THE Secret Letters OF AMOUR Between the duchess AND Mynheer.  
Quid magis Optaret Cleopatra Parentibus orta  
Conspicuis, Comiti quam placuise Thori.  
Printed▪ Anno Dom. 1692.   


THE ARGUMENT.  
IT was in the latter end of the Peaceful Reign of Britomar King of Pictland, that Philidor, Duke of the Boreae, espoused Dysmora Daughter to the Count of Saxoville; a Lady of Generous Education, and of Inclinations equally as obliging: And as some People are Industrious to their own undoing, this Fair Creature was Precipitated by Nature to her Misfortune: Wherefore we ought to think it was not wholly her Fault, that Philidor was not so Happy in a Wife, as in every other Circumstance. For, to speak of the Duke, he was then the only survivor of a long Race of Hero's: All Created to Support, Strengthen and Adorn that Crown, to which alone they paid Homage and Obedience, both by their Prudence, Valour and Lustre of those Diadems, they have Successively worn and deserved. Not but that the Person and Mind of the present Duke Philidor, do justly entitle him to a whole and absolute Empire, over the Hearts of both Sexes. 'Twas odd( you think) therefore, that Dysmora should misapply her Charms to any Man besides her own Philidor. But such Influence( it seems) their Stars had on them at their Birth; that Libidander and she, took Fire from one another at a Game of Cards, which unhappily lighted them to one more Pleasant.  
Libidander, by birth, was a Batavian: But for his Person, Inclination and acquired Parts, by travail and Conversation, one of the greatest Ornaments of his Country: And this was the Gentleman who had the miserable Happiness of obliging himself and Dysmora; and at the same time to disturb the second Fountain of Honour, by mixing a foreign Stream with it. 'Tis unnatural to Imagine that the Duke should not be sensible of this new and unmerited Fate, as well as of his Ladys Pleasure; since their Letters Intercepted, give him too great an Assurance of ' em. These Letters are like to be your Entertainment here. I am persuaded they are obliging to the amourists; and I desire they may be so to you, the Bookseller and myself. However, it might have been wished, that those Flames which occasioned, might have burned 'em too, e're they had been exposed to a greater and more distinguishing Light: But those were too Immaterial and Sublime, to feed on the unthinking Sheets; which some times, Innocent, and White as they may be, are foully marked and tainted with our gross and filthy Mistakes.  
Between some of these Sheets, lay wrapped up the Hearts of these Faithful, Infidel Lovers; which the Duke had almost the Misfortune to see; and, had not Libidander leaped from a Window that looked into the adjoining Fields, and so crossed the River, being carried and preserved by one, to return to the Embraces of another Nymph; he had( perhaps) received a Brace of Bullets for that of his Bombs; and so would have been prevented, giving the Lady and us the Treat You must expect in his following Epistles.  
The first Mercury between these demi-Deities, happened to be as Sleepy as Argus; or( at least) suffered some, if not all, of his first packet to be seized on by Philidor, in the Reign of King Britomar: Those were( possibly) his Invitation to his Feast; and her Commendation of it. To which, after her Retreat to Loursople, and his to Henric-Stadt, succeeded a Legend of others, during their Abode in those different and distant Places. And the last Epistle was occasionally written sincl their Return; upon their renewing the old Intrigue in Pictland: Which has engaged the Duke Philidor, to be as just to himself, as his Kindness to his Lady will permit him. The following Letters, any Gentlemen or Lady may serve themselves with, according to the Necessities that present: But let 'em take care it be not in public.   

Libidander to Dysmora.  
WHen first I red those dear, but cruel Lines, all fragrant with the fresh impression of thy Hand, I thought no less than Murders, Rapes, and villainies unheard off, could so extort and raise thy fatal Indignation; each Word raised Terror in my guilty Soul, and every Line seemed to have born the dreadful Visage of my Executioner; at length my recollected Senses made me look, and mark, examine, call, and ask, where is this bold Usurper, Villain, Ravisher? what impious Intruder can this be, that dares presume to assault the well-known guarded Breast of my Almighty duchess? These cruel Dysmora, were my Thoughts, my sad Expostulations; till running with my eager Eye along, I soon perceived, too soon alas! I found unhappy Libidander was the Man whom you had thus marked out with Signs of blackest Infamy: Ah! cruel Tyrant Love, through what ambiguous Paths dost thou conduct me? What strange and different Methods dost thou take to oppress a Heart that ne'er rebelled against thee? Cruel Dysmora, is this then the reward of my vowed zealous Passion? Are then my Sorrows( greater then ever yet despairing Lover ever felt) so easily became thy Sport? That thou thus cruelly canst seek to add to the heavy weight my groaning Heart lies under; and instead of Cordials to my fainting Spirits, thou pourest poison into my aching Wounds, and canst endure to brand the truest most sincere and loving Heart with( oh! I Rave to think it) Ingratitude, the worst of Crimes: But am I cruel fair One, ungrateful when I love? And is that then become a Crime in me which( all that have been happy to have seen thee) account a pious Zeal: No mighty Nymph, if 'twere a Crime to love thee, think but what an innumerable Company of pious gazing Slaves, each look of thine would every Moment confounded and cast into the utter Regions of Perdition; and 'twere a Crime indeed to think those lovely Eyes, and Heavenly looks, which surely are the Fountains of all Life, and change their wonted Natures, and effect a power of killing all their humble Votaries, and that come with pious Zeal to kneel before them.  
What though, when I partend from you last, I resolved to obey your impossible commands, yet knew, Oh charming Dysmora! that after a Thousand Conflicts between Love and Honour, I found the God( too mighty for the Idol) reign absolute Monarch in my Soul, and soon banished that Tyrant thence, that cruel councillor that would suggest to you a Thousand fond Arguments to hinder my noble pursuit. Start not( too nice and lovely Creature) at Shadows of things that can but frighten Fools. Put me not off with these delays, rather say, you but dissembled Love all this while, than now 'tis born to let it die again with a poor fright of nonsense. A Fit of Honour! A Fantome imaginary and no more; no, no, represent me to your Soul more favourably, think you see me languishing at your Feet, breathing out my last in Sighs and kind reproaches, on the pityless Dysmora.  
Kind Heaven allows the meanest Wretch on Earth to come and bring his mite of Incense with him, let also thy Divinity vouchsafe to accept the adorations of thy Slaves, and if from any offerings they bring, there's any dare presume to a reward; vouchsafe this then to pled, who brings with him a heart sincerely true, and if by Man thy Love may be deserved, will prove itself not most unworthy thy Protection. To give you then that satisfaction which you desire, being the only person who is most dear to me, I do Swear by your most sweet perfections, which Oath I will never infringe, that unless you will be pleased to pity my Extremities, upon a true relation of my Misery, I will as I have hitherto Lived, so speedily Die  
Your Martyr, and Own Libidander.   

Dysmora to Libidander.  
WHat Language or Expression can you expect from a miserable Wretch, just ready to be drenched in a Sea of Despair? Must my other Misfortune serve as an Index to discover to you the poorness of my Soul, in that I could not better dispute my Liberty? But, O Jesus! had I guessed at your ensuing hate, certainly I should have left my Body a Prey to those Vultures, rather than thus endure your torturing displeasure. Oh! why will you make me own, with what regret I made you promise to prefer my Honour before your Love. I confess with Blushes, which you might then see kindled in my Face, that I was not at all pleased with the Vows you made me, to endeavour to obey me, and I then even wished you would obstinately have denied Obedience to my just Commands, have pursued your criminal flamme, and have left me raving on my undoing: For when you were gone, and I had leisure to look into my heart, alas! I found whether you obliged or not, whether Love or Honour were preferred, I, unhappy I, was either way inevitably lost.  
What shall I do, O thou Universal Conqueror? whether shall I retire to hid me from the danger of thy all-powerful Love? Oh! thou subtle, invincible deceiver of our Sex. By what strange magic is it thou thus dost draw, even the most wary, nice, resisting Hearts with, within the plainly dangerous circled of thy alluring Tongue. Oh! Virtue, Conscience, Duty, now defend me; come now expert your utmost power and force, for less than your united strength will ne're repel those vigorous Attacks that are made against me: No, no, alas, my feeble, Panting-Heart, proves me already more than half o'ercome, and tho' some sparks of great courage yet remain, which vainly would support and prompt my fainting Spirits; yet Fate, and the adorable Charms, which never sure knew pity or repulse, come thronging into my forsaken Breast, rifling each corner with a covetous Pride, and led my now defenceless Heart in Triumph. Yes, yes, Great Conqueror, I see thy Power, and now can wonder at my own Resistance; now I can see thy dear commanding Charms, thy winning Graces; now I can Hear, and with emphatic Skill, distinguish each Accent of thy Sweet Harmonious Voice; now I can stand and with amazing Silence harken to the persuasive rhetoric of thy Tongue, each look, each word and action, administer a new supply of fresh matter to my Love and Admiration; now I can smile at, and pity those poor hearts, who, with all heat and eagerness, pursue and toil for the dull fading toys and pleasures of Riches, popular Applause and Glory. In short, I find I must either Die, or be Libidanders  
Dysmora.   

Libidander to Dysmora, For the Assignation at Basset, &c.  
HOw enchanting is your Letter, my Everlasting Charmer, I have been just now a Solemnizing the Reading of it with a Thousand Sighs: And the Answer, which my own Honour commands me to make, would be to make none at all. If I let you see in my Letter the weakness of my Wit, you will at least discover the Strength of my Heart's Sentiments: And if you have the Advantage over me to writ a Thousand Times better than I, I shall have at least that of loving a Thousand Times better than you, which you dare not bring in Contestation with me. But to give a regular and methodical Reply to your Letter, you are too rational to believe me to be too much engaged. If I am really so, it's rather for your Interest than my own; and if I would have you run the same Perils with me, it is to let you taste the same Pleasures. 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. This Morning, after I had dismissed my Valet, I took a turn in the Garden, commanding my Footman to retire, who only attended me, I threw myself down on that Bank of green where we last disputed the dear & most charming Business of our Souls: Where our prints( that invited me) still remain on the prest Greens: There with Ten Thousand Sighs, with remembrance of the tender Minutes we past then, I drew your last Letter from my Bosom, and often kist, and often red it over.  
I confess I make use of no other Terms, than the same you do to give me Testimony and assurance of your Love; for, where is it possible for me to find expressions more sweet than those which come from your Heart? if I repeat them, I do it to assure you, that I do not desire only to have you in my Memory eternally, but also to have full possession of you while my Life lasts, in the Place where you wish and most desire; I sacrifice myself to you with the same Zeal you declare yourself towards me; I love and adore you with all my Soul; the transports of my Passion are at least equal with those of yours; nor let it trouble you at all that you have divulged your Love to me, contrary to the Opinion the World have of Honour, and your Religion— On the other side, as it is great perfection to Love, so we have this advantage and consolation, that we have brought our Love to the highest Pitch of Perfection. I conjure you to believe my Passion is equal with yours, and that I( by the same Measures with you) place all my Religion and good Fortune in loving you to the utmost; Maugre all Hazards or ill Opinions of the World. You afflict me when you tell me you would not have me writ to you unless I did it unconstrained. Tell me( I beseech you) is it possible for me ever to deny myself so much, or put that restraint upon myself as not to writ to you, and give you an account of myself, and assure you that I adore you as the most perfect and accomplished Person of all human Race.  
I have obeyed my Dysmora's dear Commands, and the dictates of my own impatient Soul, as soon as I received 'em, I immediately went to meet the Company at Basset; tho' I knew I should not see my Adorable Dysmora till Seven or Eight at Night; but oh 'tis wondrous Pleasure to be so much more near my Eternal Joy, the tedious approaching Night that must shelter me in its kind Shades, and conduct me to a Pleasure I aimed, but with imagining 'tis now my lovely Charmer, Three a Clock; and oh how many tedious Hours I am to languish here before the Blessed One arrive; I know you love my Dysmora, and therefore must guess at some part of my Torments, which yet is mixed with a certain trembling Joy not to be imagined by any but Dysmora, who surely loves Libidander, if there be truth in Beauty, faith in Youth, She surely loves him much; and much more above her Sex she's capable of Love, by how much more Soul's formed of a softer and more delicate Composition, by how much more her Wits refined and elevated above her duller Sex, and by how much more she is obliged; if Passion can claim Passion in return, sure no Beauty was ever so much indebted to a Slave, as Dysmora to Libidander, none ever loved like me! Judge then my Pains of Love, my Joys, my Fears, my Impatience, and Desires; and call me to your Sacred Presence with all the speed of Love; and as soon as 'tis duskish, imagine me in my Dysmora's Arms.  
sand my Angel something from you to make the Hours less tedious, consider me, Love me, and be as impatient as I; that you may the sooner find at your Feet your Everlasting Lover,  
Libidander.   

Dysmora to Libidander.  
What shall I say or do, thou Morning excellence? How shall I immoderate my growing ecstasies, my Fear unspeakable till thy Arrival. Approach, approach you Sacred Queen of Night, and bring Libidander veiled from all Eyes but mine! Approach at a fond Lovers Call, behold how I lye panting with expectation, tired out with your tedious Ceremony to the God of day; Be kind O lovely Night, and let the Deity descend to his beloved Thetis's Arms, and I to my Libidanders, the Sun and I must snatch our joys in the same happy Hours! favoured by thee, oh sacred filent Night! See, see the enamoured Sun is hastening on apace to his expecting Mistress, while thou dull Night art slowly lingering yet. Advance my Friend! my Goddess! and my Confident! hid all my Blushes, all my soft Confusions, my Tremblings, Transports, and Eyes all Languishing.  
Oh Libidander, a Thousand Things I've done to direct the tedious Hours, but nothing can! All things are dull without thee, I'm tired with every thing, impatient to end, as soon as I begin 'em, even the shades and solitary Walks afford me now no ease, no satisfaction and thought, but afflicts me more, that used to relieve. And I at last have recourse to my kind Pen; for while I writ, methinks I 'm talking to thee, I tell thee thus my Soul, while thou methinks, art all the while smiling and lissening by; this is much easier then silent Thought, and my Soul is never weary of this Converse; and thus I would speak a Thousand things, but that still, methinks, Words do not enough express my Soul, to understand that right, there requires Looks; there is a rhetoric in Looks, in Sighs, and Silent touches, that surpasses all; there is an Accent in the Sound of Words too, that gives a sense and soft Meaning to little things, which of themselves are of trivial value and insignificant, and by the cadence of the Utterance, may express a tenderness which their own Meaning does not bear; by this I would Insinuate, that the Story of the Heart cannot be so well  told by this way, as by Presence and Conversation; sure Libidander understands what I mean by this? which possibly is nonsense to all but a Lover, who apprehends all the little fond prattle of the thing beloved, and finds an Eloquence in it, that to a Sense unconcerned, would appear even approaching to Folly: But Libidander, who has the true notions of Love in him, apprehends all that can be said on that dear Subject; to him I venture to say any thing, whose kind and soft imaginations can supply all my wants in the description of the Soul: Will it not Libidander? Answer me;— But oh! where art thou? I see thee not, I touch thee not; but when I hast with transport to embrace thee, 'tis shadow all, and my poor Arms return empty to my Bosom; why, oh! why comest thou not? why art thou cautious, and prudently wait'st the slow paced Night? Oh could! oh reasonable Lover! why?— But I grow wild, and know not what I say: Impatient Love betrays me to a thousand Follies, a thousand Rashnesses: I Die with shane, but I must be undone, and 'tis no matter how, whether by my own weakness, or by Libidanders Charms, or both, I know not, but so 'tis destined.— Oh Libidander, 'tis too too tedious hours Love has counted since you Writ to me, ye are but a quarter of a Mile distant; what have you been doing all that live long while? are you not unkind? does not Dysmora lye neglected and unregarded in your thoughts, hudl'd up with your more weighty affairs of Basset, and almost lost in the wagering crowd? Say, my lovely Charmer, is she not? does not this fatal Game Rival your Dysmora? is she not too often removed thence to let in that foolish Mistress? Alas Libidander, I more than fear she is.  
I must own, my Charming Libidander, that my Love is now arrived to that Success, that every thought which before did but Discompose me, now puts me into a violence of Rage unbecoming my Sex, or any thing but the mighty occasion of it, Love, and which only had power to Calm what it had before ruffled into a destructive Storm; but like the angered Sea, which pants and heavs, and retains still an uneasy Motion long after the rude Winds are appeased and hushed to Silence.  
My Heart beats still, and heaves with the sensible remains of the late dangerous Tempest of my Mind, and nothing can absolutely Calm me, but the approach of the All powerful Libidander, though that thought possesses me with Ten Thousand fears, which I kn owe will vanish all at thy appearance, and assume no more their dreadful Shapes, till thou art gone again: Bring me my Libidander, and set me above the thoughts of Cares, Frights, or any other thoughts but those of tender Love: Hast then thou Charming Object of my Eternal Wishes, of my new desires; hast to my Arms, my Eyes, my Soul,— But, oh! be wondrous careful there, do not betray the easy Dysmora, that Trusts thee amid all her Sacred Store.  
'Tis almost dark, and my Lord is retired to his Chamber, and has left all that apartment next the Garden wholly without Spies. I have by this trusty Confident sent you a Key we got made to the Door, which leads from the Garden to the Back-Stairs to my Apartment; That Way I beg you to come; Oh I faint with the Dear Thoughts of thy Approach; hast then Libidander: But what need I bid thee, Love will lend thee his Wings, thou who commandest all his Artillery, put 'em on, and fly to thy Languishing  
Dysmora.  
IT is good to fear the worst, therefore, that we may prevent all things that would hinder this Nights Assignation, or give it the least Disturbance, I have planted Spies in every Corner to serve the cost; and a Servant ready at the Door to be your conductor. I'l say no more, nor instruct, you shall preserve yourself, and your  
Dysmora.   

Dysmora, to her Libidander at the Hague, after her Retirement into France.  
AFter so long a Series of Misfortunes, which with malicious hast have crowded on me my cruel Fate, I hoped, even for its own convenience would have stopped, and for variety have turned itself to some less weary Object: Oh! the Eternal Powers, that boast with equal Scales to poise the World, is the loss, by three Months absence, of the only delight of my Soul, so trifling insignificant a punishment for the frail errors of human Life, that in your zealous fury, you still continue it.  
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, answerable to the prodigious Cruelty of your most deplorable absence. Bless me! But must this absence last for ever? An Absence so Hellish, that sorrow itself wants words to express it? Am I then never to see those Eyes again? Those Eyes, that have so often exchanged Love with mine, to the charming of 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 your Departure, have served me only 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 greatest Misfortunes that this World can produce, so they are on your account.  
My Life was vowed to you the first time I saw you, and if you will not accept of it as a Present, I am content to make it a Sacrifice. A thousand times a day I sand my Sighs to hunt you out. And what return for all my Passionate Disquiets, but the good Counsel of my across Fortune? What whispers me at every turn; Ah wretched Dysmora! Why, dost thou flatter, and consume thyself in the vain pursuit of a Creature, I fear, never to be recovered? He's gone; irrevocably gone, he's past the Seas to fly thee, but let me not be so uncharitable, more rather thy Lord and Master. He's now in Holland dissolved in Pleasures; and, I fear, does no more think of thee, or of what thou sufferest for his sake, then if he had never known any such Woman: But hold! Y'have 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 and Pleasures that I received in your Embraces, must never be forgotten: And should I love you less this Moment, than when I loved you most,( in Confidence that you loved me so too) I were ungrateful. 'Tis 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 bitter 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 then died of Love. But I revived: And to what end? Only to die again, and lose that Life for you, which a person in the World did not think worth the saving. Beside that, there's no rest for me while you're away, any where 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; and without repining too, because they came from you.  
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— Alas! And why not your whole Life rather? If I could but find any way to deliver myself from my unlucky Confinement, 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,( though 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 Confident 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 the grand risk you ran, as to the Affair of my Lord, and that he would force you to leave me, even with the danger of your Life.  
But I must ask your Pardon; for I lay nothing to your Charge: I am not in a condition to meditate a Revenge; and I can only complain of the Rigour of my Perverse Fortune. When she has partend 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 whatever you do, besure 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, and to talk at this rate of a thing that I myself know to be Impossible. Do but Love me forever, and then there remains nothing to make me the Glorious and eternally Happy,  
Dysmora.   

Libidander to Dysmora.  
IF you had seen the melancholy into which the first Part of your last Letter put me, you would, questionless, have repented, you had ever writ it. You do me Injury, in accusing me of having dealt Unkindly by you, and of having quiter forgotten you; I cannot believe you have really such Thoughts of me; or if it be so, 'tis because you have not yet received my Letter, which when you have, I persuade myself, you will be quiter of another mind; for I confess, you express the Passion you have for me in Terms so sweet and endearing, that I should be the mest insensate thing in the World, not to be touched to the Quick; the Testimonies you gave me of your Love, the first time I had the Honour to be acquainted with you, were Marks too plain and certain for me, not to be fully convinced of it: It may be needless for me to repeat them by Resentments so expresive of your Tenderness, that will but Afflict a poor miserable Lover, who thinks of nothing but you, who neither breaths nor sees( one Moment of his Life) but for you. You are the most sweet, delightful Idea of his Imagination, which continually flatters and pleases my Soul and Senses. I sleep neither Night nor Day; or if it happen, that Sleep close my eyes but for one Moment, 'tis only to torment me the more, by representing you to my Imagination in some pleasant Dreams: Ah! I would to God that those happy Amorous Dreams, had either never come into my Fancy, or, that they would continue always with me when awake. But what( Unfortunate that I am) do I! Ah! I betray my Passion. I reprove myself, I am pleased with my Sufferings, I find it pleasant to suffer for the most Lovely Object, the most charming person in the World. These are the true Sentiments of my Soul, and you have always appeared such to me from the first Moment I had the Happiness to see you, and to conceive a Passion so violent for you, that I have ever since happily Languished in your Chains: Judge you then, if your Love has wanted a prophetic foreknowledge of me; no, no, you are not betrayed, your hopes are founded upon a person, who will not be wanting to you to the very last Moment of his Life; I know your passion is extreme, and that my absence must be severe to you; but I cannot cause more torment to you, than your absence causes Grief and Unhappiness to me; and I hope my Return will not give you more satisfaction, than your presence will give me Joy and Pleasure. Take Courage, Madam, and mitigate your Grief, and let it not be too ingenious in tormenting you, for a person who is wholly yours, and depends wholly upon you. I hope, I shall see again the charming brightness of those Eyes Heavenly, which makes up all my pleasures, and the whole Felicity of my Life; let those bright Eyes Reanimate, and resume their natural Lustre, and cease to obscure themselves with Tears; be assured, they shall see that person again you have so earnestly wished for. If my remoteness be grievous to you, yours must be much more to me, since it has made me die a thousand times a day for you. The present of so fair a Life as yours, is well worth the receiving, and sufficient to make me extreme happy; but, I beseech you, speak not of sacrificing it to me, who have nothing in me to merit so Noble a Sacrifice, unless it be the quality of being a Lover perfectly and entirely yours; and by virtue of that sweet Title, I presume to accept it, and to make a perfect Sacrifice of mine to you. I know well enough you continually sand your Sighs towards me, and I sand mine to you every moment; yours make me sensible of your uneasiness, and mine declare my Love, which shall last eternally; and should make you hope, that the day will come, which will give an end to your sorrow. Forbear then( I beseech you) to torment yourself any longer; and be assured, That the most Delicious pleasures of the Hague, are no other than severe punishments to me, when I consider my unhappiness by being thus distant from you: I keep your Letter with more care and dearness than my Life; I kiss it a thousand times a day; and I would, Madam, to God you could as well embrace yours. I hope( one day) it will be; and that that Destiny will unite us, which has thus separated us, that you may have a happy deliverance from the Sufferings you lye under for my sake, who am absolutely Yours  
Libidander.   

Libidander to Dysmora, after his first Visit, soon after his Return into Pictland.  
THE Gods, my Charming Dysmora, have at last been kind, and by this happy juncture seem to own the justice of my Love, and my pretensions; now my kind Stars have given a blessed occasion to vindicate my long neglected Vows. 'Tis true, long Absence, and devouring Time, by this, might well have been supposed to have worn the faint Ideas of indifferent Charms; 'tis also true, that Libidander's Heart, which the Fareigues of travail, and other business still has prest, has long a stranger been to those soft pleasures, which serve to alleviate the toils of men of Business; but what can the Charming Dysmora thence infer? But that the Almighty power of her sublimer Beauties scorned to be tied to the common rules of time or place; and that, tho' absent, like the Sun in the Clouds, her influence still does operate on all, as present in its bright Meridian Glory: Yes, most adorable Creature, 'tis true, that time nor absence has had power to cure the fatal wound your pointed lightning gave, my too too tender heart do's still retain the impression, which your early Beauties made; my aspirig hopes did still pursue the wandring steps of their beloved Object; those Charms which once my greedy Eyes sucked in, and run with speed to inform my amazed heart; those dazzling Charms, I say, do still employ my anxious thoughts, my covetous desires; nor did your absence otherwise alloy or stop the rage of my devouring Flames, than just to allow my panting heart a breathing, which now your presence has again inflamed; and by the addition of Diviner Beauties, as it were by Ambush, my unweary Eyes surprised, and fixed me now your everlasting Slave: Yes, Mighty Nymph, I do not blushy to own I am again more than totally subdued: Your never erring Shafts have found an easy passage to my yielding Soul; and now the pleasing poison trills through every Vein, through every poor: In vain I strive, in vain apply to expel the Insulting Tyrant from my Breast; too sure he's rooted, mingling with my Blood, till he at length became a part of me: Well, my Great conqueror, since my Stars, Conspiring with your Power, have thus again subdued me, tell me the Conditions you appoint your Slave, declare the manner how you will be Worshipped. Ah! Speak, Command, for my officious zeal waits with impatience now to be employed: Say, lovely Dysmora, Canst thou vouchsafe again to thanked poor Libidander, in the crowd of thy Admiring Slaves? Canst thou suspect his Loyalty or Zeal? Ah! No, my Lovely Charmer can never mistrust what many years experience has confirmed; too oft she has proved the strength of my inclining Heart, conquered, disarmed, and left at Pleasure breathless: Such, Dysmora, is thy power, such is thy Victorious Beauty. Come let me then fly again to out-spread Arms, let me embrace thy tender snowy Limbs: Oh! Let me suck that Balmy, Cordial Breath, kiss, kiss, thy rolling dying Eyes, and ravish all thy Beauties. Ah! Lovely Queen, what remains to make thee again Glorious and Happy, but  
Libidander.  
FINIS.