YOU bid me write, and I wish it were only the effects of complaisance2 that makes me obey you: I should be very angry with myself and you, if I thought it were any other motive: I hope it is not, and will not have you believe otherwise. I cannot help however, wishing you no mirth, nor any content in your dancing design; and this unwonted malice in me I do not like, and would have concealed it if I could, lest you should take it for something which I am, nor will believe myself guilty of. May your women be all ugly, ill-natured, ill-dressed, ill-fashioned, and unconversable;3 and, for your greater disappointment may every moment of your time there be taken up with thoughts of me (a sufficient curse), and yet you will be better entertained than me, who possibly am, and shall be, uneasy with thoughts not so good. Perhaps you had eased me of some trouble, if you had let me see you, or known you had been well: but there are favours for better friends; and I’ll endeavour not to resent the loss, or rather the miss of them. It may be, since I have so easily granted this desire of yours, in writing to you, you will fear you have pulled a trouble on — . But do not: I do, by this send for you – you know what you gave your hand upon; the date of banishment is already out, and I could have wished you had been so good-natured as to have disobeyed me. Pray take notice therefore I am better natured than you: I am profoundly melancholy since I saw you; I know not why; and should be glad to see you when your occasions will permit you to visit.
Astrea.
YOU may tell me a thousand years, my dear Lycidas, of your unbounded friendship; but after so unkind a departure as that last night, give me leave (when serious) to doubt it; nay, ’tis past doubt: I know you rather hate me. What else could hurry you from me, when you saw me surrounded with all the necessary impossibilities of speaking to you? I made as broad signs as one could do, who durst not speak, both for your sake and my own: I acted even imprudently, to make my soul be understood, that was then (if I may say so) in real agonies for your departure. ’Tis a wonder a woman so violent in all her passions as I, did not (forgetting all prudence, all considerations) fly out into absolute commands, or at least entreaties, that you would give me a moment’s time longer. I burst to speak with you, to know a thousand things; but particularly, how you came to be so barbarous, as to carry away all that could make my satisfaction. You carried away my letter, and you carried away Lycidas; I will not call him mine, because he has so unkindly taken himself back. ’Twas with that design you came; for I saw all night with what reluctance you spoke, how coldly you entertained me, and with what pain and uneasiness you gave me the only conversation I value in the world. I am ashamed to tell you this: I know your peevish virtue will misinterpret me. But take it how you will, think of it as you please; I am undone, and will be free; I will tell you, you did not use me well: I am ruined, and will rail at you. – Come then, I conjure you, this evening, that after it I may shut those eyes that have been too long waking. I have committed a thousand madnesses in this, but you must pardon the faults you have created. Come and do so; for I must see you tonight, and that in a better humour than you were last night. No more; obey me as you have that friendship for me you profess; and assure yourself to find a very welcome reception from (Lycidas)
Your Astrea.
WHEN shall we understand one another? For I thought, dear Lycidas, you had been a man of your parole.4 I will as soon believe you will forget me, as that you have not remembered the promise you made me. Confess you are the teasingest creature in the world, rather than suffer me to think you neglect me, or would put a flight upon me, that have chosen you from all the whole creation, to give my entire esteem to. This I had assured you yesterday, but that I dreaded the effects of your censure today; and though I scorn to guard my tongue, as hoping ’twill never offend willingly; yet I can, with much ado, hold it, when I have a great mind to say a thousand things I know will be taken in an ill sense. Possibly you will wonder what compels me to write, what moves me to send where I find so little welcome; nay, where I meet with such returns, it may be I wonder too. You say I am changed: I had rather almost justify an ill, than repent; maintain false arguments, than yield I am in the wrong. In fine, charming friend Lycidas, whatever I was since you knew me, believe I am still the same in soul and thought; but that is, what shall never hurt you, what shall never be but to serve you; why then did you say you would not sit near me? Was that, my friend, was that the esteem you profess? Who grows cold first? Who is changed? and who the aggressor? ’Tis I was first in friendship, and shall be last in constancy. You, by inclination, and not for want of friends, have I placed highest in my esteem; and for that reason your conversation is the most acceptable and agreeable of any in the world – and for this reason you shun mine. Take your course; be a friend like a foe, and continue to impose upon me, that you esteem me when you fly me. Renounce your false friendship, or let me see you give it entire to
Astrea.
I HAD rather, dear Lycidas, set myself to write to any man on earth than you; for I fear your severe prudence and discretion, so nice, may make an ill judgment of what I say. Yet you bid me not dissemble; and you need not have cautioned me, who so naturally hate those little arts of my sex, that I often run on freedoms that may well enough bear a censure from people so scrupulous as Lycidas. Nor dare I follow all my inclinations neither, nor tell all the little secrets of my soul. Why I write them, I can give no account; ’tis but fooling myself, perhaps, into an undoing. I do but (by this soft entertainment) rook in my heart, like a young gamester, to make it venture its last stake. This, I say, may be the danger; I may come off unhurt, but cannot be a winner: why then should I throw an uncertain cast,5 where I hazard all, and you nothing? Your staunch prudence is proof against love, and all the bank’s on my side. You are so unreasonable, you would have me pay, where I have contracted no debt; you would have me give, and you, like a miser, would distribute nothing. Greedy Lycidas! Unconscionable and ungenerous! You would not be in love, for all the world, yet wish I were so, Uncharitable! – Would my fever cure you? or a curse on me, make you blessed? Say, Lycidas, will it? I have heard, when two souls kindly meet, ’tis a vast pleasure, as vast as the curse must be, when kindness is not equal; and why should you believe that necessary for me, that will be so very incommode for you? Will you, dear Lycidas, allow then, that you have less good-nature than I? Pray be just, till you can give such proofs of the contrary, as I shall be judge of; or give me a reason for your ill-nature. So much for loving.
Now, as you are my friend, I conjure you to consider what resolution I took up, when I saw you last (which methinks is a long time), of seeing no man till I saw your face again; and when you remember that, you will possibly be so kind, as to make what haste you can to see me again. Till then, have thoughts as much in favour of me as you can, for when you know me better, you will believe I merit all. May you be impatient and uneasy till you see me again; and bating that, may all the blessings of Heaven and Earth light on you, is the continued prayers of (dear Lycidas)
Your true Astrea.
THOUGH it be very late, I cannot go to bed, but I must tell thee I have been very good ever since I saw thee, and have been a writing, and have seen no face of man, or other body, save my own people. I am mightily pleased with your kindness to me tonight; and ’twas, I hope and believe, very innocent and undisturbing on both sides. My Lycidas says, he can be soft and dear when he please to put off his haughty pride, which is only assumed to see how far 1 dare love him ununited. Since then my soul’s delight you are, and may ever be assured I am and ever will be yours, befall me what will, and that all the devils of Hell shall not prevail against thee. Show then, I say, my dearest love, thy native sweet temper. Show me all the love thou hast undissembled; then, and never till then, shall I believe you love; and deserve my heart, for God’s sake, to keep me well; and if thou hast love (as I shall never doubt, if thou art always as tonight) show that love, I beseech thee; there being nothing so grateful to God, and mankind, as plain-dealing. ‘Tis too late to conjure thee farther: I will be purchased with softness, and dear words, and kind expressions, sweet eyes, and a low voice.
Farewell; I love thee dearly, passionately and tenderly, and am resolved to be eternally (my only dear delight, and joy of my life)
Thy Astrea.
SINCE you, my dearest Lycidas, have prescribed me laws and rules, how I shall behave myself to please and gain you; and that one of these is not lying or dissembling; and that I had tonight promised you should never have a tedious letter from me more, I will begin to keep my word, and stint my heart and hand. I promised though to write; and though I have no great matter to say more, than the assurance of my eternal love to you, yet to obey you, and not only so, but to oblige my own impatient heart, I must, late as ’tis, say something to thee.
I stayed after thee tonight, till I had read a whole act of my new play;6 and then he led me over all the way, saying, ‘Gad you were the man.’ And beginning some rallying love discourse after supper, which he fancied was not so well received as it ought, he said you were not handsome, and called Philly7 to own it; but he did not, but was of my side, and said you were handsome. So he went on a while, and all ended that concerned you. And this, upon my word, is all.
Your articles I have read over, and do not like them; you have broke one, even before you have sworn or sealed them; that is, they are writ with reserves. I must have a better account of your heart tomorrow, when you come. I grow desperate fond of you, and would fain be used well; if not, I will march off. But I will believe you mean to keep your word, as I will for ever do mine. Pray make haste to see me tomorrow; and if I am not at home when you come, send for me over the way,8 where I have engaged to dine, there being an entertainment on purpose tomorrow for me.
For God’s sake make no more niceties and scruples than need, in your way of living with me; that is, do not make me believe this distance is to ease you, when indeed ’tis meant to ease us both of love; and, for God’s sake, do not misinterpret my excess of fondness; and if I forget myself, let the check you give be sufficient to make me desist. Believe me, dear creature, ‘tis more out of humour and jest, than any inclination on my side; for I could sit eternally with you, without that part of disturbance. Fear me not, for you are (from that) as safe as in Heaven itself. Believe me, dear Lycidas, this truth, and trust me. ’Tis late, farewell; and come, for God’s sake, betimes tomorrow, and put off your foolish fear and niceties, and do not shame me with your perpetual ill opinion; my nature is proud and insolent, and cannot bear it: I will be used something better, in spite of all your apprehensions falsely grounded. Adieu, keep me as I am ever yours,
Astrea.
By this letter, one would think I were the nicest thing on earth; yet I know a dear friend goes far beyond me in that unnecessary fault.
My charming unkind,
I WOULD have gaged my life you could not have left me so coldly, so unconcerned as you did; but you are resolved to give me proofs of your no love. Your counsel, which was given you tonight, has wrought the effects which it usually does in hearts like yours. Tell me no more you love me; for ’twill be hard to make me think it, though it be the only blessing I ask on earth. But if love can merit a heart, I know who ought to claim yours. My soul is ready to burst with pride and indignation; and at the same time, love, with all his softness assails me, and will make me write: so that between one and the other, I can express neither as I ought. What shall I do to make you know I do not use to condescend to so much submission, nor to tell my heart so freely? Though you think it use, methinks, I find my heart swell with disdain at this minute, for my being ready to make asseverations of the contrary, and to assure you I do not, nor never did love, or talk at the rate I do to you, since I was born. I say, I would swear this, but something rolls up my bosom, and checks my very thought as it rises. You ought, oh faithless, and infinitely adorable Lycidas! to know and guess my tenderness; you ought to see it grow, and daily increase upon your hands. If it be troublesome, ’tis because I fancy you lessen, whilst I increase, in passion; or rather, that by your ill judgment of mine, you never had any in your soul for me. Oh unlucky, oh vexatious thought! Either let me never see that charming face, or ease my soul of so tormenting an agony, as the cruel thought of not being beloved. Why, my lovely dear, should I flatter you? or, why make more words of my tenderness, than another woman, that loves as well, would do, as once you said? No, you ought rather to believe that I say more, because I have more than any woman can be capable of. My soul is formed of no other material than love; and all that soul of love was formed for my dear, faithless Lycidas – methinks I have a fancy, that something will prevent my going tomorrow morning. However, I conjure thee, if possible, to come tomorrow about seven or eight at night, that I may tell you in what a deplorable condition you left me tonight. I cannot describe it; but I feel it, and wish you the same pain, for going so inhumanely. But oh! you went to joys, and left me to torments! You went to love alone, and left me love and rage, fevers and calentures,9 even madness itself! Indeed, indeed, my soul! I know not to what degree I love you; let it suffice I do most passionately, and can have no thoughts of any other man, whilst I have life. No! Reproach me, defame me, lampoon me, curse me, and kill me, when I do, and let Heaven do so too.
Farewell – I love you more and more every moment of my life. Know it, and goodnight. Come tomorrow, being Wednesday, to, my adorable Lycidas, your
Astrea.
WHY, my dearest charmer, do you disturb that repose I had resolved to pursue, by taking it unkindly that I did not write? I cannot disobey you, because indeed I would not, though ’twere better much for both I had been for ever silent: I prophesy so, but at the same time cannot help my fate, and know not what force or credit there is in the virtue we both profess; but I am sure ’tis not good to tempt it: I think I am sure, and I think my Lycidas just. But, oh! to what purpose is all this fooling? You have often wisely considered it; but I never stayed to think ’til ’twas too late; and whatever resolutions I make in the absence of my lovely friend, one single sight turns me all woman, and all his. Take notice then, my Lycidas, I will henceforth never be wise more; never make any vows against my inclinations, or the little winged deity. I own I have neither the coldness of Lycidas, nor the prudence; I cannot either not love, or have a thousand arts of hiding it; I have nobody to fear, and therefore may have somebody to love. But if you are destined to be he, the Lord have mercy on me; for I’m sure you’ll have none. I expect a reprimand for this plain confession; but I must justify it, and I will, because I cannot help it: I was born to ill luck; and this loss of my heart, is, possibly, not the least part on’t. Do not let me see you disapprove it, I may one day grow ashamed of it, and reclaim, but never, whilst you blow the flame, though perhaps against your will. I expect now a very wise answer; and, I believe, with abundance of discretion, you will caution me to avoid this danger that threatens. Do so, if you have a mind to make me launch farther into the main Sea of Love: rather deal with me as with a right woman; make me believe myself infinitely beloved. I may chance from the natural inconstancy of my sex, to be as false as you would wish, and leave you in quiet. For as I am satisfied I love in vain, and without return, I’m satisfied that nothing, but the thing that hates me, could treat me as Lycidas does; and ’tis only the vanity of being beloved by me can make you countenance a softness so displeasing to you. How could anything, but the man that hates me, entertain me so unkindly? Witness your excellent opinion of me, of loving others; witness your passing by the end of the street where I live, and squandering away your time at any coffee-house, rather than allow me what you know in your soul is the greatest blessing of my life, your dear dull melancholy company; I call it dull, because you can never be gay or merry where Astrea is. How could this indifference possess you, when your malicious soul knew I was languishing for you? I died, I fainted, and pined for an hour of what you lavished out, unregardless of me, and without so much as thinking on me! What can you say, that judgment may not pass? that you may not be condemned for the worst-natured, incorrigible thing in the world? Yield, and at least say, my honest friend Astrea, I neither do love thee, nor can, nor ever will; at least let me say, you were generous and told me plain blunt truth: I know it; nay worse, you impudently (but truly) told me your business would permit you to come every night, but your inclinations would not. At least this was honest, but very unkind, and not over civil. Do not you, my amiable Lycidas, know I would purchase your sight at any rate; why this neglect then? Why keeping distance? But as much as to say, ‘Astrea, truly you will make me love you, you will make me be fond of you, you will please and delight me with your conversation, and I am a fellow that do not desire to be pleased, therefore be not so civil to me; for I do not desire civil company, nor company that diverts me.’ A pretty speech this; and yet if I do obey, desist being civil, and behave myself very rudely, as I have done, you say, these two or three days – then, Oh, Astrea! where is your profession? Where your love so boasted? Your good nature, etc.? Why truly, my dear Lycidas, where it was, and ever will be, so long as you have invincible charms, and show your eyes, and look so dearly; though you may, by your prudent counsel, and your wise conduct of absence, and marching by my door without calling in, oblige me to stay my hand, and hold my tongue. I can conceal my kindness, though not dissemble one; I can make you think I am wise, if I list; but when I tell you I have friendship, love and esteem for you, you may pawn your soul upon’t. Believe ’tis true, and satisfy yourself you have, my dear Lycidas, in your Astrea all she professes. I should be glad to see you as soon as possible (you say Thursday) you can: I beg you will, and shall, with impatience expect you betimes. Fail me not, as you would have me think you have any value for
Astrea.
I beg you will not fail to let me hear from you, today being Wednesday, and see you at night if you can.