demonstrate it came not so into _Holland_, but that some other cover secured it; so that never any but _Octavio_, the most nice in honour, had ever so great a contest with love and friendship: for his noble temper was not one of those that could sacrifice his friend to his little lusts, or his more solid passion, but truly brave, resolves now rather to die than to confess _Philander_’. secret; to evade which he sent her letter by his page, with one from himself, and commanded him to tell her, that he was going to receive some commands from the Prince of _Orange_, and that he would wait on her himself in the evening. The page obeys, and _Octavio_ sent him with a sigh, and eyes that languishingly told him he did it with regret. The page hastening to _Sylvia_, finds her in all the disquiet of an expecting lover; and snatching the papers from his hand, the first she saw was that from _Philander_, at which she trembled with fear and joy, for hope, love and despair, at once seized her, and hardly able to make a sign with her hand, for the boy to withdraw, she sank down into her chair, all pale, and almost fainting; but re-assuming her courage, she opened it, and read this. PHILANDER _to_ SYLVIA. Ah, _Sylvia_! Why all these doubts and fears? why at this distance do you accuse your lover, when he is incapable to fall before you, and undeceive your little jealousies. Oh, _Sylvia_, I fear this first reproaching me, is rather the effects of your own guilt, than any that love can make you think of mine. Yes, yes, my _Sylvia_, it is the waves that roll and glide away, and not the steady shore. ‘Tis you begin to unfasten from the vows that hold you, and float along the flattering tide of vanity. It is you, whose pride and beauty scorning to be confined, give way to the admiring crowd, that sigh for you. Yes, yes, you, like the rest of your fair glorious sex, love the admirer though you hate the coxcomb. It is vain! it is great! And shews your beauty’s power----Is it possible, that for the safety of my life I cannot retire, but you must think I am fled from love and _Sylvia_? Or is it possible that pitying tenderness that made me incapable of taking leave of her should be interpreted as false--and base--and that an absence of thirty days, so forc’d, and so compelled, must render me inconstant--lost--ungrateful----as if that after _Sylvia_ heaven ever made a beauty that could charm me?