her, to confess himself her Slave.

This Letter being deliver'd him, he read by himself, and was surpriz'd
to receive Words of this Nature, being so great a Stranger in that
Place; and could not imagine or would not give himself the Trouble of
guessing who this should be, because he never designed to make Returns.

The next Day, _Miranda_, finding no Advantage from her Messenger of
Love, in the Evening sends another (impatient of Delay) confessing that
she who suffer'd the Shame of writing and imploring, was the Person
herself who ador'd him. 'Twas there her raging Love made her say all
Things that discover'd the Nature of its Flame, and propose to flee with
him to any Part of the World, if he would quit the Convent; that she had
a Fortune considerable enough to make him happy; and that his Youth and
Quality were not given him to so unprofitable an End as to lose
themselves in a Convent, where Poverty and Ease was all the Business. In
fine, she leaves nothing unurg'd that might debauch and invite him; not
forgetting to send him her own Character of Beauty, and left him to
judge of her Wit and Spirit by her Writing, and her Love by the
Extremity of Passion she profess'd. To all which the lovely Friar made
no Return, as believing a gentle Capitulation or Exhortation to her
would but inflame her the more, and give new Occasions for her
continuing to write. All her Reasonings, false and vicious, he despis'd,
pity'd the Error of her Love, and was Proof against all she could plead.
Yet notwithstanding his Silence, which left her in Doubt, and more
tormented her, she ceas'd not to pursue him with her Letters, varying
her Style; sometimes all wanton, loose and raving; sometimes feigning a
Virgin-Modesty all over, accusing her self, blaming her Conduct, and
sighing her Destiny, as one compell'd to the shameful Discovery by the
Austerity of his Vow and Habit, asking his Pity and Forgiveness; urging
him in Charity to use his Fatherly Care to persuade and reason with her
wild Desires, and by his Counsel drive the God from her Heart, whose
Tyranny was worse than that of a Fiend; and he did not know what his
pious Advice might do. But still she writes in vain, in vain she varies
her Style, by a Cunning, peculiar to a Maid possess'd with such a sort
of Passion.

This cold Neglect was still Oil to the burning Lamp, and she tries yet
more Arts, which for want of right Thinking were as fruitless. She has
Recourse to Presents; her Lette