LICENCED.  
Dec. 28. 1677. Ro. L'Estrange   

FIVE LOVE-LETTERS FROM A NUN TO A CAVALIER. Done out of French into English.  
LONDON Printed for Henry Brome, at the Gun at the West-end of St. Paul's. 1678.   

TO THE Reader  
YOu are to take this Translation very Kindly, for the Author of it has ventured his Reputation to Oblige you: Ventured it (I say) even in the very Attempt of Copying so Nice an Original. It is, in French, one of the most Artificial Pieces perhaps of the Kind, that is any where Extant: Beside the Peculiar Graces, and Felicities of that Language, in the Matter of an Amour, which cannot be adopted into any other Tongue without Extreme Force, and Affectation. There was (it seems) an Intrigue of Love carried on betwixt a French Officer, and a Nun in Portugal. The Cavalier forsakes his Mistress, and Returns for France. The Lady expostulates the Business in five Letters of Complaint, which She sends after him; and those five Letters are here at your Service. You will find in them the Lively Image of an Extravagant, and an Unfortunate Passion; and that a Woman may be Flesh and Blood, in a Cloister, as well as in a Palace.   

FIVE Portugaise LETTERS Turned into ENGLISH.  
The first Letter.  
OH my Inconsiderate, Improvident, and most unfortunate Love; and those Treacherous Hopes that have betrayed both Thee, and Me! The Passion that I designed for the Blessing of my Life, is become the Torment of it: A Torment, as prodigious as the Cruelty of his Absence that causes it. Bless me! But must this Absence last for ever? This Hellish Absence, that Sorrow itself wants words to express? Am I then never to see those Eyes again, that have so often exchanged Love with Mine, and Charmed my very soul with Extacy, and Delight? Those Eyes that were ten thousand worlds to me, and all that I desired; the only comfortable Light of Mine, which, since I understood the Resolution of your Insupportable Departure, have Served me but to weep withal, and to lament the sad Approach of my Inevitable fate. And yet in this Extremity I cannot, methinks, but have some Tenderness, even for the Misfortunes that are of your Creating. My Life was vowed to you the first time I saw you▪ and since you would not accept of it as a Present, I am Content to make it a sacrifice. A Thousand times a day I send my Sighs to hunt you out: and what Return for all my Passionate Disquiets, but the good Counsel of my Cross fortune? that whispers me at every turn; Ah wretched Mariane! why dost thou flatter, and Consume thyself in the vain pursuit of a Creature never to be Recovered? he's gone, he's gone; Irrevocably gone; h'as passed the seas to fly thee. he's now in France; dissolved in pleasures; and thinks no more of thee, or what thou sufferest for his false sake, then if he had never known any such woman. But hold: Y'ave more of Honour in you then to do so ill a thing; and so have I, then to believe it, especially of a Person that I'm so much concerned to justify. Forget me? 'Tis Impossible. My Case is bad enough at best, without the Aggravation of vain suppositions. No, no: The Care and Pains you took to make me think you loved me, and then the Joys that That Care gave Me, must never be forgotten: and should I love you less this Moment, then when I loved you most, (in Confidence that you loved me so too) I were Ungrateful. 'Tis an Unnatural, and a strange thing methinks, that the Remembrance of those blessed hours should be now so terrible to me; and that those delights that were so ravishing in the Enjoyment, should become so ter in the Reflection. Your last Letter gave me such a Passion of the heart, as if it would have forced its way through my Breast, and followed you. It laid me three hours senseless: I wish it had been dead; for I had died of Love. But I revived: and to what End? only to die again, and lose that Life for you, which you yourself did not think worth the saving. Beside that there's no Rest for me, while you're Away, but in the grave. This fit was followed with other Ill Accidents which I shall never be without, till I see you: In the mean while, I bear them yet without repining, because they came from you. But with your Leave: Is this the Recompense that you intent me? Is this your way of treating those that love you? Yet 'tis no Matter, for (do what you will) I am resolved to be firm to you to my last gasp; and never to see the Eyes of any other Mortal. And I dare assure you that it will not be the worse for you neither, if you never set your heart upon any other woman: for certainly a Passion under the degree of mine, will never content you: You may find more Beauty perhaps elsewhere (tho' the time was when you found no fault with mine) but you shall never meet with so true a heart; and all the rest is nothing.  
Let me entreat you not to stuff your Letters with things Unprofitable, and Impertinent to our Affair: and you may save yourself the trouble too of desiring me to THINK of you. why 'tis Impossible for me to forget you: and I must not forget the hope you gave me neither, of your Return, and of spending some part of your time here with us in Portugal. Alas! And why not your whole Life rather? If I could but find any way to deliver myself from this unlucky Cloister, I should hardly stand gaping here for the performance of your Promise: but in defiance of all opposition, put myself upon the March, Search you out, follow you, and love you throughout the whole world. It is not that I please myself with this Project as a thing feasible; or that I would so much as entertain any hope of Comfort; (tho' in the very delusion I might find pleasure) but as it is my Lot to be miserable, I will be only sensible of that which is my Doom. And yet after all this, I cannot deny but upon this Opportunity of writing to you which my Brother has given me, I was surprised with some faint Glimmerings of Delight, that yielded me a temporary Respite to the horror of my despair. Tell me I conjure you; what was it that made you so solicitous to entangle me, when you knew you were to leave me? And why so bloodily bend to make me Unhappy? why could you not let me alone at quiet in my▪ Cloister as you found me? Did I ever do you any Injury?  
But I must ask your Pardon; for I lay nothing to your Charge. I am not in condition to meditate a Revenge: and I can only complain of the Rigour of my Perverse fortune. When she has parted our Bodies, she has done her worst, and left us nothing more to fear: Our hearts are Inseparable; for those whom Love has United are never to be divided. As you tender my soul let me hear often from you. I have a Right methinks to the Knowledge both of your Heart, and of your fortune; and to your Care to inform me of it too. But what ever you do, be sure to come; and above all things in the world, to let me see you. Adieu. And yet I cannot quit this Paper yet. Oh that I could but convey myself in the Place on't! Mad fool that I am, to talk at this Rate of a thing that I myself know to be Impossible! Adieu. For I can go no farther. Adieu. Do but Love me for ever, and I care not what I endure.   

THE SECOND Letter.  
THere is so great a difference betwixt the Love I writ, and That which I feel, that if you measure the One by the Other, I have undone myself. Oh how happy were I if you could but judge of my Passion by the violence of your own! But That I perceive is not to be the Rule betwixt you, and me. Give me leave however to tell you with an honest freedom, that tho' you cannot love me, you do very ill yet to treat me at this Barbarous Rate: It puts me out of my Wits to see myself forgotten; and it is as little for your Credit perhaps, as it is ●or my Quiet. Or if I may not say that you are Unjust, it is yet the most Reasonable thing in the World to let me tell you that I am Miserable: I foresaw what it would come to, upon the very Instant of your Resolution to leave me. Weak Woman that I was! to expect, (after this) that you should have more Honour, and Integrity than other Men, because I had unquestionably deserved it from you, by a transcendent degree of Affection above the Love of Other Women. No, no; Your Levity, and Aversion have overruled your Gratitude, and Justice; you are my Enemy by Inclination: whereas only the Kindness of your Disposition can Oblige me. Nay your Love itself, if it were barely grounded upon my Loving of you, could never make me happy. But so far am I even from that Pretence, that in six Months I have not received one syllable from you; Which I must impute to the blind fondness of my own Passion, for I should otherwise have foreseen that my Comforts were to be but Temporary, and my Love Everlasting. For Why should I think that you would ever content yourself to spend your Whole Life in Portugal; and relinquish your Country, and your fortune, only to think of me? Alas! my sorrows are Inconsolable, and the very Remembrance of my past Enjoyments makes up a great part of my present pain. But must all my hopes be blasted then, and fruitless? Why may not I yet live to see you again within these Walls, and with all those Transports of Extacy, and Satisfaction, as heretofore? But how I fool myself! for I find now that the Passion, which on my side, took up all the faculties of my soul, and Body, was only excited on your part by some lose Pleasures, and that they were to live and die together. It should have been my Business, even in the Nick of those Critical, and Blessed Minutes, to have Reasoned myself into the Moderation of so Charming, and deadly an Excess; and to have told myself beforehand, the fate which I now suffer. But my Thoughts were too much taken up with You to consider myself; So that I was not in Condition to attend the Care of my Repose, or to bethink myself of what might poison it, and disappoint me in the full Improvement of the most Ardent Instances of your Affection. I was too much pleased with you, to think of parting with you, and yet you may remember that I have told you now and then by fits, that you would be the Ruin of me. But those Fancies were soon dispersed; and I was glad to yield them up too; and to give up myself to the Enchantments of your false Oaths, and Protestations. I see very well the Remedy of all my Misfortunes, and that I should quickly be at Ease if I could leave Loving you. But Alas! That were a Remedy worse than the disease. No, no: I'll rather endure any thing then forget you. Nor could I if I would. 'Tis a thing that did never so much as enter into my Thought. But is not your Condition now the worse of the two? Is it not better to endure what I now suffer, then to enjoy Your faint satisfactions among your French Mistresses? I am so far from Envying your Indifference, that I Pity it. I defy you to forget me absolutely: and I am deceived if I have not taken such a Course with you, that you shall never be perfectly happy without me. Nay perhaps I am at this Instant the less miserable of the two; in regard that I am the more employed. They have lately made me doorkeeper here in this Convent. All the people that talk to me think me mad; for I answer them I know not what; And certainly the rest of the Convent must be as mad as I, they would never else have thought me Capable of any Trust. How do I envy the good Fortune of poor Emanuel, and Francisco! Why cannot I be with you perpetually as they are? though in your Livery too? I should follow you as Close without dispute, and serve you at least as faithfully; for there is nothing in this World that I so much desire as to see you; But however, let me entreat you to think of me; and I shall Content myself with a bare place in your Memory. And yet I cannot tell neither, whether I should or no: for I know very well that when I saw you every day I should hardly have satisfied myself within these Bounds. But you have taught me since, that whatsoever you will have me do, I must do. In the Interim, I do not at all repent of my Passion for you; Nay, I am well enough satisfied that you have seduced me; and your Absence itself though never so rigorous, and perhaps Eternal, does not at all lessen the vigour of my Love: which I will avow to the Whole world, for I make no secret on't. I have done many things irregularly 'tis true; and and against the Common Rules of good Manners: and not without taking some Glory in them neither, because they were done for your sake. My honour, and Religion are brought only to serve the Turn of my Love, and to carry me on to my lives end, in the Passionate Continuance of the Affection I have begun. I do not write this, to draw a Letter from you; wherefore never force yourself for the Matter: for I will receive nothing at your hands; no not so much as any Mark of your Affection unless it comes of its own accord, and in a Manner, whether you Will or No. If it may give you any satisfaction, to save yourself the trouble of Writing, it shall give me some likewise, to excuse the Unkindness of it; for I am wonderfully inclined to pass over all your faults. A French Officer, that had the Charity this morning to hold me at least three hours in a discourse of you, tell me that France has made a Peace. If it be so; Why cannot you bestow a visit upon me, and take me away with you? But 'tis more than I deserve, and it must be as you please; for my Love does not at all depend upon your Manner of treating me. Since you went away I have not had one Minutes Health, nor any sort of Pleasure, but in the Accents of your Name, which I call upon a Thousand times a day. Some of my Companions that understand the deplorable Ruin you have brought upon me, are so good as to entertain me many times concerning you. I keep as Close to my Chamber as is possible; which is the dearer to me even for the many Visits you have made me there. Your Picture I have perpetually before me, and I Love it more than my heart's blood. The very Counterfeit gives me some Comfort: But oh the Horrors too! When I consider that the Original, for aught I know, is lost for ever. But why should it be possible, even to be possible, that I may never see you more? Have you forsaken me then for ever? It turns my Brain to think on't. Poor Mariane! But my Spirits fail me, and I shall scarce outlive this Letter?— Mercy— Farewell, Farewell.   

THE THIRD Letter.  
WHat shall become of me? Or what will you advise me to do? How strangely am I dissappointed, in all my Expectations! Where are the Letters from you? the Long and Kind Letters that I looked for by every Post? To keep me alive in the hopes of Seeing you again; and in the Confidence of your faith, and Justice; to settle me in some tolerable state of Repose, without being abandoned to any insupportable Extreme? I had once cast my Thoughts upon some Idle Projects of endeavouring my own Cure, in Case I could but once assure myself that I was totally forgotten. The distance you were at; Certain Impulses of Devotion; the fear of utterly destroying the Remainder of my Imperfect health, by so many restless Nights, and Cares; the Improbability of your Return; The Coldness of your Passion, and the Formality of your last adieus; Your Weak, and frivolous pretences for your departure: These, with a thousand other Considerations, (of more weight, than profit) did all concur to encourage me in my design, if I should find it necessary; In fine; having only my single self to encounter I could not doubt of the success, nor could it enter into my Apprehension what I feel at this day. Alas! how wretched is my Condition, that am not allowed so much as to divide these sorrows with you, of which you yourself are the Cause? You are the Offender, and I am to bear the Punishment of your Crime. It strikes me to the very heart, for fear you, that are now so Insensible of my Torments, were never much affected with our mutual delights. Yes, yes; 'Tis now a Clear Case that your whole Address to me was only an Artificial disguise. You betrayed me as often as you told me, how overjoyed you were that you had got me alone: and your Passions, and Transports were only the Effects of my own Importunities. Yours was a deliberate design to fool me; your business was to make a Conquest, not a friend; and to triumph over my Heart, without ever engaging or hazarding your own. Are not you very Unhappy now, and (at least) Ill-natured, if not ill-bred, only to make this wretched use of so Superlative a friendship? Who would have thought it possible that such a Love as mine, should not have made you happy? 'Tis for your sake alone if I am troubled for the Infinite delights that you have lost, and might as easily have enjoyed, had you but thought them worth the while. Ah! If you did but understand them aright, you would find a great difference betwixt the Pleasure of Obliging me, and that of Abusing me; and betwixt the Charming felicities of Loving violently, and of being so beloved. I do not know either what I am, or what I do, or what I would be at. I am torn to pieces by a Thousand contrary Motions, and in a Condition deplorable beyond imagination. I love you to death, and so tenderly too that I dare hardly wish your heart in the same condition with mine. I should destroy myself, or die with Grief, could I believe your nights and Thoughts, as restless as I find Mine; your Life as Anxious and disturbed; your Eyes still flowing, and all things and people Odious to you. Alas! I am hardly able to bear up under my own Misfortunes; how should I then Support the Weight of yours; which would be a Thousand times more grievous to me? And yet all this While I cannot bring myself to advise you, not to Think of me. And to deal freely with you, there is not any thing in France that you take pleasure in, or that comes near your heart, but I'm most furiously jealous of it. I do not know what 'tis I writ for. Perhaps you'll pity me; but what good will that pity do me? I'll none on't. Oh how I hate myself when I consider what I have forfeited to oblige you! I have blasted my Reputation; I have lost my Parents; I have exposed myself to the Laws of my Country against Persons of my Profession; and finally, to your Ingratitude, the worst of my Misfortunes. But why do I pretend to a Remorse, when at this Instant, I should be glad with all my Soul, if I had run ten thousand greater hazards for your dear Sake? and for the danger of my Life and Honour; the very thought on't is a kind of doleful Pleasure to me, and all's not more than the delivery of what's your own, and what I hold most Precious, into your Disposition; And I do not know how all these risks could have been better Employed. Upon the Whole matter, every thing displeases me, my Love, my Misfortune; and alas! I cannot persuade myself that I am well used even by You. And yet I Live, (false as I am) and take as much pains to preserve my life, as to lose it. Why do I not die of shame then, and show you the despair of my Heart, as well as of my Letters? If I had loved you so much as I have told you a thousand times I did, I had been in my Grave long ere this. But I have deluded you, and the Cause of Complaint is now on your side. Alas! why did you not tell me of it? Did I not see you go away? Am I not out of all hopes of ever seeing you again? And am I yet alive? I have betrayed you, and I beg your pardon. But do not grant it though; Treat me as severely as you will: Tell me that my Passion is Weak, and Irresolute. Make yourself yet harder to be pleased. Writ me word that you would have me die for you. Do it, I conjure you; and assist me in the Work of surmounting the Infirmity of my Sex; and that I may put an end to all my fruitless deliberations, by an effectual despair. A Tragical Conclusion would undoubtedly bring me often into your thoughts, and make my Memory dear to you. And who knows how you might be Affected, with the Bravery of so Glorious a death? A death Incomparably to be preferred before the Life that you have left me. Farewell then; and I wish I had never seen the Eyes of you. But my heart Contradicts my Pen; for I feel, in the very moment that I writ it, that I would rather choose to Love you in any state of Misery, then agree to the bare Supposition that I had never Seen you. Wherefore since you do not think fit, to mend my fortune, I shall cheerfully submit to the worst on't. Adieu; but first promise me, that if I die of grief, you will have some Tenderness for my Ashes: Or at least that the Generosity of my Passion shall put you out of Love with all other things. This Consolation shall satisfy me, that if you must never be mine, I may be secured that you shall never be Another's. You cannot be so Inhuman sure, as to make a mean use of my most Affectionate despairs, and to recommend yourself to any other Woman, by showing the Power you have had upon me. Once more, Adieu. My Letters are long, and I fear troublesome; but I hope you'll forgive them, and dispense with the fooleries of a Sot of your own making. Adieu. Methinks I run over and over too often with the story of my most deplorable Condition: Give me leave now to thank you from the Bottom of my heart for the Miseries you have brought upon me, and to detest the Tranquillity I lived in before I knew you. My Passion is greater every Moment than other. Adieu. Oh what a World of things have I to tell you!   

THE FOURTH Letter.  
YOur Lieutenant tells me that you were forced by foul Wether to put in upon the Coast of Algarve. I am afraid the Sea does not agree with you; and my Fears for your Misfortunes make me almost to forget my own. Can you imagine your Lieutenant to be more concerned in what befalls you, than I am? If not, How comes he to be so well informed, and not one syllable to me? If you could never find the means of writing to me since you went, I am very Unhappy; but I am more so, if you could have written, and would not. But what should a body expect from so much Ingratitude, and Injustice? And yet it would break my heart, if heaven should punish you upon any account of mine. For I had much rather gratify my kindness, than my Revenge. There can be nothing clearer, than that you neither Love me, nor Care what becomes of me; and yet am I so foolish, as to follow the Dictate of a blind, and besotted Passion, in opposition to the Counsels of a demonstrative Reason. This Coldness of yours, when you and I were first acquainted, would have saved me many a sorrowful Thought. But where's the Woman, that in my Place, would have done otherwise than I did? Who would ever have questioned the Truth of so pressing and Artificial an Importunity? We cannot easily bring ourselves to suspect the Faith of those we Love. I know very well, that a slender Excuse will serve your Turn; and I'll be so kind as to save you even the Labour of That too, by telling you, that I can never consent to conclude you guilty, but in order to the infinite Pleasure I shall take to acquit you, in persuading myself that you are Innocent. It was the Assiduity of your Conversation that refined me; your Passion that inflamed me; Your good humour that Charmed me; your Oaths, and Vows that confirmed me; but 'twas my own precipitate Inclination that seduced me; and what's the Issue of these fair, and promising Beginnings, but Sighs, Tears, Disquiets, nay, and the worst of Deaths too, without either Hope, or Remedy. The Delights of my Love, I must confess, have been strangely surprising; but followed with Miseries not to be expressed; (as whatever comes from you works upon me in Extremes.) If I had either obstinately opposed your Address; or done any thing to put you out of humour, or make you jealous, with a design to draw you on: If I had gone any crafty, artificial ways to work with you; or but so much as checked my early, and my growing Inclinations to comply with you, (tho' it would have been to no purpose at all) you might have had some Colour then to make use of your Power, and deal with me accordingly. But so far was I from opposing your Passion, that I prevented it; for I had a kindness for your Person, before you ever told me any thing of your Love; and you had no sooner declared it, but with all the joy imaginable I received it, and gave myself up wholly to that Inclination. You had at that time your Eyes in your Head, tho' I was Blind. Why would you let me go on then to make myself the miserable Creature which now I am? Why would you ●rain me on to all those Extravagances which to a person of your Indifference must needs have been very Importune? You knew well enough that you were not to be always in Portugal; Why must I then be singled out from all the rest, to be made thus Unfortunate? In this Country without dispute you might have found out handsomer Women than myself, that would have served your turn every jot as well, (to your course purpose) and that would have been true to you as far as they could have seen you, without breaking their hearts for you, when you were gone: and such as you might have forsaken at last, without either Falseness, or Cruelty: Do you call this the Tenderness of a Lover, or the Persecution of a Tyrant? And 'tis but destroying of your own neither. You are just as easy, I find, to believe ill of me, as I have always been to think better of you than you have deserved. Had you but loved me half so well as I do you, you would never have parted with me upon so easy Terms. I should have mastered greater Difficulties, and never have upbraided you with the Obligation neither. Your Reasons, 'tis true, were very feeble, but if they had been the strongest imaginable, it had been all one to me: for nothing but death itself could ever have torn me from you. Your Return into France was nothing in the World but a Pretext of your own contriving. There was a Vessel (you said) that was thither bound. And why could not you let that Vessel take her Course? Your Relations sent for you away. You are are no stranger sure to the Persecution, that for your sake, I have suffered from mine. Your Honour (forsooth) engaged you to forsake me. Why did you not think of that scruple, when you deluded me to the loss of mine? Well! but you must go back to serve your Prince. His Majesty, I presume, would have excused you in that point; for I cannot learn that he has any need of your Service. But, Alas! I should have been too happy, if you and I might have lived, and died together. This only Comfort I have in the bitterness of our deadly separation, that I was never false to you; and that for the whole World I would not have my Conscience tainted with so black a Crime. But can you then, that know the Integrity of my Soul, and the Tenderness that I have for you; can you (I say) find in your heart to abandon me for ever, and expose me to the Terrors that attend my wretched Condition? Never so much as to think of me again, but only when you are to sacrifice me to a new Passion. My Love, you see, has distracted me; and yet I make no complaint at all of the violence of it: for I am so wont to Persecutions, that I have discovered a kind of pleasure in them, which I would not live without, and which I enjoy, while I love you, in the middle of a thousand afflictions. The most grievous part of my Calamity, is the hatred, and disgust that you have given me for all other things: My Friends, my Kindred, the Convent itself is grown intolerable to me; and whatsoever I am obliged either to see, or to do, is become odious. I am grown so jealous of my Passion, that methinks all my Actions, and all my Duties ought to have some regard to you. Nay, every moment that is not employed upon your service, my Conscience checks me for it, either as misbestowed, or cast away. My Heart is full of Love, and Hatred; and, Alas! what should I do without it? should I survive this restlessness of thought, to lead a Life of more tranquillity, and ease, such an Emptiness, and such an Insensibility could never consist. Every Creature takes Notice how strangely I am changed in my Humour, my Manners, and in my Person. My Mother takes me to task about it: One while she speaks me fair, and then she chides me, and asks me what I ail. I do not well know what answers I have made her; but I Fancy that I have told her all. The most severe, even of the Religious themselves, take pity of me, and bear with my Condition. The whole World is touched with my Misfortunes; your single self excepted, as wholly unconcerned: Either you are not pleased to write at all; or else your Letters are so cold; so stuffed with Repetitions; the Paper not half full, and your Constraint so grossly disguised, that one may see with half an Eye the pain you are in till they are over. Dona Brites would not let me be quiet the other day, till she had got me out of my Chamber, on to the Balcon that looks (you know) toward Mertola: she did it to oblige me, and I followed her: But the very sight of the Place struck me with so terrible an Impression, that it set me a Crying the whole day after. Upon this, she took me back again, and I threw myself upon my Bed, where I passed a thousand Reflections upon the despairs of my Recovery. I am the worse I find for that which people do to relieve me; and the Remedies they offer me do but serve to aggravate my Miseries. Many a time have I seen you pass by from this Balcon; (and the sight pleased me but too well) and there was I that fatal day, when I first found myself struck with this unhappy Passion. Methought you looked as if you had a mind to oblige me, even before you knew me; and your Eye was more upon me than the rest of the Company. And when you made a stop, I fooled myself to think that it was meant to me too, that I might take a fuller view of you, and see how every thing became you. Upon giving your Horse the spur (I remember) my heart was at my mouth for fear of an untoward leap you put him upon. In fine; I could not but secretly concern myself in all your Actions; and as you were no longer indifferent to me, so I took several things to myself also from you; and as done in my favour. I need not tell you the sequel of Matters (not that I care who knows it) nor would I willingly writ the whole Story, lest I should make you thought more culpable (if possible) than in Effect (perhaps) you are. Beside that it might furnish your Vanity with subject of reproach, by showing that all my Labours, and Endeavours to make sure of you, could not yet keep you from forsaking me. But what a fool am I, in thinking to work more upon your Ingratitude, with Letters, and Invectives, than ever I could with my Infinite Love, and the liberty that attended it! No, no: I am too sure of my ill Fortune, and you are too unjust to make me doubt of it; and since I find myself deserted, what mischief is there in Nature which I am not to fear? But are your Charms only to work upon me? Why may not other Women look upon you with my Eyes? I should be well enough content perhaps to find more of my Sex (in some degree) of my Opinion; and that all the Ladies of France had an esteem for you, provided that none of them either doted upon you, or pleased you: This is a most ridiculous, and an impossible Proposition. But there's no danger (I may speak it upon sad Experience) of your troubling your head long with any one thing; and you will forget me easily enough, without the help of being forced to't by a new Passion. So infinitely do I love you, that (since I am to lose you) I could even wish that you had had some fairer colour for't. It is true, that it would have made me more miserable; but you should have had less to answer for then. You'll stay in France, I perceive, in perfect Freedom, and perhaps not much to your Satisfaction; The Incommodities of a long Voyage; some Punctilios of good Manners; and the fear of not returning Love for Love, may perchance keep you there. Oh, you may safely trust me in this Case: Let me but only see you now and then, and know that we are both of us in the same Country, it shall content me. But why do I flatter myself? Who knows but that the Rigour and Severity of some other Woman may come to prevail upon you more than all my Favours? tho' I cannot believe you yet to be a Person that will be wrought upon by ill usage.  
Before you come to engage in any powerful Passion, let me entreat you to bethink yourself of the Excess of my Sorrows; the Uncertainty of my Purposes; the Distraction of my Thoughts; the Extravagance of my Letters; the Trusts I have reposed in you; my Despairs, my Wishes, and my Jealousies. Alas! I am afraid that you are about to make yourself unfortunate. Take warning, I beg of you, by my Example, and make some Use to yourself of the Miseries that I endure for you. I remember you told me in Confidence, (and in great Earnest too) some five, or six Months ago, that you had once a Passion for a French Lady. If she be any Obstacle to your Return, deal frankly with me, and put me out of my Pain. It will be a kind of Mercy to me, if the faint hope which yet Supports me, must never take effect, even to lose my Life, and that together. pray send me her picture, and Some of her Letters, and write me all she says. I shall find Something there undoubtedly that will make me either better, or worse. In the Condition that I am, I cannot long continue; and any Change whatsoever must be to my Advantage. I should take it kindly if you would send me your Brothers, and your Sister's pictures too. Whatsoever is dear to you must be so to me; and I am a very faithful Servant to any thing that is related to you: and it cannot be otherwise: for you have left me no power at all to dispose of myself. Sometimes methinks I could Submit even to attend upon the Woman that you Love. So low am I brought by your Scorns, and ill Usage, that I dare not so much as say to myself, Methinks I might be allowed to be jealous, without displeasing you. Nay, I chide myself as the most mistaken Creature in the World to blame you: and I am many times convinced that I ought not to importune you as I do, with those passages, and thoughts which you are pleased to disown.  
The Officer that waits for this Letter grows a little Impatient: I had once resolved to keep it clear from any possibility of giving you Offence. But it is broken out into Extravagances, and 'tis time to put an end to't. But Alas! I have not the heart to give it over. When I writ to you, methinks I speak to you: and our Letters bring us nearer together. The first shall be neither So long, nor So troublesome. But you may venture to open, it, and read it upon the assurance that I now give you. I am not to entertain you, I know, with a Passion that displeases you, and you shall hear no more on't. It is now a year within a few days, that I have delivered myself wholly up to you, without any Reserve. Your Love I took to be both Warm, and Sincere: And I could never have thought you would have been so weary of my favours, as to take a Voyage of five hundred leagues; and run the Hazards of Rocks, and Pirates, only to avoid them. This is a Treatment that certainly I never deserved at any man's hands. You can call to mind my Shame my Confusion, and my Disorders. But you have forgotten the Obligations you had to Love me even in despite of your Aversion. The Officer calls upon me now the fourth time for my Letter. He will go away without it, he Says; and presses me, as if he were running away from another Mistress. Farewell. You had not half the difficulty to leave me (tho' perhaps for ever) which I have, only to part with this Letter. But Adieu. There are a thousand tender names that I could call you now. But I dare not deliver my self up to the freedom of Writing my thoughts. You are a thousand times dearer to me than my Life, and a thousand times more than I imagine too. Never was any thing So barbarous, and so much beloved. I must needs tell you once again, that you do not write to me. But I am now going to begin afresh, and the Officer will be gone. Well, and what matters it? Let him go. 'Tis not so much for your sake that I writ, as my own; for my Business is only to divert, and entertain myself: Beside that the very Length of this Letter will make you afraid on't: And you'll never read it through neither. What Have I done to draw all these Miseries upon me? And why should you of all others be the poisoner of my peace, and blast the Comfort of my Life? Why was I not born in some other Country? forgive me, and farewell. See but to what a Miserable point I am reduced, when I dare not so much as entreat you to Love me. Adieu.   

THE FIFTH Letter.  
YOu will find, I hope, by the different Air and stile of this Letter, from all my former, that I have changed my Thoughts too; and you are to take this for an Eternal farewell; for I am now at length perfectly convinced, that since I have Irrecoverably lost your Love, I can no longer justify my own. Whatsoever I had of Yours shall be sent you by the first Opportunity: There shall be no more writing in the Case; No, not so much as your Name upon the Pacquett. Dona Brites is a Person whom I can trust as my own soul, and whom I have entrusted (as you know very well) Unfortunate, Wretch that I am! in Confidences of another Quality betwixt you and me. I have left it to her Care to see your Picture and your Bracelets dispatched away to you, (those once beloved Pledges of your Kindness) and only in due time to assure me that you have received them. Would you believe me now, if I should swear to you, that within these five days, I have been at least fifty times upon the very point of Burning the One, and of Tearing the Other into a Million of Pieces? But, You have found me too easy a fool, to think me Capable of so Generous an Indignation. If I could but vex you a little in the story of my Misfortunes; it would be some sort of Abatement methinks to the Cruelty of them. Those Baubles (I must confess, both to Your shame, and Mine) went nearer my heart than I am willing to tell you, and when it came to the Pinch of parting with them, I found it the hardest thing in the World to go thorough with it: So Mortal a Tenderness had I for any thing of Yours, even at that Instant when you yourself seemed to me the most Indifferent thing in Nature: But there's no resisting the force of Necessity and Reason. This Resolution has cost me Many, and Many a Tear; A thousand, and a thousand Agonies, and Distractions, more than you can imagine; and more, Undoubtedly, than you shall ever hear of from me. Dona Brites (I say) has them in Charge; upon Condition, never to name them to Me again; No, not so much as to give me a sight of them, though I should beg for't upon my Knees; but, in fine, to hasten them away, without one Syllable to Me of their Going.  
If it had not been for this Trial to get the Mastery of my Passion, I should never have understood the force of it; and if I could have foreseen the Pains, and the hazards of the Encounter, I am afraid that I should never have ventured upon the Attempt: for I am verily persuaded that I could much better have Supported your Ingratitude itself, though never so foul, and Odious, than the Deadly, Deadly Thought of this Irrevocable Separation. And it is not your Person neither that is so dear to me, but the Dignity of my unalterable Affection. My soul is strangely divided; Your falseness makes me abhor you, and yet at the same time my Love, my Obstinate, and Invincible Love, will not consent to part with you.  
What a Blessing were it to me now, if I were but endued with the Common Quality of other Women, and only Proud enough to despise you? Alas! Your Contempt I have born already: Nay, had it been your Hatred, or the most Raging Jealousy; All this, compared with your Indifference, had been a Mercy to me. By the Impertinent Professions, and the most Ridiculous Civilities of your Last Letter, I find that all mine are Come to your hand; and that you have read them over too: but as unconcerned, as if you forsooth had no Interest at all in the Matter. Sot that I am, to lie thus at the Mercy of an Insensible, and Ungrateful Creature; and to be as much afflicted now at the Certainty of the Arrival of those Papers, as I was before, for fear of their Miscarriage! What have I to do with your telling me the TRUTH OF THINGS? Who desired to know it? Or the SINCERITY you talk of; a thing you never practised toward me, but to my Mischief. Why could you not let me alone in my Ignorance? Who bade you Writ? Miserable Woman that I am! Methinks after so much pains taken already to delude me to my Ruin, you might have strained one point more, in this Extremity, to deceive me to my Advantage, without pretending to excuse yourself. 'Tis too late to tell you that I have cast away many a Tender Thought upon the Worst of Men; the most Obliged, and the most Unthankful. Let it suffice that I know you now as well as if I were in the heart of you. The only favour that I have now to desire from you, after so many done for you, is This: (and I hope you will not refuse it me) Writ no more to me; and remember that I have conjured you never to do it. Do all that is Possible for you to do, (if ever you had any Love for me) to make me absolutely forget you. For Alas! I dare not trust myself in any sort of Correspondence with you. The least hint in the World of any kind Reflection upon the reading of this Letter, would perchance expose me to a Relapse; and then the taking of me at my Word, on the other side, would most certainly transport me into an Extravagance of Choler, and Despair. So that in my Opinion it will be your best course not to meddle at all with Me, or my Affairs: for which way so ever you go to work, it must inevitably bring a great disorder upon both. I have no Curiosity to know the success of this Letter: Methinks the Sorrows you have brought upon me already, might abundantly content you (even if your Design were never so malicious) without disturbing me in my Preparations for my future Peace. Do but leave me in my Uncertainty, and I will not yet despair, in time, of arriving at some degree of Quiet. This I dare promise you, that I shall never hate you; for I am too great an Enemy to Violent Resolutions ever to go about it. Who knows but I may yet live to find a truer friend than I have lost? But Alas! What signifies any man's Love to me, if I cannot Love him? Why should his Passion work more upon my heart, than mine could upon Yours? I have found by sad Experience, that the first Motions of Love, which we are more properly said to Feel, than to Understand, are never to be forgotten: That our souls are perpetually Intent upon the Idol which we ourselves have made: That the first Wounds, and the first Images are never to be cured, or defaced: That all the Passions that pretend to secure us either by Diversion, or Satisfaction, are but so many vain Promises of bringing us to our Wits again, which, if once lost, are never to be recovered: And that all the Pleasures that we pursue, (many times without any desire of finding them) amount to no more, than to convince us, that nothing is so dear to us as the Remembrance of our Sorrows. Why must you pitch upon Me, for the subject of an Imperfect, and Tormenting Inclination; which I can neither Relinquish with Temper, nor Preserve with Honour? The dismal Consequences of an Impetuous Love, which is not Mutual? And why is it that by a Conspiracy of Blind Affection, and Inexorable fate, we are still condemned to Love where we are Despised, and to hate where we are Beloved?  
But what if I could flatter myself with the Hope of diverting my Miseries by any other Engagement? I am so sensible of my own Condition, that I should make a very great scruple of Using any other Mortal as you have treated me: and though I am not Conscious of any Obligation to spare you, yet if it were in my Power to take my Revenge upon you, by changing you for any other, (a thing very Unlikely) I could never agree to the gratifying of my Passion that way.  
I am now telling myself in your behalf, that it is not reasonable to expect, that the simplicity of a Religious should confine the Inclinations of a Cavalier. And yet methinks, if a body might be allowed to reason upon the Actions of Love, a man should rather fix upon a Mistress in a Convent than any where else. For they have nothing there to hinder them from being perpetually Intent upon their Passion: Whereas in the World, there are a thousand fooleries, and Amusements, that either take up their Thoughts entirely, or at least divert them. And what Pleasure is it (or rather how great a Torment, if a body be not Stupid) for a man to see the Woman that he loves, in a Continual Hurry of Delights; taken up with Ceremony, and Visits; no discourses but of Balls, Dresses, Walks etc. Which must needs expose him every hour to fresh jealousies? Who can secure himself that Women are not better Satisfied with these Entertainments than they ought to be? even to the Disgusting of their own Husbands? How can any man pretend to Love, who without examining Particulars, contentedly believes what's told him, and looks upon his Mistress under all these Circumstances with Confidence, and Quiet? It is not that I am now Arguing myself into a Title to your Kindness, for this is not a way to do my business: especially after the Trial of a much more probable Method, and to as little purpose. No, no: I know my Destiny too Well, and there's no struggling with it. My Whole Life is to be miserable. It was so, when I saw you every day; When we were together, for fear of your Infidelity; and at a distance, because I could not endure you out of my sight: My heart ached every time you came into the Convent; and my very life was at stake when you were in the Army: It put me out of all Patience to consider that neither my Person, nor Condition were Worthy of you: I was afraid that your Pretensions to me might turn to your Damage: I could not Love you enough me thought: I lived in daily Apprehension of some Mischief or other from my Parents: So that upon the Whole Matter, my Case was not much better at that time than it is at present. Nay had you but given me the least Proof of your Affection since you left Portugal, I should most certainly have made my Escape, and followed you in a disguise. And what would have become of me then, after the loss of my honour, and my friends to see myself abandoned in France? What a Confusion should I have been in? What a plunge should I have been at? What an Infamy should I have brought upon my family, which I do assure you, since I left loving of you, is very dear to me. Take Notice I pray, that in Cold thoughts I am very Sensible that I might have been much more Miserable than I am; and that once in my Life I have talked Reason to you: but whether my Moderation pleases you, or not; and what Opinion soever you entertain of me, I beseech you keep it to your self. I have desired you already, and I do now re-conjure you, never to Write to me again.  
Methinks you should sometimes reflect upon the Injuries you have done me; and upon your Ingratitude to the most Generous Obligations in Nature. I have Loved you to the degree of Madness; and to the Contempt of all other things, and Mortals. You have not dealt with me like a Man of honour. Nothing but a Natural Aversion could have kept you even from adoring me. Never was any Woman bewitched upon So easy terms. What did you ever do that might entitle you to my favour? What did you ever Lose, or but so much as hazard for my Sake? Have you not entertained yourself with a thousand other delights? No, not so much as a Sett at Tennis, or a Hunting-Match, that you would ever forbear upon any Account of Mine. Were you not still the first that went to the Army, and the last that came back again? Were you ever the more Careful of your Person there, because I begged it of you, as the greatest Blessing of my Soul? Did you ever so much as offer at the Establishment of your fortune in Portugal? A place where you were so much esteemed. But one single Letter of your Brothers hurried you away, without so much as a moment's time to consider of it: and I am certainly informed too, that you were never in better humour in your Whole Life, than upon that Voyage. You yourself cannot deny, but that I have reason to hate you above all men Living; and yet, in Effect, I may thank myself; for I have drawn all these Calamities upon my own head. I dealt too openly, and plainly with you at first: I gave you my heart too soon. It is not Love alone that begets Love; there must be Skill, and Address; for it is Artifice, and not Passion, that creates Affection. Your first design was to make me Love you, and there was not any thing in the World which you would not then have done, to compass that End: Nay rather than fail, I am persuaded you would have loved Me too, if you had judged it necessary. But you found out easier ways to do your Business, and so thought it better to let the Love alone. Perfidious Man! Can you ever think to carry off this Affront, without being called to an Account for't? If ever you Set foot in Portugal again; I do declare it to you, that I'll deliver you up to the Revenge of my Parents. It is along time that I have now lived in a kind of Licentious Idolatry, And the Conscience of it strikes me with horror, and an Insupportable Remorse; I am Confounded with the Shame of What I have done for your Sake; and I have no longer (alas!) the Passion that kept the foulness of it from my Sight. Shall this tormented heart of Mine never find ease? Ah barbarous Man! When shall I see the End of this Oppression? And yet after all this I cannot find in my heart to wish you any Sort of harm; Nay in my Conscience I could be yet well enough content to see you happy: which as the Case stands, is utterly Impossible.  
Within a While, you may yet perhaps receive another Letter from me, to show you that I have outlived all your Outrages, and Philosophised myself into a state of Repose. Oh what a Pleasure will it be to me, when I shall be able to tell you of your Ingratitude, and Treacheries, without being any longer concerned at them myself! When I shall be able to discourse of you with Scorn; When I shall have forgotten all my Griefs, and Pleasures, and not so much as think of yourself, but when I have a mind to't.  
That you have had the better of me, 'tis true; for I have Loved you to the very Loss of my Reason: But it is no less true that you have not much cause to be proud on't. Alas I was young, and Credulous: Cloistered up from a Child; and only Wont to a rude, and disagreeable sort of People. I never knew what belonged to fine Words, and Flatteries, till (most unfortunately) I came acquainted with you: And all the Charms, and Beauties you so often told me of, I only looked upon as the Obliging Mistakes of your Civility, and Bounty. You had a good Character in the World; I heard every body Speak well of you: and to all this, you made it your Business to engage me; but you have now (I thank you for't) brought me to myself again, and not without great need of your Assistance. Your two last Letters I am resolved to keep, and to read them over oftener than ever I did any of the former, for fear of a Relapse. You may well afford them, I am sure, at the Price that they have cost me. Oh how happy might I have been, if you would but have given me Leave to Love you for ever! I know very well that betwixt my Indignation, and your Infidelity, my present thoughts are in great Disorder. But remember what I tell you: I am not yet out of hope of a more peaceable Condition, which I will either Compass, or take some other Course with myself; which I presume, you will be well enough content to hear of. But I will never have any thing more to do with you. I am a fool for saying the Same things over, and over again so often. I must leave you, and not so much as think of you. Now do I begin to Fancy that I shall not write to you again for all This; for what Necessity is there that I must be telling of you at every turn how my Pulse beats?  
THE END.   

Books Printed for and sold by H. Brome, since the dreadful Fire of London 1666, to 1678.  
The Life of the great Duke of Espernon, being the History of the Civil Wars of France, beginning 1598. where D' Avila leaves off, and ending in 1642. by Charles Cotton Esq  
The Commentary of M. Blaiz de Montluc the great Favourite of France, in which are contained all the Sieges, battles, Skirmishes, in three Kings Reigns by Charles Cotton Esq  
Mr. Rycaut's History of Turkey.  
The History of the Three last Grand Signors.  
The History of Don Quixot, fol.  
Bishop Wilkin's Real Character, fol.  
Bishop Cousins against Transubstantiation.  
Dr. Guidots History of bath and of the hot Waters there.  
The Fair one of Tunis.  
Domus Carthusiana, or the most Noble Foundation of the Charter House in London, with the Life and Death of Thomas Sutton Esq  
The History of the Sevarites a Nation inhabiting part of the third Continent.