I can no more describe to thee the torment with which I part from _Bellfont_, than I can that heaven of joy I was raised to last night by the transporting effects of thy wondrous love; both are to excess, and both killing, but in different kinds. Oh, _Sylvia_, by all my unspeakable raptures in thy arms, by all thy charms of beauty, too numerous and too ravishing for fancy to imagine--I swear----by this last night, by this dear new discovery, thou hast increased my love to that vast height, it has undone my peace--all my repose is gone--this dear, dear night has ruined me, it has confirmed me now I must have _Sylvia_, and cannot live without her, no not a day, an hour----to save the world, unless I had the entire possession of my lovely maid: ah, _Sylvia_, I am not that indifferent dull lover that can be raised by one beauty to an appetite, and satisfy it with another; I cannot carry the dear flame you kindle to quench it in the embraces of _Myrtilla_; no, by the eternal powers, he that pretends to love, and loves at that coarse rate, needs fear no danger from that passion, he never was born to love, or die for love; _Sylvia_, _Myrtilla_ and a thousand more were all the same to such a dull insensible; no, _Sylvia_, when you find I can return back to the once left matrimonial bed, despise me, scorn me: swear (as then thou justly may’st) I love not _Sylvia_: let the hot brute drudge on (he who is fired by nature, not by love, whom any body’s kisses can inspire) and ease the necessary heats of youth; love is a nobler fire, which nothing can allay but the dear she that raised it; no, no, my purer stream shall never run back to the fountain, whence it is parted, nay it cannot, it were as possible to love again, where one has ceased to love, as carry the desire and wishes back; by heaven, to me there is nothing so unnatural; no, _Sylvia_, it is you I must possess, you have completed my undoing now, and I must die unless you give me all----but oh, I am going from thee----when are we like to meet----oh, how shall I support my absent hours! Thought will destroy me, for it will be all on thee, and those at such a distance will be insupportable.----What shall I do without thee? If after all the toils of dull insipid life I could return and lay me down by thee, _Herculean_ labours would be soft and easy----the harsh fatigues of war, the dangerous hurries of affairs of State, the business and the noise of life, I could support with pleasure, with wondrous satisfaction, could treat _Myrtilla_ too with that respect, that generous care, as would become a husband. I could be easy every where, and every one should be at ease with me; now I shall go and find no _Sylvia_ there, but sigh and wander like an unknown thing, on some strange foreign shore; I shall grow peevish as a new wean’d child, no toys, no bauble of the gaudy world will please my wayward fancy: I shall be out of humour, rail at every thing, in