wondrous honour in the battle of love; and the doctor being gone to call for a glass of sack, the doctor having laid out of the box what he thought requisite on a piece of paper, and leaving the box open, our spark thought if such a dose would encourage him so, a greater would yet make him do greater wonders; and taking twice the quantity out of the box, puts them into his pocket, and having drank the first with full directions, the doctor leaves him; who was no sooner gone, but he takes those out of his pocket, and in a glass of sack drinks them down; after this he bathes and dresses, and believes himself a very _Hercules_, that could have got at least twelve sons that happy night; but he was no sooner laid in bed with the charming _Sylvia_, as he thought, but he was taken with intolerable gripes and pains, such as he had never felt before, insomuch that he was not able to lie in the bed: this enrages him; he grows mad and ashamed; sometimes he had little intermissions for a moment of ease, and then he would plead softly by her bed-side, and ask ten thousand pardons; which being easily granted he would go into bed again, but then the pain would seize him anew, so that after two or three hours of distraction he was forced to dress and retire: but, instead of going down he went softly up to his own chamber, where he sat him down, and cursed the world, himself and his hard fate; and in this extremity of pain, shame and grief, he remained till break of day: by which time _Antonet_, who was almost as violently afflicted, got her coats on, and went to her own chamber, where she found her lady more dead than alive. She immediately shifted her bed-linen, and made her bed, and conducted her to it, without endeavouring to divert her with the history of her own misfortune; and only asked her many questions concerning her being thus ill: to which the wretched _Sylvia_ only answered with sighs; so that _Antonet_ perceived it was the letter that had disordered her, and begged she might be permitted to see it; she gave her leave, and _Antonet_ read it; but no sooner was she come to that part of it which named the Countess of _Clarinau_, but she asked her lady if she understood who that person was, with great amazement: at this _Sylvia_ was content to speak, pleased a little that she should have an account of her rival. ‘No,’ said she, ‘dost thou know her?’ ‘Yes, madam,’ replied _Antonet_, ‘particularly well; for I have served her ever since I was a girl of five years old, she being of the same age with me, and sent at six years old both to a monastery; for she being fond of my play her father sent me at that age with her, both to serve and to divert her with babies and baubles; there we lived seven years together, when an old rich _Spaniard_, the Count of _Clarinau_, fell in love with my lady, and married her from the monastery, before she had seen any part of the world beyond those sanctified walls. She