This, my _Sylvia_, is my sense of a business you so much dread; I may rise, but I cannot fall; therefore, my _Sylvia_, urge it no more; love gave me ambition, and do not divert the glorious effects of your wondrous charms, but let them grow, and spread, and see what they will produce for my lovely _Sylvia_, the advantages will most certainly be hers:--But no more: how came my love so dull to entertain thee so many minutes thus with reasons for an affair, which one soft hour with _Sylvia_ will convince to what she would have it; believe me, it will, I will sacrifice all to her repose, nay, to her least command, even the life of _(My eternal pleasure) Your_ PHILANDER. _I have no longer patience, I must be coming towards the grove, though it will do me no good, more than knowing I am so much nearer to my adorable creature._ _I conjure you burn this, for writing in haste I have not counterfeited my hand._ * * * * * _To_ SYLVIA. _Writ in a pair of tablets._ My charmer, I wait your commands in the meadow behind the grove, where I saw _Dorinda_, _Dorillus_ his daughter, entering with a basket of cowslips for _Sylvia_, unnecessarily offering sweets to the Goddess of the Groves, from whence they (with all the rest of their gaudy fellows of the spring) assume their ravishing odours. I take every opportunity of telling my _Sylvia_ what I have so often repeated, and shall be ever repeating with the same joy while I live, that I love my _Sylvia_ to death and madness; that my soul is on the rack, till she send me the happy advancing word. And yet believe me, lovely maid, I could grow old with waiting here the blessed moment, though set at any distance (within the compass of life, and impossible to be ‘till then arriv’d to) but when I am so near approach’d it, love from all parts rallies and hastens to my heart for the mighty encounter, ‘till the poor panting over-loaded victim dies with the pressing weight. No more,--You know it, for it is, and will be eternally _Sylvia_’.. POSTSCRIPT. _Remember, my adorable, it is now seven o’clock: I have my watch in my hand, waiting and looking on the slow pac’d minutes. Eight will quickly arrive, I hope, and then it is dark enough to hide me; think where I am, and who I am, waiting near_ Sylvia, and her Philander. _I think, my dear angel, you have the other key of these tablets, if not, they are easily broke open: you have an hour good to write in,_ Sylvia _and I shall wait unemployed by any thing but thought. Send me word how you were like to have been surpris’d; it may possibly be of advantage to me in this night’s dear adventure. I wonder’d at the superscription of my letter indeed, of which_ Dorillus _could give me no other account, than that you were surpris’d, and he receiv’d it with difficulty; give me the story now, do it in charity my angel. Besides, I would employ all thy moments, for I am jealous of every one that is not dedicated to_ Sylvia’s Philander.