She was once in a Mind to have burn’d the Letter, or to have stay’d for an Opportunity to send it again.  But she was a Woman, and her Curiosity opposed it self to all thoughts of that Nature:  at length with a firm Resolution, she opened it, and found Word for Word, what is underwritten.

The Letter.

   Madam,

If your fair Eyes, upon the breaking up of this, meet with somewhat too quick a Surprize, make thence, I beseech you, some reflection upon the Condition I must needs have been in, at the suddain Appearance of that Sun of Beauty, which at once shone so full upon my soul.  I could not immediately disengage my self from that Maze of Charms, to let you know how unworthy a Captive your Eyes had made through mistake.  Sure, Madam, you cannot but remember my Disorder, of which your Innocent (Innocent, though perhaps to me Fatal) Error made a Charitable (but wide) Construction.  Your Tongue pursued the Victory of your Eyes, and you did not give me time to rally my poor Disordered Senses, so as to make a tolerable Retreat.  Pardon, Madam, the Continuation of the Deceipt, and call it not so, that I appear’d to be other than my self; for Heaven knows I was not then my self, nor am I now my own.  You told me something that concern’d me nearly, as to a Marriage my Father design’d me, and much more nearly in being told by you.  For Heaven’s sake, disclose not to any Body your Knowledge of me, that I may not be forced to an immediate Act of Disobedience; for if my future Services and inviolate Love, cannot recommend me to your Favour, I shall find more comfort in the cold Embraces of a Grave, than in the Arms of the never so much admired (but by me dreaded) Juliana.  Think, Madam, of those severe Circumstances I lie under; and withal I beg you, think it is in your Power, and only in your Power, to make them happy as my Wishes, or much more miserable than I am able to imagine.  That dear, inestimable (though undesign’d) Favour which I receiv’d from you, shall this Day distinguish me from the Crowd of your Admirers; that which I really applied to my inward bleeding Wound, the welcom Wound which you have made, and which, unless from you, does wish no Cure; then pardon and have pity on, O Adored Leonora, him, who is your’s by Creation as he is Heaven’s, though never so unworthy.  Have pity on

   Your
   Aurelian.

She read the Letter over and over, then flung it by, then read it again; the Novelty of the Adventure made her repeat her Curiosity, and take more than ordinary Pains to understand it.  At last her Familiarity with the Expressions grew to an Intimacy, and what she at first permitted she now began to like.  She thought there was something in it a little more serious, than to be barely Gallantry.  She wondred at her own Blindness, and fancy’d she could remember something of a more becoming Air in the Stranger than was usual to Lorenzo.  This thought was parent