The young Gentleman, and my Masters Daughter, the Londoner that is come down to marry her, sat in the Arbour most part of last Night.  Oh! dear Betty, must the Nightingales sing to those who marry for Mony, and not to us true Lovers!  Oh my dear Betty, that we could meet this Night where we used to do in the Wood!

Now, my Dear, if I may not have the Blessing of kissing your sweet Lips, I beg I may have the Happiness of kissing your fair Hand, with a few Lines from your dear self, presented by whom you please or think fit.  I believe, if Time would permit me, I could write all Day; but the Time being short, and Paper little, no more from your never-failing Lover till Death, James ...

Poor James!  Since his Time and Paper were so short; I, that have more than I can use well of both, will put the Sentiments of his kind Letter (the Stile of which seems to be confused with Scraps he had got in hearing and reading what he did not understand) into what he meant to express.

  Dear Creature, Can you then neglect him who has forgot all his
  Recreations and Enjoyments, to pine away his Life in thinking of you?

When I do so, you appear more amiable to me than Venus does in the most beautiful Description that ever was made of her.  All this Kindness you return with an Accusation, that I do not love you:  But the contrary is so manifest, that I cannot think you in earnest.  But the Certainty given me in your Message by Molly, that you do not love me, is what robs me of all Comfort.  She says you will not see me:  If you can have so much Cruelty, at least write to me, that I may kiss the Impression made by your fair Hand.  I love you above all things, and, in my Condition, what you look upon with Indifference is to me the most exquisite Pleasure or Pain.  Our young Lady, and a fine Gentleman from London, who are to marry for mercenary Ends, walk about our Gardens, and hear the Voice of Evening Nightingales, as if for Fashion-sake they courted those Solitudes, because they have heard Lovers do so.  Oh Betty! could I hear these Rivulets murmur, and Birds sing while you stood near me, how little sensible should I be that we are both Servants, that there is anything on Earth above us.  Oh!  I could write to you as long as I love you, till Death it self.

  JAMES.

N.  B. By the Words Ill-Conditions, James means in a Woman Coquetry, in a Man Inconstancy.

R.

[Footnote 1:  The next couplet Steele omits:]

[Footnote 2:  James Hirst, a servant to the Hon. Edward Wortley (who was familiar with Steele, and a close friend of Addison’s), by mistake gave to his master, with a parcel of letters, one that he had himself written to his sweetheart.  Mr. Wortley opened it, read it, and would not return it.

  ‘No, James,’ he said, ’you shall be a great man.  This letter must
  appear in the Spectator.’