There is certainly a good deal in the observation, that it costs a man
ten times more pains to be wicked, than it would cost him to be good.
What a confounded number of contrivances have I had recourse to, in
order to carry my point with this charming creature; and yet after all,
how have I puzzled myself by it; and yet am near tumbling into the pit
which it was the end of all my plots to shun! What a happy man had I
been with such an excellence, could I have brought my mind to marry
when I first prevailed upon her to quit her father’s house! But then,
as I have often reflected, how had I known, that a but blossoming
beauty, who could carry on a private correspondence, and run such
risques with a notorious wild fellow, was not prompted by inclination,
which one day might give such a free-liver as myself as much pain to
reflect upon, as, at the time it gave me pleasure? Thou rememberest the
host’s tale in Ariosto. And thy experience, as well as mine, can
furnish out twenty Fiametta’s in proof of the imbecility of the sex.
But to proceed with my narrative.
The dear creature resumed the topic her heart was so firmly fixed upon;
and insisted upon quitting the odious house, and that in very high
terms.
I urged her to meet me the next day at the altar in either of the two
churches mentioned in the license. And I besought her, whatever was her
resolution, to let me debate this matter calmly with her.
If, she said, I would have her give what I desired the least moment’s
consideration, I must not hinder her from being her own mistress. To
what purpose did I ask her consent, if she had not a power over either
her own person or actions?
Will you give me your honour, Madam, if I consent to your quitting a
house so disagreeable to you?—
My honour, Sir! said the dear creature—Alas!—And turned weeping from me
with inimitable grace—as if she had said—Alas!—you have robbed me of my
honour!
I hoped then, that her angry passions were subsiding; but I was
mistaken; for, urging her warmly for the day; and that for the sake of
our mutual honour, and the honour of both our families; in this
high-flown and high-souled strain she answered me:
And canst thou, Lovelace, be so mean—as to wish to make a wife of the
creature thou hast insulted, dishonoured, and abused, as thou hast me?
Was it necessary to humble me down to the low level of thy baseness,
before I could be a wife meet for thee? Thou hadst a father, who was a
man of honour: a mother, who deserved a better son. Thou hast an uncle,
who is no dishonour to the Peerage of a kingdom, whose peers are more
respectable than the nobility of any other country. Thou hast other
relations also, who may be thy boast, though thou canst not be
theirs—and canst thou not imagine, that thou hearest them calling upon
thee; the dead from their monuments; the living from their laudable
pride; not to dishonour thy ancient and splendid house, by entering
into wedlock with a creature whom thou hast levelled with the dirt of
the street, and classed with the vilest of her sex?
I extolled her greatness of soul, and her virtue. I execrated myself
for my guilt: and told her, how grateful to the manes of my ancestors,
as well as to the wishes of the living, the honour I supplicated for
would be.
But still she insisted upon being a free agent; of seeing herself in
other lodgings before she would give what I urged the least
consideration. Nor would she promise me favour even then, or to permit
my visits. How then, as I asked her, could I comply, without resolving
to lose her for ever?
She put her hand to her forehead often as she talked; and at last,
pleading disorder in her head, retired; neither of us satisfied with
the other. But she ten times more dissatisfied with me, than I with
her.