about to cure those for which you are not responsible.  You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant, which grows nothing.  Give heed to what you owe your own.  You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe the obedient.  You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on what you owe your daughters.  And, counting nothing else, think how you are bound to me!  What you owe to all devoted women, pay to her who is most devoted.

You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have labored to inform, to advise, and to console us.  Is my ignorance to suggest knowledge to the learned Abelard?  Long ago, indeed, your neglect astonished me.  Neither religion, nor love of me, nor the example of the holy fathers, moved you to try to fix my struggling soul.  Never, even when long grief had worn me down, did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort,—­me, to whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with a measureless love!  And for the sake of this love have I no right to even a thought of yours?

You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and that the manner of it put me to double torture.  You only can comfort me.  By you I was wounded, and by you I must be healed.  And it is only you on whom the debt rests.  I have obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I would sacrifice my soul.

To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe it valued—­the hope of your presence—­and that forever.  The instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the world, and denied all the wishes of my nature.  I meant to give up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own.

God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of.  I looked for no dowry, no alliance of marriage.  And if the name of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your present renown, and the more deserve your love.

Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I recall.  You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom, but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from our ill-fated wedlock.  I call God to witness that if Augustus, ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage, and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his empress.

Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better:  riches and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. I hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor one, and takes a husband for her own gain.  Whoever marries with such a motive—­why, she will follow his prosperity rather than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor.