ruin the fame of _Myrtilla_, to make way to the heart of _Sylvia_! Remember, oh remember once your passion was as violent for _Myrtilla_, and all the vows, oaths, protestations, tears and prayers you make and pay at my feet, are but the faint repetitions, the feeble echoes of what you sigh’d out at hers. Nay, like young _Paris_ fled with the fair prize, your fond, your eager passion made it a rape. Oh perfidious!--Let me not call it back to my remembrance.--Oh let me die, rather than call to mind a time so fatal; when the lovely false _Philander_ vow’d his heart, his faithless heart away to any maid but _Sylvia_:--oh let it not be possible for me to imagine his dear arms ever grasping any body with joy but _Sylvia_! And yet they did, with transports of love! Yes, yes, you lov’d! by heaven you lov’d this false, this perfidious _Myrtilla_; for false she is; you lov’d her, and I’ll have it so; nor shall the sister in me plead her cause. She is false beyond all pardon; for you are beautiful as heaven itself can render you, a shape exactly form’d, not too low, nor too tall, but made to beget soft desire and everlasting wishes in all that look on you; but your face! your lovely face, inclining to round, large piercing languishing black eyes, delicate proportion’d nose, charming dimpled mouth, plump red lips, inviting and swelling, white teeth, small and even, fine complexion, and a beautiful turn! All which you had an art to order in so engaging a manner, that it charm’d all the beholders, both sexes were undone with looking on you; and I have heard a witty man of your party swear, your face gain’d more to the League and association than the cause, and has curs’d a thousand times the false _Myrtilla_, for preferring _Cesario_! (less beautiful) to the adorable _Philander_; to add to this, heaven! how you spoke, when ere you spoke of love! in that you far surpass’d the young _Cesario_! as young as he, almost as great and glorious; oh perfidious _Myrtilla_, oh false, oh foolish and ingrate!--That you abandon’d her was just, she was not worth retaining in your heart, nor could be worth defending with your sword:--but grant her false; oh _Philander_!--How does her perfidy entitle you to me? False as she is, you still are married to her; inconstant as she is, she is still your wife; and no breach of the nuptial vow can untie the fatal knot; and that is a mystery to common sense: sure she was born for mischief; and fortune, when she gave her you, designed the ruin of us all; but most particularly _The unfortunate_ Sylvia. * * * * * _To_ Sylvia.