_Impatient Demands_. After you have sufficiently recollected your self of all the past Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him whom you trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to enquire of him a thousand things, and all of me. Ask impatiently, and be angry if he answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a dreaming in his Voice, in these moments more than at other times; and reproach him with Dulness: For ‘tis most certain that when one loves tenderly, we would know in a minute, what cannot be related in an hour. Ask him, How I did? How I receiv’d his Letter? And if he examined the Air of my Face, when I took it? If I blush’d or looked pale? If my Hand trembled, or I spoke to him with short interrupting Sighs? If I asked him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? Or if I could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform your self of all that passes in my Heart: for you may assure your self, all that I say to you that way proceeds from thence. The Assurance. _How shall a Lover come to know,_ _Whether he’s belov’d or no?_ _What dear things must she impart,_ _To assure him of her Heart?_ _Is it when her Blushes rise;_ _And she languish in her Eyes;_ _Tremble when he does approach;_ _Look pale, and faint at ev’ry Touch?_ _Is it, when a thousand ways_ _She does his Wit and Beauty praise;_ _Or she venture to explain,_ _In less moving Words, a Pain;_ _Tho’ so indiscreet she grows,_ _To confirm it with her Vows?_ _These some short-liv’d Passion moves,_ _While the Object’s by, she loves;_ _While the gay and sudden Fire_ _Kindles by some fond Desire:_ _And a Coldness will ensue,_ _When the Lover’s out of view._ _Then she reflects with Scandal o’er_ _The easy Scene that past before:_ _Then, with Blushes, would recal_ _The unconsid’ring Criminal;_ _In which a thousand Faults she’ll find,_ _And chide the Errors of her Mind._ _Such fickle weight is found in Words,_ _As no substantial Faith affords:_ _Deceiv’d and baffl’d all may be,_ _Who trust that frail Security._