to the end I take away all cause of your accusing me of fantasticness; 'tis fit I justify a latter action by another word or two. You know Madam, that I have this two months entreated you to afford me the audience, caused me to come two hundred leagues to obtain it: for I had no other business here, and could conveniently have stayed the return of the King, without coming to seek the misfortunes I have found, in place of those felicities I promised me, after a thousand assurances, & as many failings, in the end you did vouchsafe it me the last time I was with you, but in such sort as it had been better much that you had never afforded it, for it was neither to talk to me, nor yet so much as once give ear to any thing I said, but to render me a spectator, at such discourse as then you held with some that I found with you, and whom you gave command I should leave there. Setting aside, that whilst your entertainment was refused me, you have afforded it, & do afford it yet most orderly on every day to some, without the least divertisement, and to a man, of whom, observe the end which ever crownes the act. Not knowing what more to do or say in this, wherein I have done or said as much as can be possible; I resolved to embrace despair, and patiently to go my ways without once taking my leave, rather than bootlesly lament me of an ill remediless. You found me yesterday in this resolution, which then you made me leave, to cause me take again to day, by this unkind ill use. Your servant notwithstanding coming from you to seek me, and imposing your commands not to depart without my bidding you Adieu, obligeth me to write unto you. I have told you Madam, heretofore, that I had rather once to fall, then stumble still so oft; That the time you can afford me now, by no means can repair what you have made me lose, and that the long & violent sorrows for such a loss is far more cruel unto me, than such a short possession can possibly be sweet. I am none of those that can crave pardon in their midst of punishment. When we are come so far, the worst is past, there is no more but one step then; Nor should I be in fit estate to receive it, would you vouchsafe it, nor do I now expect it. You have used me thus this Twelve month, and if this parting should yet happen like the last, why my return were likely then to prove the same. Which is the cause that I most humbly request your pardon, Madam, if not to interest you in my disgraces, I bear them to some other place where you shall never be accused of them; and if not to importune you with my visits, and complaints, I write you here this last farewell that you shall ever have of me so long as I live. To come home and give it you, to speak with you, and to see you; It needs not that I take here the heavens to witness for me that I do desire it, since from having too too ardently still coveted it, and from having been over injustly denied it, proceeds all my un happiness. But you have too much irritate my sores, to heal them now, A moment of time wasted in interrrupted tears, and unprofitable sighs, and yielded at the point of my departure, cannot eface the sorrows for the time that you so long have still withheld from me; And than it were indeed, but now to knit, to break again to morrow, to beat one round, and endless path, again and again to ascend one rock. I had rather die, than once more think of life, after the loss of all that ever made me value it. God knows the outrage that I do myself, and the good whereof I do deprive me; But I offer myself no violence that you have not constrained me to, nor deprive me not of any thing you have not first deprived me: All the ills I can apprehend you have already caused me undergo, and I have yet this comfort in my griefs, that if so be there is nothing I can hope, there is also nothing that I can fear. It is as now almost a year since you did promise me a boon, Alas! with what an infinite of gentle thoughts have I still cherished that, without once seeing it yet! I render it back unto you; and I beseech you gratify some other therewithal, whose merits are more known unto you, and affections more esteemed; For me, I never shall withdraw mine from an object so lovely as yourself, and shall ever believe that as they could not be more ingratefully acknowledged, they likewise could never be more worthily employed. But I shall leave you at least in peace, and never more with my misfortunes will I ever trouble your repose.   

The Answer.  
Epistle 57  
IF you depart not to day, I shall make you acknowledge you are in the wrong, and I entreat I may speak with you; If you desire it, I will give you to understand of me at two a Clock, And in the mean time, I pray you think you are in an error to complain of me.   

The Argument.  
His Mistress being informed he was in blacks, took occasion to write word unto him; by which she condoled with him the new affliction she believed had been befallen him.  
Epistle 58.  
I Have learnt that you are habited in mourning, and that consequently some new affliction is befallen you. The laws of what is decent, and those of my own inclination, cause me partake therein, and to condole with you, with so much the greater sorrow, that it is unprofitable unto you that I am your servant.   

The Argument.  
After having a long while disputed with himself whether he should answer her Letters, or not, he tells her that besides the afflictions he undergoes for her, he slighted all such as could happen to him. That he could not believe that she condoled the ills, she daily augmented. And wherefore he believed so.  
Epistle 59  
I Disputed long with myself whether or no I should read your Letter, before I would receive it, And whether I should answer it or no when I had read it; And not finding me any ways obliged either to the one, or the other, I thought for sufficient answer to have returned it you, with some others that were better in your hands, then in those of a man you have offended. Nevertheless I thought that I ought you yet a word, or two, and following rather the advice of my passion, then that of my reason, I chose to break the oath I had made never to write more unto you, before the resolution I have taken ever to honour you, to whatsoever contrary effect you may possibly oblige me. I do let you know then, Madam, that if I mourn, it is not for any new affliction befallen me, and that after those, you cause me I slight all such as can happen to me, That is very true that according unto the Laws, of what is decent, and of humanity likewise, if you have any, you ought therein compatiate: But that I can never believe that you condole with me an ill, that you yourself do daily augment, letting me find so many effects contrary to your words, as there can be no day of my life, wherein I shall not repent me to have been thereby so much seduced. For to what purpose speak you to me of sorrow, you that do all that ere you can to lose, and ruin me▪ You have offended me to death, not only without cause, but for such reasons as are most capable of appeasing, had I offended you. And I have undergone it, not only without revenge, but likewise fans complaint, continuing still in more respect than in offence. If I complain of you, I cannot do it but commending you, And if I take offence, 'tis ever 'gainst myself, or such as do defend me against you, and render those praises as due, rather to my goodness then your merits. You Madam, on the contrary seek to defraud the man that honours you, and repair not the wrongs you have done him, but by most irreparable outrages. Be it true, that I was offended at the speech you had with me about the business chanced in Easter, you have amended that, with another much worse, that since you held in my absence, with distinction of quality, which could not be done without passion, nor suffered but with rage, and madness, I complained that you refused me the honour of your entertain, and conduct, and you have satisfied me in affording it to all sorts of people else, And walking night by night before my window in company of those you know do hate me. And after this, to write that the Laws of your inclination enforce you to partake in my misfortunes; is it not to take me for the errands Wittol ever lived? But I see well your meaning, you are not content to have heard say that we fought, but you would see it. And I shall deem me most unworthy life, and to have dared once to pretend unto your service, if I manifest not to you, that I am your most obedient servant.   

The Argument.  
She replies, that she is more amarvailed then offended at his Letter, and wisheth that all his vanities were in that paper, to the end they obliged no other one to answer them.  
Epistle 60.  
I Am more amazed than I am offended at your Letter, and I could wish that all your vanities were enclosed in the paper you sent me, to the end that being unknown to any one but me, they should not oblige any man to answer them. I mean not for what hath respect to myself, howsoever you have reported that I entreated you to come and see me, and that you had no desire, nor would do it, you know it a thing I never thought, and me think it would better become you to observe a modest silence▪ then to discourse of your goodness and of my demerits, since both the one and the other are but imaginary, as whatsoever appeareth, or in your Letters, or your discourse, be but vanities; which I fear every one will not ever suffer from you. And for that you accuse me to have said, I will let you see so soon as you pleasein presence of those have made that report, the cause you had to give credit thereunto, and the wrong you do me to complain of my walks: I have not refused your conduct when it was fit I should admit it: and for the rest, the little interest you have in my actions, aught to forbid you, or meddle with or observe them. I conclude with this counsel which I entreat you make use of, viz, that you speak of others as they do of you, that is to say, worthily.   

The Argument.  
He answers her threats, and to the vanities she accuseth him of, in a style altogether estranged from the respect he had wont to render her, though not from his discretion.  
Epistle 61.  
YOu have cause to say that you are more amazed then offended at my Letters, since indeed there is more cause of astonishment then of offence. In all the rest you are in the wrong, and chiefly in accusing me throughout of vanity, wherewith you manifest yourself so stored, as you think to arrest and stay my words by your threatenings. I answer not to what hath been reported to you, because indeed it merits not an answer; and that it is altogether opposite to common sense, that a man that hath perpetually complained, that you would never see him, should vaunt to have been entreated thereunto, and not to have been willing. But there is no imposture so manifest, to which you rather lend not your belief, then to my best reasons, provided that it be against me, for that sufficeth to render it ever just. Notwithstanding you know that I have other manner of subjects to cherish my vanities with, would I embrace them, and if I were not more discreet than your advice can render me, I avow it, that it had been better indeed for me not to have spoken so worthily of your demerits, or my goodness, but not that the one or the other are imaginary, nor that the modest silence seems to you so comely, hath ever been broken yet, unless by you. As to that you say that whatsoever appears in my discourse, or in my Letters, is all but vanity, I appeal unto the judgement you yourself have heretofore pronounced thereof, and to posterity that better far shall judge therein then you. But you know me little, having had so long experience of me, and have exceeding ill impressions of my courage, if so you think 'tis fear that renders me so modest as I a m. I never feared but you, for that I never loved but you; and and when I shall not love you any more, I shall then fear you no longer. Those whom you think to oblige to answer me, are for themselves already sufficiently engaged, and they shall find me ever as free, but more advised than they have found me yet. You are afraid that they should know what I have said, and I will print it to the end that none be ignorant thereof. I take no knowledge of the report was made to me, and so lightly believe not what is said of you, as you believe whatsoever is said of me; but by that you have said to myself, I have judged what you might say to others. As to your walks, it is true I have no interest in them, more than in the rest of your deportments, but you deserve well to see some sport made you for your love; and my promise, and your threats, oblige me to let you find that I do not forget you. For conclusion, you counsel me to speak of others as they speak of me: that indeed were good, if other men's actions were as even as mine. But I give you an advice, which is not to menace a man you can neither hurt nor fright.   

Reasons of the Authors against his Love▪  
IT is true that it is the thing of all the world that I have loved the most; but it is that also loves me the least. I have a great delight in loving, but it is traversed with a thousand torments. I grieve extremely to forgo it, but that is sweetened with abundance of peace. And indeed, how should I preserve that I never well acquired? have I not done my utmost both in the acquisition and preservation? what can I do more then, after the most I was able? I never loved woman equal to her, but it is better not to love at all, then to love one's vexation, and render a man miserable in the humour of an ingrateful one. She hath at all times sought me, but it hath been to lose me: and those pleasures she hath caused me, have been so short, so thwarted, and so imperfect still, that compared with the painful afflictions she hath procured me, it hath been a twinkling of fair weather in the incessant hail of a perpetual storm: and one drop of sweet water amid the boundless extent of a vast sea, brackish and bitter, where the continual winds and billows roaring and rolling on each others neck, in their contentions move an eternal tempest, that meets no calm in her embroiles, nor end in the strife of its perpetual motions. In a word she's an ingrateful one, that hath done all that ere she could to torment and offend me. And one that hath not worthily acknowledged my affections, but recompensed them with her outrages. Where is the memory of those indignities and those offences which she hath so often done me? Hath she not poorly abandoned me, in favour of my enemies? hath she not taken from me her converse and company to give it them? Hath she not permitted that they have challenged me three or four times, not once or twice, but I say three or four times? And if she shall deny the approving of their actions, her own bearing gives her words the lie. For hath she not since opposed me, to sustain their quarrel? hath she not preserved their friendship with the loss of mine? Had she loved her honour, or my life, could she ever have seen again the men, conspired both against the one and the other? And ne'ertheless having broken the band of her affections sworn tome, to knit the faster with them, is it not to make seen that she the only approved their actions, but also, that she conceived & formed them before they were produced? But since she disavows others actions, let us look a little into her own; When honour and the▪ service of my King called me before Saint jean, 3 or 4 days before I bore my life thither, fell she not out with me on the Eve of my departure, pretending that my visits were scandalous unto her Neighbours? Since hath she not let me see the weakness, and untruth of this her pretence, when she hath permitted him for whom I was turned off, not only to see her at all hours, but also to take a lodging in the same street, to besiege her in hers, and to hinder the resort of all others thither? There is no more to be said then, of scandal to them of the street, then to those of the Indies. Called she me not back before my going, to the end I carried her figure along with me in my breast, as I did with so lively an impression, as the practice of so much pains, suffered in so long and laborious a journey, nor the frequent Alarms, of so dangerous a fortune, speeding to the approaches assaults, and bloody sallies, of so many sieges, had ever power to eface the draught? Writ she not to me that so long an extended absence, could not be compatible with great love, complaining that I testified unto her more courage, than affection? Forced she me not from the beloved place of my birth, and from between my parents arms, where the contentment of my soul, and good of my affairs required me, here to make me wed vexations, and misfortunes infinite, in hope yet of incomparable happiness? I knew well the King would come again, and that I should do nothing here, but take an unprofitable walk of some two or three hundred Leagues for the love of her; But I was passionated with so violent a desire to see her, that I beheld all other things sans interest, and deemed the time I passed from her, not only lost to me, but even that it was death itself to forbear her sight. Let us see now, this great good fortune, and this glory so desired, hoped for at my return, as end and crown unto so great a Martyrdom. 'tis true that I was welcomed, well received, and much made on the first day of my arrive; they told me that they had grieved my absence, and deplored my death that a false bruit had spread, and all, full of other compliments and pratles of a woman: but found I not my place possessed by my Rival, and those former favours she had permitted me, and I again looked to have had, cut from my hopes, and to another given before my face? Set by those subtleties, the escapes, and the repairs, wherewith so long she entertained and did abuse my too credulous easiness; the meetings given out of her house, whilst others saw her day by day, not only with all liberty, but Emptry also, the irreconcilable enmities, and bloody quarrels she by her imprudence caused me, and her vanity, for yet I would pardon those. But to bestir her so much as she could possibly on all sides, to give unto my enemies the advantages God gave me over them! to say my sword was longer than my Rivals, that he hurt himself, and that my Laquay was a liar, when he recounted the truth of this action, though his wound, and his natural innocence, in telling of the tale spoke sufficiently for him, and whom she herself had given me but the day before, for most trusty! To be sorry that 'twas said I had the better, and she to say 'gainst all the world and truth itself, I had the worst! to forget herself so far as in opposition of myself, overweeningly to dispute a thing, of which she knew nothing and which I myself had done! Can it be imagined that a woman worshipped and adored, with so much passion and respect as she; or rather that the weight of all th'ingratitude of women kind melted together, and reduced in mass, should ere bring forth the effects of so profound a malice? In sum, she turned me off, not for a single friend, but for some five or six, nor yet for such as loved her more, or those were better made than I, but much, much worse. She hath been the cause I have been challenged by my friends, that I have much neglected my Parents, & estate, that I have forborn to follow my King into my own Country, and seemed to sh●n those occasions I have ever sought; and which is more than all, that I have left myself to pursue the injustice, and cruelty of her fond passions, that I have preferred her martyrdoms before the sweetest rest, her love, to Gods himself, who had made me happy had I served him so as her; where she hath rendered me most miserable still, for having served her better far than him. To love her then as yet, after all this, were but to be a sot, and no way amorous. Perfidious and most thankless Soul, what wrong hath thy unthankfulness, and thy faith-breach done to thee! what glories have they ravished from thy memory! I had prepared thee a place in heaven, where the lustre of thy star had been adored, saluted, and made known to all mortal kind, where those that live beneath another Pole, had worshipped thee, even as their chiefest constellation. Thy image and thy name had been so venerable to posterity, that our Nephews had not filled the earth but with thy Altars, nor had perfumed the air but with the odours of thy sacrifice; The universe had been thy Temple where men had preached, but thy virtues, Celebrated but thy praises, and published but thy merits: And thy renown had been so famous o'er the world, as it had found no other bounds, than the extremity of that's extent, and the eternity of its lasting. And though I could yet heap upon thee as much blame, as the honour I prepared for thee, and satisfy myself with as much vengeance as an outraged heart could wish, yet will I not afflict thee with a greater punishment, Then leave thee buried in the abyss of thy own forgetfulness, And not remember me henceforth of thee, but to detest thy memory.   

The Argument.  
He answers to certain complaints that Minerva had made some while after, as well to his friends, as himself of his indifference, and showeth that it was founded on the necessity of obeying her, and upon good reason.  
Epistle 62.  
Madame,  
YOu cannot think that I wish you ill, but by that you have done me; the feeling whereof I have quite lost, together with the remembrance of what good I wished you. If I should wish you ill, it should be for that you do unto yourself; and in such case, I should counsel you to forbear any further to do it, to the end I ceased further to wish it, were you not altogether as incapable of my counsels as of my affection. After such things as have passed 'twixt you and me, I ought not retain the least affection that may have regard to you, nor any thought that may acknowledge you. And if you say 〈…〉 indifference is worse than enmity, I 〈…〉 it a truth, but you must acknowle●●… 〈…〉 there was not that violence by 〈…〉 not essayed to enforce me thereunto, 〈…〉 flee, by the which I have not endeavor●● 〈…〉 me still therein. It is not to be marvelled at the 〈◊〉 at last have performed your will, since my will was ever subject unto yours, or rather was indeed no other but yours. But what you ought find strange, is indeed, that I can endure your contradiction, whilst you can by no means endure my obedience. When that I lived not but in you, and my jealousy made me complain of your deportments, you have full often told me, that I had no interest in your actions; wherefore would you that I should have now that you are dead as it were to me? you have full oft refused your sight and entertainment unto me when as it was the chief and only one of my desires; Wherefore offer you it me now, that it is the last of all my cares? And wherefore having so many times fled me when that I followed you, do you now follow me, when that I flee you; if so it be not to make seen that you are always contrary, and that your pleasure abides in my tortures? but if you shall reply that I am altogether irreconcilable, I would set you in my place and ask you but this question. If you had loved me so as I have ever affected you; and having outraged and discarded you for other women, as you have wronged and abandoned me for other men. I desired to renew affection with you, yet living 〈◊〉 dying for other men, would not you bid 〈…〉 discharge me of the women, for whom I had used you so ill; and that afterwards I should see what you had to do. So quit you first of such men as you have unworthily preferred before me, and then we will see what reparation you may make me. You say that you find your fault▪ and that you repent you of the doing it, and desire to render me satisfied; begin with satisfaction, and having quit the sin, we will see if you be capable of mercy. But to thinkthat you can at one and the same time, be capable of both, there is never a Casuist in Sorbonne but will condemn your opinion. Yet think not I give you this advice, nor in hope or desire that you should follow it, for knowing that you have ever done quite contrary to such counsels, as I have given you, I should then rather give you this to the intent you followed it not, if I were not very careless both of the one and the other. What I say herein, is too manifest that it is not with so much incivility as reason, that I endeavour to escape your snares, and that it is with more vanity than judgement that you hope to take me there again.   
FINIS.