She seals this letter with a wafer, and giving it to _Antonet_ to give the page, believing she had writ what would not be in vain to the quick-sighted _Octavio_; _Antonet_ takes both that and the other which _Octavio_ had sent, and left her lady busy in dressing her head, and went to _Brilliard_’. chamber, who thought every moment an age till she came, so vigorous he was on his new design. That which was sent to _Octavio_, being sealed with a wet wafer, he neatly opens, as it was easy to do, and read, and sealed again, and _Antonet_ delivered it to the page. After receiving what pay _Brilliard_ could force himself to bestow upon her, some flatteries of dissembled love, and some cold kisses, which even imagination could not render better, she returned to her lady, and he to his stratagem, which was to counterfeit a letter from _Octavio_; she having in hers given him a hint, by bidding him set a price upon the secret, which he had heard was that of a letter from _Philander_, with all the circumstances of it, from the faithless _Antonet_, whom love had betrayed; and after blotting much paper to try every letter through the alphabet, and to produce them like those of _Octavio_, which was not hard for a lover of ingenuity, he fell to the business of what he would write; and having finished it to his liking, his next trouble was how to convey it to her; for _Octavio_ always sent his by his page, whom he could trust. He now was certain of love between them; for though he often had persuaded _Antonet_ to bring him letters, yet she could not be wrought on till now to betray her trust; and what he long apprehended, he found too true on both sides, and now he waited but for an opportunity to send it seasonably, and in a lucky minute. In the mean time _Sylvia_ adorns herself for an absolute conquest, and disposing herself in the most charming, careless, and tempting manner she could devise, she lay expecting her coming lover, on a repose of rich embroidery of gold on blue satin, hung within-side with little amorous pictures of _Venus_ descending in her chariot naked to _Adonis_, she embracing, while the youth, more eager of his rural sports, turns half from her in a posture of pursuing his dogs, who are on their chase: another of _Armida_, who is dressing the sleeping warrior up in wreaths of flowers, while a hundred little Loves are playing with his gilded armour; this puts on his helmet too big for his little head, that hides his whole face; another makes a hobby-horse of his sword and lance; another fits on his breast-piece, while three or four little _Cupids_ are seeming to heave and help him to hold it an end, and all turned the emblems of the hero into ridicule. These, and some either of the like nature, adorned the pavilion of the languishing fair one, who lay carelessly on her side, her arm leaning on little pillows of point of _Venice_, and a book of amours in her other hand. Every noise