strove in vain by Prayers, and those Recourses of Solitude to
lessen; all this did but augment the Pain, and was Oyl to the Fire, so
that she now could hope, that nothing but Death would put an end to her
Griefs, and her Infamy. She was eternally thinking on him, how handsome
his Face, how delicate every Feature, how charming his Air, how graceful
his Meen, how soft and good his Disposition, and how witty and
entertaining his Conversation. She now fancy'd, she was at the _Grate_,
talking to him as she us'd to be, and blest those happy Hours she past
then, and bewail'd her Misfortune, that she is no more destin'd to be so
Happy, then gives a loose to Grief; Griefs, at which, no Mortals, but
Despairing Lovers, can guess, or how tormenting they are; where the most
easie Moments are, those, wherein one resolves to kill ones self, and
the happiest Thought is Damnation; but from these Imaginations, she
endeavours to fly, all frighted with horror; but, alas! whither would
she fly, but to a Life more full of horror? She considers well, she
cannot bear Despairing Love, and finds it impossible to cure her
Despair; she cannot fly from the Thoughts of the Charming _Henault_, and
'tis impossible to quit 'em; and, at this rate, she found, Life could
not long support it self, but would either reduce her to Madness, and so
render her an hated Object of Scorn to the Censuring World, or force her
Hand to commit a Murder upon her self. This she had found, this she had
well consider'd, nor could her fervent and continual Prayers, her
nightly Watchings, her Mortifications on the cold Marble in long Winter
Season, and all her Acts of Devotion abate one spark of this shameful
Feaver of Love, that was destroying her within. When she had rag'd and
struggled with this unruly Passion, 'till she was quite tir'd and
breathless, finding all her force in vain, she fill'd her fancy with a
thousand charming _Ideas_ of the lovely _Henault_, and, in that soft
fit, had a mind to satisfy her panting Heart, and give it one Joy more,
by beholding the Lord of its Desires, and the Author of its Pains:
Pleas'd, yet trembling, at this Resolve, she rose from the Bed where she
was laid, and softly advanc'd to the Stair-Case, from whence there
open'd that Room where Dame _Katteriena_ was, and where there was a
private _Grate_, at which, she was entertaining her _Brother_; they were
earnest in Discourse, and so loud, that _Isabella_ could easily hear all
they said, an