Were not the delays of thy vile purposes owing more to the awe which her majestic virtue has inspired thee with, than to thy want of adroitness in villany? [I must write my free sentiments in this case; for have I not seen the angel?] I should be ready to censure some of thy contrivances and pretences to suspend the expected day, as trite, stale, and (to me, who know thy intention) poor; and too often resorted to, as nothing comes of them to be gloried in; particularly that of Mennell, the vapourish lady, and the ready-furnished house.

She must have thought so too, at times, and in her heart despised thee for them, or love thee (ungrateful as thou art!) to her misfortune; as well as entertain hope against probability.  But this would afford another warning to the sex, were they to know her story; ’as it would show them what poor pretences they must seem to be satisfied with, if once they put themselves into the power of a designing man.’

If trial only was thy end, as once was thy pretence,* enough surely hast thou tried this paragon of virtue and vigilance.  But I knew thee too well, to expect, at the time, that thou wouldest stop there.  ’Men of our cast put no other bound to their views upon any of the sex, than what want of power compels them to put.’  I knew that from one advantage gained, thou wouldest proceed to attempt another.  Thy habitual aversion to wedlock too well I knew; and indeed thou avowest thy hope to bring her to cohabitation, in that very letter in which thou pretendest trial to be thy principal view.**

* See Vol.  III.  Letter XVIII. ** Ibid.  See also Letters XVI. and XVII. of that volume.

But do not even thy own frequent and involuntary remorses, when thou hast time, place, company, and every other circumstance, to favour thee in thy wicked design, convince thee, that there can be no room for a hope so presumptuous?—­Why then, since thou wouldest choose to marry her rather than lose her, wilt thou make her hate thee for ever?

But if thou darest to meditate personal trial, and art sincere in thy resolution to reward her, as she behaves in it, let me beseech thee to remove her from this vile house.  That will be to give her and thy conscience fair play.  So entirely now does the sweet deluded excellence depend upon her supposed happier prospects, that thou needest not to fear that she will fly from thee, or that she will wish to have recourse to that scheme of Miss Howe, which has put thee upon what thou callest thy master-strokes.

But whatever be thy determination on this head; and if I write not in time, but that thou hast actually pulled off the mask; let it not be one of the devices, if thou wouldest avoid the curses of every heart, and hereafter of thy own, to give her, no not for one hour, (be her resentment ever so great,) into the power of that villanous woman, who has, if possible, less remorse than thyself; and whose trade it is to break the resisting spirit, and utterly to ruin the heart unpractised in evil.—­O Lovelace, Lovelace, how many dreadful stories could this horrid woman tell the sex!  And shall that of a Clarissa swell the guilty list?