A CONTINUATION of the DIALOGUE Between Two Young Ladies Lately Married. Concerning the MANAGEMENT OF Husbands.  
PART the Second.  
Wherein is a most Passionate LETTER, Full of Wit and Affection, WRIT BY ELOISA, (a Young French Lady,) to her Husband, ABELARD, who was Emasculated by the Malice of her Uncle.  
London, Printed in the Year, 1696.  
Price Six Pence.   

A CONTINUATION of the DIALOGUE BETWEEN Two Young Ladies, lately Married, CONCERNING The Management of Husbands, etc. PART II.  Amy. 
MY dear Lucy, I'm extreme glad to see you.  Lucy. 
I'm pleased to hear you say so, since your Friendship is so much my Interest: I wish I could make you as valuable Returns, that your Goodness might not be altogether the Motive of the Favours you have shown me.  Amy. 
You're mistaken, Lucy: Friendship ought not to be mercenary; the bare Reflection of Endeavouring to serve my Friend, brings a sufficient Reward along with it. But how go Affairs betwixt you and your Husband, since I last saw you?  Lucy. 
Indifferently. We have had no great Storm since.  Amy. 
The last time I gave you what Advice occurred to me, and such as, with good Success, I used myself, in order to make Marriage a very happy Estate: But since I saw you, I have accidentally light upon a Letter, written Originally in Latin by one of our Sex, to her unkind Lover; as the Subject was very uncommon, so was the Passion, and so was the Wit, of our Eloisa, (for that was her Name.) It appears to me to be the most perfect and accomplished Pattern of Tenderness, and Cunning, that ever I saw written by any of our Sex. Whoever reads her Letter, may find therein that variety of Argument to Persuade, and so large a Field of Subjects, that a Common-place Book might be made out of it, to serve upon all Occasions; and so far as I am able to apprehend, whoever says any thing after her upon this Subject, must either borrow of her, or perform infinitely short of what she has done.  Lucy. 
Have you got it about you?  Amy. 
Yes— 'Twas, as I told you before, written Originally in Latin, but I light upon it translated into French, of which I have now again made a second translation for your use. But before we read the Letter. 'tis necessary I give you a brief History of this Eloisa and Abelard, (the Names of our married Lovers,) in order to understand several Passages in the following Letter.  Lucy. 
Ay, Pray let's have it by all means.  Amy. 
Eloisa was the Daughter of a noble Family, aged about Sixteen Years, of a quick and sparkling Wit, and of a Beauty able to touch the most Insensible. Her Parents dying in her Childhood, her Uncle Fulbert, who was a Canon of a Church in Paris, took her into his Care, and resolved to give her an Education suitable to her natural Abilities; and as he lov●d her much, so he employed all imaginable Means to accomplish his Design, and could hardly speak of any thing else but the Wit and Beauty of his Niece; such rare Qualities made all Persons in Love with her. Amongst the rest, Abelard, a great Philosopher, was one of those that felt the Power of her Charms ' a Person famous for Learning and Gallantry: He had a surprising Cleanness of Wit, a Firmness of Mind in Misfortunes. In a word, That which makes up the best and most excellent Part of Merit in Great Men, makes up the True Character of Abelard.  Lucy. 
Happy Eloisa! Surely, if she did not prove Kind and True to such a Husband, she was certainly the worst of Women.  Amy. 
Hold, Lucy, be not too hasty; you'll change your Mind before you hear the Story out. But I'll go on.  
Our Abelard could not, with all his Philosophy, reason himself out of the Fetters of Love; therefore made all the Interest he could to gain Acquaintance with her Uncle, and not without success; for after a little Converse, he thought no Person more Disinterested, nor better Qualified than Abelard, to read Philosophy to his Niece: He desired Abelard to abide with him, gave him Eloisa for his Scholar, and, as if he had conspired with Abelard's Design, entrusted him with the absolute Command of his Niece. Thus the Tenderness he had for his Niece, and the Reputation of Abelard, wholly deceived him. Abelard, who gladly undertook this Charge, failed not to make good use of the Liberty he had to be with Eloisa; almost every moment he discovered his Passion for her, and managed it so well, that in a little time she listens with Pleasure, and at last began to love him so tenderly, that she could refuse him nothing.  
It was not long before this amorous Converse betwixt Master and Scholar was observed: His continual Attendance, and the tender Methods of Managing her, soon convinced those about 'em, that Philosophy was not the only subject of their Conversation. In fine, our Lovers were not so close and prudent in the Management of their Amour. but the Uncle began to suspect something, and resolved to separate them, and prevent the ill Consequences of such Familiarity. But 'twas too late. For our Lovers being fully resolved that nothing should divert their mutual Passion, they became as jealous of the Uncle as he was of them; and Abelard improving his Opportunity, did easily prevail with Eloisa to believe that the Form of Matrimony was nothing but a Ceremony and that it was absolutely necessary for them to consummate the same betwixt themselves upon solemn Promise, as being the only Means left them to prevent the cruel Separation which the Uncle designed. And thus▪ Lucy, poor Eloisa was overcome before Marriage: And afterwards perceiving some strange Alterations in herself, she acquainted Abelard with it, who, to save her Honour, carried her off by Night to Paris, in order to be Married privately, in the common Form; tho' at the same time her Affection to Abelard was so great, that she did voluntarily offer to sacrifice her Honour, so she might be but assured of his Love, rather than deprive the Church of so great a Prelate by the Ceremony of Marriage.  
The Stealth of Eloisa was an extreme Affliction to her Uncle, who loved her so entirely, that he could not live without her; and besides he was so sensible of the Affront that Abelard had put upon him, that he swore he would be Revenged Abelard in a short time goes back to Fulbert, and endeavoured by all means to appease him, and entreated his Pardon with the utmost Submissions. Whereupon the old Gentleman did craftily feign a Reconciliation, that he might have the better Opportunity to execute his Revenge; which he effected, by corrupting one of Abelard's Servants, to let into his Chamber some Villains, who, whilst he was asleep, set upon him, and with a Razor, at one stroke, unmanned him. The Assassinators were afterwards punished by course of Justice.  
After this great Misfortune, our Philosopher retired amongst the Monks, and entered Eloisa into a Nunnery.  
The Monks in a very little time forced Abelard to fly and retire to a Desert, where he erected a Chapel, which he afterwards turned into a Monastery, made his Eloisa Lady Abbess, and then retired into a remote corner at a great distance.  
During this Separation, a Letter that Abelard had writ to one of his Friends near the Nunnery, in which he made a long Narrative of all his Persecutions, fell accidentally into the Hands of our new Abbess, who opened it, and having found therein a thousand things which nearly concerned herself, she took occasion to write the following Letter, complaining of the Severity of being left to so many disquieting Thoughts, which so long a Silence might occasion.  Lucy. 
This is a very strange Account, and makes a greater Impression upon me, since the poor Lady had the same Misfortune as I had, of being overcome before Marriage: But methinks I should (had I been in her case) have begged my Husband's Pardon for going into a Nunnery, or plaguing myself much about him, after that unlucky Misfortune. Let her pretend as she pleases: I can't think it possible for a Woman to love an Eunuch-Husband. For my part, I know what I think of it.  Amy. 
But, my Friend Lucy, that's not so much the Business. Is not here a very sad Misfortune, for a couple of tender Persons? Had they been both buried alive, there could not have been a greater Task for the Passions. The poor Lady is Cloistered, deprived of all her Friends, shut up from the World, and yet accompanied with all the vehement and unruly Passions of an amorous Lover, and the Cares of a tender Wife. What an exquisite Torture must it be to her, to lose her Lover in the midst of all her Beauty and Charms! to reflect upon the Scandal, and Persecutions of one she loved better than her Life! and what still adds to the Weight of all their Misery, her good Education gave her such a Taste of all the Accidents of ●ife, as was much more delicate and sensible than otherwise it would have been! Perhaps you'll ask what great Hopes she could have in Abelard's Return to her. Tho' she had lost the Lover, she loved the Friend: And if she could write after such a strange manner for half a Husband to return and live kindly with her, what would she have done, if she had been to have Reclaimed an effective Husband, such as yours or mine?  Lucy. 
I can forbear no longer: Pray let's hear the Letter.  Amy. 
I'll read it then.  
Eloisa to Abelard.  
'Tis to her Master, her Father, to her Brother, her Husband, that a Servant, a Daughter, a Sister, a Wife, and, to include in one Word, all that these Names have in 'em of Honour, Respect, Tenderness, and Freedom, 'tis to her Abelard that Eloisa writes.  
SOme time since a Letter fell into my Hands which you had writ to one of your Friends, as I knew the Character, and loved the Hand, my Heart keeping Intelligence with my Curiosity forced me to open it, flattering myself, that I had a sovereign Right to every thing that comes from you, and did not believe there were any Laws of Decorum for me to observe, when I was inflamed with a violent Desire of knowing what was become of you. But, alas! what has my Curiosity cost me? How many Tears has it drawn from me? And how was I surprised to find in your Letter nothing but a sad and long detail of your Misfortunes! I saw my Name in it an Hundred times, and I never found it but with ●ear, there being always some Affliction or other attending it. I also read yours, which was nothing more happy. These lamentable, yet dear Ideas so strongly affected me, that I believed you wrote not so much to Comfort a Friend under some light Disgraces, as to describe our Misfortunes and Persecutions. What Reflections did not I then make! I began to think all over anew, and found myself seized with the same Grief as when we began to be first unhappy; and altho' Time had diminished those Pains, 'twas enough to see 'em written by your Hand to make me feel them over again. Nothing can ever make me forget what you have suffered. I shall always remember the Malice of a Cruel Uncle, an Assassinate, and a Lover ill Treated. I shall never forget how your Wit begat Enemies, and such as were jealous of your Glory. I shall continually represent to myself that high Reputation which you have so justly acquired. What Tempests have not the Monks, those Religious Traitors, raised against you? This Chain of so many Evils hath drawn Blood from the bottom of my Heart. My Tears, which I could not keep, have effaced part of your Letter; and I could have almost wished to have served it all so, and sent it thus back again to you.  
'Tis true nevertheless, and I confess it to you, that before I had read I was much more easy; but so soon as I had perused it, my Grief was renewed. 'Tis too much, I say, 'tis too much to suffer without complaining, since the Rage of our Enemies is still living; since Time, which disarms the most mortal Hatred, never disarms them; since your Virtue must be persecuted even till your Coffin serves for an Asylum; nay, perhaps blind Anger will even disturb your Ashes. I hope I shall always remember these past Misfortunes, and fear such as may still come upon you. I shall never mention the Name of my dear Abelard without Tears in my Eyes. I shall never pronounce his Name without a Sigh. See, I pray you, the Condition you have reduced me to, Sad, Afflicted, and without any Comfort, if it comes not from you. Refuse me not then, I conjure you, but give me a faithful Account of all that relates to you, how dolorous soever it is. I would be ignorant of nothing. Perhaps, by mingling my Sighs with yours, you will suffer the less, if what is commonly said be true, That Afflictions divided become easy.  Lucy. 
Poor Lady! And all this for an Eunuch. So much Tenderness, Wheedling, and Recounting of Misfortunes, etc. to call back a disabled Straggler! For my part—  Amy. 
Why do you interrupt me, Lucy, with such Remarks as these? You ought rather to consider, and imitate herein the Art of Persuasion. See what tender Expressions upon all Occasions she does use! what Stories of past Misfortunes does she not repeat! which, perhaps, is a Subject that as much endears the Parties that have shared 'em as any thing in the World. Then for her modest Commendations of him, which you call Wheedling, 'tis no unsuccessful Method. None, how prudent and mortified soever they be, are able to stand the Battery of a handsome Commendation.  Lucy. 
I thank you for these Observations. I confess, every Advice or Word that comes from you, my Friend Amy, has a Charm in it, and each Argument has a double force. Pray will you read on.  Amy. 
Presently— There's another Remark I can't pass over. You see how importunate she was for knowing his Concerns, and bearing her share in his Afflictions. What can be more obliging then this, or a greater Sign of True Friendship? But to proceed—  
Tell me not for an Excuse, that you will spare our Tears: I desire no such Pity. Besides, if to write back to me you wait till you can write upon some agreeable Subject, you will stay too long. Virtuous Men have but little Happiness to hope for here. 'Twill indeed be to me a great Pleasure to open one of your Letters, if 'twas only to be informed that you don't forget me. Seneca (whom you have so often read to me) appeared so sensible, (as much a-Stoick as he was,) when he opened one of Lucillas' ' s Letters, that he imagined he tasted all the Pleasures of Conversation.  
I have observed in your Ahsence, that we do more admire the Pictures of the Persons we love, when far distant from us, than when they were near. It seems to me, the more distant they are from us, the livelier and likelier to the Truth is their Pictures; at least our Imagination, which continually depaints 'em, makes us find it so. I have your Picture, and I never pass by it without fixing upon it; tho' when you was present, I could scarce look upon't. If Painting, which is only a dumb Representation of Objects, gives so great Pleasure, what Joys will not Letters inspire! They are animated, they speak, they carry with them that Spirit which explains the Motions of the Heart, they contain within them the Fire of our Passions, and render every thing as sensible as if seen; they say every thing that can be spoken of Love and Tenderness when we are together, and even sometimes they speak to greater Advantage. We may write to one another; a Pleasure so innocent is not forbidden us. Let us not lose by our negligence the only Happiness that is left us, and that perhaps which our Persecutors cannot deprive us of. I will tell you, that you are my Husband; you shall see me speak like your Wife; and, in despite of all your Misfortunes, you shall be in a Letter whatever you would be. 'Twas for the Comfort of Persons encloistered, as I am, that Letters were first invented. Having lost the effective Pleasures of seeing and enjoying you any more, I shall find'em again in some manner in your writing to me: I shall there read your most secret Sentiments, and carry: 'em continually about me. In fine, if you are capable of any Jealousy, let it be that only of the Caresses I shall give your Letters.  Amy. 
Pray, Lucy, what think you of this? Suppose you had a Husband under Misfortunes, that estranged himself from you, and would not see you, (which, no doubt, is a sad Affliction) What could possibly be invented, or thought of, to make him write or return back to you, that is not here said? I could read it a Hundred times over, and be proud that one of our Sex could write at this rate.  Lucy. 
'Tis indeed an extreme passionate and clean Wit; and, I think, worthy an effective Husband.  Amy. 
The more Remarkable, I think, since 'twas the effect of pure disinterested Friendship.  Lucy. 
I am not of your Opinion, by any means: I rather think it the Effects of an old Habit; and that the Influence of past warm Embraces was not yet so extinct as not to dictate much of these passionate Expressions. But however pray proceed.  
I would not have you to write to me with Application: I had rather hear the Language of your Heart than your Wit. I could not live, if you should not tell me that you loved me always: This Language must be so natural to you, that I believe you cannot use any other without doing yourself great Violence. Besides, it is but just, that you heal again, with some Marks of Constant Love, the Wounds that you have made in my Soul by that sad Account which you have given your Friend.  
'Tis not that I reproach the innocent Artifice you have made use of to Comfort the Afflicted, by comparing his Misery with a greater. Charity is ingenious and commendable in these Pious Circumventions. But are not your Obligations greater to me than to this Friend? What Friendship can there be betwixt you? They call us your Sisters, and we call ourselves your Daughters. If there was any thing in the nature of these Expressions that could tie us more strictly to you, we might make useof it to express this Act of Devoting ourselves under your Conduct, and of your Obligations to us again.  
When a deep Silence shall cover our just Acknowledgements, this Church, these Altars, and these Places, shall speak enough; but indeed, 'tis neither these Stones, nor these Marbles, but yourself that speaks; (and I shall always mention it with pleasure) 'tis You, that are the only Founder of this House.  
The Augustine's, the Tertullias, and the Jeromes, have written to their Eudona ' s, their Paula ' s, their Melania ' s: And when you read these Names, How can you forget mine? Will it be a Crime for you to cultivate my Mind like a Jerome? To preach to me like a Tertullian? And to speak to me with the Grace of St. Augustine? Your Sciences and Knowledge ought not to be barren and fruitless in respect of me. In writing to me, you will write to a Wife: A Sacrament hath rendered this Commerce legitimate: And since you can satisfy me, without committing the least Scandal, why will you not do it? I have an Uncle a Barbarian, whose Inhumanity serves only to make you dearer to me. You have no Reason now to fear me, Why do you fly me? Hear my Sighs; 'tis enough if you will be only a Witness of 'em.  
You remember, doubtless, (For what can't those remember who have loved?) with what Pleasure I travelled to hear you; after what manner, when we were not together, I stole from all the World to write to you; what Inquietudes did one Billet cost me, even till it came to your Hands, because of the Management and dangerous Trust. I reposed in the Deliverer. I know well this Account surprises you, and you are afraid to hear the rest: But I blush no more about it, since my Tenderness for you has no Bounds. I have done more than all this: I'm Hated for Loving you; and I am come here to lose myself, to make you live without Disquiet. There's nothing but Virtue, joined with a Love that is disengaged from the Commerce of the Senses, which can produce such Effects. When we love Pleasures, we love the Living, and not the Dead. We cease to burn for those who are not in a Condition to burn for us again. My Cruel Uncle thought thus: He thought me like other Women, and that I loved your Sex more than your Person. But his Aim had not that effect. I love you more than ever, and revenge myself upon him by heaping all my Tenderness upon you. If heretofore the Affection I had for you was not so pure as it is at present, if formerly both my Mind and Body partaked of the Pleasure of Loving you, yet I told you a Thousand times, that I had always more content in possessing your Heart, than in enjoying all the Felicity of our Sex; and of all that you had, it was not the Man that pleased me most.  Lucy. 
Perhaps so.  Amy. 
Why, Lucy, it was or ought to be so. 'Tis not long since you complained that such Enjoyments were grown insipid and dull.  Lucy. 
That's right, because I want 'em not. But were I in Eloisa's case, perhaps I should think otherwise again. But proceed, if you please.  
You ought to be persuaded of this by the extreme Reluctance I had against Marriage, although I well knew that this Name was Honourable amongst Men, and Holy in Religion, yet I ceased to find those Charms there, in thinking that I ceased to be free. The Chains of Marriage, how honourable soever they may be, carry along with them such necessary Obligations, as ravish the Glory of being Loved. I was willing to have shunned the Necessity of Loving a Man, who, possibly, might not love me always. I hated the Name of Wife, to live happily with that of your Mistress. The Tenderness of a Maid which you loved with so much Passion, yet less than she wished for, are not altogether forgotten by you, since you entertained your Friend with them in that Letter which I surprised. You say very well in this, that I found nothing but what was insipid in all the public Engagements which tie those Knots that only Death could break, and which make a sad Necessity of Life and Love: But you add not, that I protested to you, an Hundred times, that it was infinitely more agreeable to me, to live with Abelard as his Mistress, than to be an Empress with Augustus; and that it would be more Happiness for me to Obey you, than to Captivate lawfully the Master of the Universe. Riches and Grandeurs are not the Charms of Love. True Tenderness distinguish●s the Lover from every thing else, takes no notice of his Fortune, his Rank, and Employments. This would be to seek such a Marriage, as would rather satisfy the Ambition than the Heart: But I believe such Persons can never taste that sweet Union, nor feel the secret and charming Emotions of Two Hearts, which for a long time have endeavoured to be united. Those who marry for other Considerations, do continually sigh after better Fortune, which they believe have escaped 'em. The Wife sees Husbands Richer than hers, and the Husband sees Wives Richer than his: Interested Vows beget Regrets, and Regrets, Discord; and Discord, Separation, or at least, Hatred. Unquiet and immoderate Desire is the Revenger of a Love which is offended by a seeking after any Happiness by Love, than what is in Love itself. If there's any Shadow of Felicity here below, I'm persuaded 'tis only to be found in the Union of Two Persons who freely love, whom a Secret Inclination hath joined, and a reciprocal Merit satisfied.  Amy. 
What think you, Lucy, Had not this Lady a true Taste of the Business of Life? How many of our Acquaintance has she Arraigned at once.  Lucy. 
Perhaps all the Married Worlds at least some time or other. But the next—  
If I could believe you were as much persuaded of my Merit as I of yours, I would tell you there was a time when we might have reckoned ourselves in the Number of the Happy. Alas! how should I not be persuaded of your Merit? If I should doubt of it, an universal Esteem would determine in your Favour. Is there any Country, Province, or Town, which has not desired you? Where can you retire yourself where you will not be followed with Hearts and Eyes? All the World takes Pleasure in saying they have seen Abelard. Wives, in 'spight of those Laws of Decorum which the World has put upon 'em, sufficiently testify that they feel something more than a simple Esteem for you: I have known 'em Praise their Husbands, when at the same time they were Jealous of my Joys, and plainly signified that nothing would be impossible to you, in respect of them: So that who could Resist you? Your Reputation, which flattered the Vanity of our Sex; your Air, your Manners, your lively Eyes, in which your Soul was so admirably painted, your Discourses, and in a word, every thing that belongs to you spoke in your Favour. There's nothing, even to the least Songs or Copy of Verses which you have made for me, which has not a Thousand Beauties; I will make 'em endure so long as there are Persons that shall love; they shall sing to others that which you thought only to make for me; and those Words, so natural and tender which were the Testimony of your Love in light Verse, and little Songs, shall serve for others to express their Thoughts much better than they could do themselves. But have not these sort of Gallantries made me many Rivals? How many Women have been willing to appropriate the Subject to themselves, and would have it a Homage which Love paid to their Beauty? Others through despair have Reproached me, by saying, that I had no other Beauty besides that which your Verses gave me, nor any Advantages above them, but in being beloved by you; and in 'spight of that Self-Love, which is so discernible in all Women, I esteemed myself happy in having a Lover, to whom I was indebted for all my Accomplishments; and I took a secret Pleasure in the Service of a Man, who, when he pleased, could make a Goddess of his Mistress. Proud of your Glory, I read with Pleasure all the Praises you gave me, and often, without consulting myself, I was willing to be such as you described me, that I might more certainly please you.  
But, alas! where is the Time that I speak of? I now bewail my Lover; and of all my Joys there remains only an unhappy Remembrance of 'em, which overwhelms me. You that were jealous of my Happiness learn, that he, for whom you envied me, is no more either yours or mine. I loved him; my Love was both his Crime and Punishment; my weak Allurements charmed him, and content with each other we lived happily, and calmly passed on some blissful Minutes; and if it was a Crime to live thus, this Crime would please me again. But my Misfortune is to have had unjust Relations, whose Hatred and Rage troubled the Calm of our Bliss. If these Barbarians had made use of their Reason, I should now have enjoyed my Abelard in Peace. How Cruel were they, when their blind Passion engaged an Assassin to surprise you in your Sleep! If we had been together, I would have defended you at the Expense of my own Life; my Cries only would have stayed his Arm. But in this Place Love is scandalised, and my Modesty joined to my Despair makes me silent. I am not permitted to say all that I think upon this Subject; and altho' I were permitted, yet I could not do it: Great is the Eloquence of Silence, where the greatest of Evils can't be expressed. Tell me only, for 'tis very afflicting to me, whence came it that you began to neglect me after my Profession of a Monastic Life. Let me hear the Reason of your Coldness, or rather permit me to discover my Thoughts to you, Is it possible, that only the Prospect of Pleasure should draw you to me, and that my Tenderness, which could deny you nothing that you could wish, should diminish your Flames. A sad Experience has taught me, that Men fly those to whom they have the greatest Obligation; and that a Grant of many Favours to 'em, is rather an Occasion of Indifferency than Gratitude. Thus this weak Heart was too ill defended to be dear to you long: You easily took it, and now give it me back again. No, ingrateful Man! I will never consent to receive it; and tho' I ought in this Place not to have my own Will, I have nevertheless secretly preserved a Desire of being Loved by you. At that very time I made my sad Vows, I had about me the last Letter you sent me, in which you protested you would be always mine, and that you would only live to love me: So that 'tis to you that I am sacrificed; you have my Heart, I had yours. Ask me nothing back again; and suffer my Passion, as something which is so much yours, that you can't deprive yourself of it.  
Alas! What is my Weakness to talk at this rate? Cruel Man! you forced me hither by your Conduct. Infidel! Must you all at once love me no more? Why did not you deceive me for some time, and not abandon at once? If you had at least given me some feeble Marks of a dying Friendship, I should have assisted you to have deceived myself, and would have made all possible Efforts to have believed you capable of some Constancy; But in the way you now treat me, what Opinion can I have of you? What can I think of such a Forgetful One as you are? Why do you take away all Means of Writing to you? I have passionately wished to see you; but if it is forbidden me to hope for it, I would now be contented with some Lines from your Hand. Is it then so great a Trouble to write to them you love, if it be yet true that you love me? I ask not such Letters as you fill with Learning, and with which you raise your Reputation; all that I beg for, is a few Letters which your Heart will dictate to you, as fast as you can write, without any study or application. How was I deceived, when I thought you was all mine, and took this Veil, engaging myself to live for ever under your Laws; for in making Profession, I pretended not any thing else than to be Yours; and I voluntarily took it upon me, through the Desire you had of seeing me Encloistered, and now nothing but Death can free me from this Place where you have put me: Yea, my Ashes shall remain here to wait for yours, or at least to be a Mark of my Obedience to you.  
What signifies it, to conceal the Secret of my Vocation? You know it. 'Twas neither Zeal nor Devotion that transported me into this Cloister. I am here, I remain and abide here, because an Unhappy Love, and Cruel Relations have condemned me hither; and if I have no Continuation of your Care, if I lose your Friendship, what will be the Fruit of my Prison? What Reward is there for me to expect? I, who am at the Head of a Religious Community, am the feeble Captive of unhappy Love, and devoted only to Abelard. I repeat continually in my Memory past Misfortunes, not being able to think upon any thing else.  Am. 
Do you see, Lucy, what other Arguments she here uses: Her Obedience, (a harsh Word you think,) and the injurious Effects of her Passion for him: and, considering that his Afflictions may have wrought much upon him, in order to a pious Life, she (as you'd see presently) omits not this Topick neither; framing herself to every thing she believes may please him, in order to prevail upon him.  Lucy. 
I say, all this would have been well, if it had not been spent upon one that had been capable of making any benevolent Returns.  Am. 
Will you never leave this way of talking?— But to proceed.  
What an Account, what a Relation is this! I reproach my own Faults, and accuse you of yours; And why all this? See into what a Disorder you have thrown me! How hard is it to strive always in Duty against Inclination? I know what I own to this Veil which covers me; but I feel much more than what a Habitude of Loving can influence upon a sensible Soul. I am conquered, I am overcome by my own Inclination. My Love raises a Tempest in my Soul, and will. In one Moment I harken to the Sentiments of Piety which are raised in my Soul, and in another, I suffer every thing that is tender and soft to reign in my Imagination. I tell you to Day what I would not have told you Yesterday, I would not love you. I dreamed, that I had made Vows, that I was Veiled, Buried, and as it were Dead; but by degrees there arose from the bottom of my Heart a Trouble which overcame all these Sentiments, which darkened my Reason and Piety. You reign in the secret and imperceptible Places of my Heart, so that I can't attack you; and when I dream of Breaking the Chain that ties me to you, I flatter myself, and all the Efforts I can make, serve only to bind me the faster. For Pity's sake assist a miserable One, to renounce her Desires to herself, and to you, if it be possible. If you are a Lover, if you are a Father, Secure a Mistress, Comfort a Daughter: Can't these Names, these tender Names, soften you? Come back, either out of Pity or Love. If you do, I shall begin to be Religious without profaning my Vocation any longer.  
I had thought to have ended here; but whilst I am complaining of you, I must discharge my Heart, and ease it of all its Suspicions and Reproaches. 'Twas, I confess to you, a very hard thing to me, to see you in the Design you had of engaging me in this Profession before you had undertaken it yourself. How! thought I, does he think to find in me a new Example of Lot' s Wife, who looked behind her as she left Sodom? If my Youth and Sex made you believe that I might return to other Lovers, Paris being not yet in Flames nor Ashes, my Manners, my Fidelity, and that Heart which you ought to know, aught to cure you of these sorts of Suspicions. How! thought I, Time was, he would have been assured upon my bare Word, And must there now be Vows to answer for me? What Reason have I given him, in all the course of my Life, which could make him suspect me of the least Lightness? Could I be able to find him at all his Rendezvous, And shall I stick to follow him into the House of Holiness? How! I that am made a Victim of Pleasure to satisfy him, Shall I refuse to be a Sacrifice of Honour to obey him? Has Vice then greater Charms for well-educated Souls? Or, having once drank of the Cup of Sinners, shall I never take, but with Regret, the Chalice of Holiness? Or rather, have you believed yourself a better Master in Vice than Virtue, do you think you can't as easily persuade to one as the other? No, this would be, without doubt, too injurious to us both. Virtue is too fine, not to be embraced when discovered; and Vice is too much deformed, not to be avoided when known. Every thing has Charms for me when you will it. Nothing is Frightful, nothing Difficult, when you are by. I am not weak, but when you done't enlighten me; so that it will be your Fault, if I am not what you could wish me to be. I have done too much, and I must at this Day triumph over your Ingratitude. When we lived happily, you might have doubted whether 'twas Pleasure, or Friendship, which tied me to you; but now the Place, wherein I am and write, decides the Matter. I love you here at least as much as ever I did. If I had loved Pleasure, when that base Attempt was made upon you, Could not I have found how to have pleased myself? I was not Eighteen Years old at that time; and there were other Men, whom I might have hoped to please; but Abelard was no more of that number, and yet I would have none but him. 'Twas then for Love of you, that in an Age so proper for Love, and its Triumphs, that I threw myself alive into a Monastery. 'Tis for your sake that I have given the Remainders of my Beauty to the Days and Nights which I pass alone, which are now hasting to whither up; and because you could not enjoy 'em, I offered 'em to God only, and made him a second Present of my Heart, my Days, and my Life.  Amy. 
This Paragraph is one of the chiefest Motives I had to read this Letter to you; Eloisa's Case here and yours, being the very same. If your Husband is, or should be, Jealous of you, you have here, perhaps, the best Arguments in the World to cure him of it. Besides, my Friend Lucy, I thought it would be more effacious and taking, to find such Arguments dispersed up and down in an Historical Account that wants not the greatest Ornament of Pleasing, I mean Truth, than to have collected 'em for your use, and put 'em under their proper Heads, divesting 'em of this Advantage, of being as it were acted over, and represented to you by a Third Person. I confess, 'tis a Method would take much better with me than a dry Moral, which has not the inviting as well as the profitable part.  Lucy. 
'Tis extreme well done, and your Design I highly approve, and think myself Happy, that I have so great an Interest in your particular Care. Pray let's have the rest.  
I enlarge a little too much in this place, and I ought to speak less of your Misfortune, and of that which I suffer for the Love of you. We tarnish the Glory of fine Actions, when we make a Panegyric of ourselves. 'Tis true, but when we have to do with Men stupefied with base Ingratitude, we can't speak too much of the Concern we have with them. If you were of that Number, this Reproach would teach you many things: I will not make you one of them, lest I should wrong you. Irresolute that I am, I perceive I love you still. Nevertheless, I hope for nothing; I have renounced Life, despoiled myself of every thing; for I find I have lost Abelard in losing my Lover. I preserve my Love in a Monastery where I keep my Vows. Our unpitying Laws have not made me lose Humanity. You have not made me Marble, by changing my Habit; my Heart is not hardened, by being separated from you. I am sensible of every thing I have been, and yet I must be so no longer. Suffer, without hurting your Empire, that my Lover may exhort me to live under your Laws: Your Yoke will be very light, if his Hand supports it: Our Exercises will become lovely, when he shows their Profit. Retreat! Solitude won't affright me, if I could learn that I had some part in his Remembrance. A Heart so deeply touched as mine, is not so easily determined to Indifference. Yes, Abelard, I conjure you, by the Chains which I drag here, to ease the Weight, and make 'em as agreeable as I could wish 'em. Give me the Maxims of a Holy Love, that, after having quitted you, I may glory in being the Spouse of God. My Heart adores this Title, and disdains all others. Make me know how this Divine Love is nourished, entertained, and purified more and more. Before we were retired from the World, we busied ourselves much in your Composures, which told the Age of our Joys and Pleasures: Now we are in the Haven of Grace, is it improper to speak with me of my Happiness, and show me how to increase it? Have but the same Complaisance for me in the State wherein I now am, as you had for me before our Retirement. Without changing the Heart, let us change the Object; and, leaving our profane Songs, let us sing Divine Hymns. Let us elevate our Hearts to God, and have no other Transports but for his Glory.  
I expect all this from you, as a Charge whereof you can't extricale yourself. God has a particular Right over the Hearts of Great Men which he hath formed: When he touches 'em, he ravishes 'em, and makes 'em that they neither speak nor breathe, but for him. Even till this Moment of Grace happens, think upon me, forget me not: Remember my Tenderness, my Fidelity, my Constancy. Love a Mistress, cherish a Daughter, a Sister, a Spouse. Dream, that I love you still, and that I endeavour not to love you any more. What said I? I tremble, and my Heart contradicts that Word. Help me to blot it out again. I finish this long Letter, by saying, if you will have it so, (would to God I could subscribe to it,)  
For Ever Farewell.  Lucy. 
Dear Amy, oblige me with a Copy of this Letter.  Amy. 
With all my Heart.  Lucy. 
Oh! there is my Will. a coming.  Am. 
What do you mean, Lucy: Who is that?  Luc. 
My Husband: I'll retire, and leave him to your Management.  William. 
Madam, Your most humble Servant; I know not whether my Surprise, or Joy, to see you here, is greatest.  Am. 
Your Servant, Sir; I came to pay a Visit to your Lady: She is gone up Stairs, and will be here presently.  Will. 
Ay, when she pleases.  Am. 
I have had some Acquaintance with her before she was Married; I hope you are very Happy in your Choice.  Will. 
Indeed, Madam, to be free, I am not over Happy in it.  Am. 
Why, Sir, your Wife is extreme pretty; and, so far as I can guests, would make any Man happy.  Will. 
You're much in the right on't; I believe she would: She is pretty free of her Favours.  Am. 
I meant only so far as a good Wife could do it. Pray excuse my Freedom. The little Acquaintance I have had with her, I hope, will not be unuseful to either of you.  Will. 
Indeed, Madam, you are the only Person among all my Wife's Acquaintance, (and that perhaps is not a few,) whose Reputation, I think, is clear and unspotted: I beseech you to continue your Correspondence, and, if possible, make her a Proselyte to your Virtues.  Am. 
Pray be a little more particular.  Will. 
No, Madam, I must not; for I should rail, and make you uneasy.  Am. 
Sir, It's the Office of one Friend to take a part in the Happiness or Misery of another: I see such Characters of Uneasiness in your Face, that I am concerned to know the Cause of it.  Will. 
In short, Madam, think the worst of a Woman you can, and you'll make a faint Essay towards the Character of my Wife.  Am. 
Why do you talk at this rate, Sir? Does she abuse your Bed?  Will. 
I am not very sure, Madam; but I am a little jealous of it.  Am. 
What, Sir, perhaps you have no other Reason, but that you were overhasty yourself, and would not stay till the Parson said Amen.  Will. 
And if I did so before, Is there not as great a Probability, nay a much greater, that others have done the like afterwards, when there is not half the Fears and Inconveniences to oppose the Temptation.  Am. 
You say, you only suspect it: Unless you were sure, Why should you make yourself uneasy, by Anticipation? Can't you forgive your Wife an imaginary Crime, which only Excess of Affection to you, caused her to commit?  Will. 
No. Why should I forgive her?  Am. 
And can you forgive yourself?  Will. 
Why not? Would not any Man have done as much?  Am. 
I confess, most Gentlemen, , think it no Sin, or Fault, to do so: But pray, How could that be a Fault in her, which was not one in you? Have not all the same Passions? Had she resisted you, you had been criminal alone, and she virtuous; and at the worst, when she complied, she was guilty but of half the Crime; and ' Partnership should rather be an Argument of Endearment than Aversion: 'Tis so in every thing else. I speak not this, to extenuate what I could wish had not been; but to convince you of your Injustice, in endeavouring to shift off and evade your own Gild, by laying it upon another, who had been more Innocent and Virtuous than yourself, had it not been for you.  Will. 
I confess, my Prejudices may be as unjust as you have represented 'em: I wish I could not think so unhandsomely for the future.  Am. 
I'll make no Excuses for my Freedom with you; but if there be no other Obstructions that lie in the way of your Happiness, I see no Reason why the Estate of Marriage should not be the most happy Estate in the World: The Ordinance is Divine; 'tis Natural; it has the Advantage of Advice, Tenderness, Interest, and what not. All conspire together to make you Happy, if it be not your own Faults.  Will. 
Your Husband must needs be Happy, in having so good a Wife.  Am 
A good Husband makes a good Wife No Woman that has common Sense, and Gratitude, but may be made a very good Wife.  Will. 
Then, I think, my Wife has neither Sense, nor Gratitude; for she is continually upon unaccountable Visits, seldom or never pleased, when at home; always railing, and calling provoking Names; nay, this before Servants, Strangers, etc.  Am 
Are you without Fault? Do you never give any just Occasion for her doing so? Are you always Tender, Affable, and Agreeable? You ought to comply, tho' against your Inclinations, till by degrees, and proper Opportunities of speaking, you make her and yourself easy.  Will. 
How! Comply against my Inclinations!  Am. 
Ay, that's the great Secret of conjugal Happiness. Does the Word Compliance or Self-Denial, seem so strange to you? For my part, I think there is a great deal of Prudence and Reason in it. He that conquers himself, does more than he that takes a City. Conquest supposes Opposition. Do you think the Word Patience, and Self-denial, etc. are empty sounds? No, my Friend, I know you do not. Can we then reap the Rewards and Fruits of these without exercising 'em?  Will. 
Ah, Madam, how much easier is the Theory, than the Practice of Things?  Amy. 
True; but the Difficulty, by degrees, vanishes, as you exercise yourself in the contrary Virtue. Do but consider the many mechanic Trades in the Nation, some of which would give you much difficulty and trouble to attain to; but yet you see it continually conquered, only for the fake of Living. Now whether is Living, or the Happiness of Life, a greater Blessing? Certainly the latter. Why then should you not think a little Pains, and Industry, a little Application of Mind, (doubtless much less than is commonly used in the Affairs of getting the Necessaries of Life,) worth the Recompense of living Happily. In fine, my Friend, let me persuade you to take heed, that no irregular Action of yours be a Temptation to your Wife. Examine your own Conduct towards her; and, if you have Conveniency, take her into the Country with you, and live retired for some time: Be as kind to her in every thing as possible; and when absent, recommend good practical Treatises of Religion: Take proper Opportunities of speaking to her; discover a greater Concern for her Reputation, than your own.  Will. 
I dare say, all that that would not do.  Am. 
'Tis hard to think so; but do what's in your Power. If, when you have done your pa●●, you cannot Reclaim her, you have nothing to answer for. But I am morally certain, that those, Irregularities you impute to your Wife, are in a great measure owing to yourself. If you would reclaim her, reform yourself; and I question not, but you will find a great Alteration of Affairs in a little ●●●e.  Will. 
Indeed I can't justify myself in all my Actions towards my Wife, I believe I may contribute towards her Miscarriages. But for the future, according to your Advice, I'll endeavour to give her a good Example.  Amy. 
I wish you would: I shall reckon myself very Happy, if I may any ways be ●●cessary to serve you, and my Friend Lucy in a Business of such Importance.  Will. 
Dear Madam, I thank you; and to let you see how much I value your good Advice, I'll begin to put it into practice presently. Oh there's my Lucy a coming. I vow, I imagine I'm going a Courting again— Methinks, my dear Lucy, this looks like our Marriage-Day. We have here our best Friend to be witness of our Passions; What say you▪ Shall we be married again?  Luc. 
You mean unmarried, my Dear.  Will. 
No, I protest.  Lucy. 
Well then, if it be so, you must court me again; and if we marry a second time, we must both alter our Humours; otherwise we shall never be Happy.  Will. 
How long must the Courtship last?  Luc. 
All my Life: But, dear Amy, am not I obliged to you for my Husband's pleasant Humour? I wish he be not in jest.  Will. 
Ha', Madam, she prevents me— Am not I in a Dream?  Am. 
Come, my Friends, you are or may be as Happy as you please: I cannot set my Husband and myself as your Patterns; for I hope you'll make greater Examples: But, I think, neither of us Envy the Condition of any Person alive.  Luc. 
I could say so too, would my dear Will. be kind and constant.  Will. 
Indeed, Lucy— Then I'll hinder your Happiness no longer. Be Happy, and I cannot be otherwise.  Am. 
May both your Resolutions last— You must both bear and forbear, look upon each others Fall as your own, prefer each others Inclinations before your own, and then I'll secure your mutu●l Peace and Happiness.  
FINIS.