absence with a confidence
unknown to the highest friendship: their satisfactions are doubled,
their sorrows lessened by participation. On the other hand, Corinna, who
is the mistress of Limberham,[469] lives in constant torment: her
equipage is, an old woman, who was what Corinna is now; an antiquated
footman, who was pimp to Limberham's father; and a chambermaid, who is
Limberham's wench by fits, out of a principle of politics to make her
jealous and watchful of Corinna. Under this guard, and in this
conversation, Corinna lives in state: the furniture of her habitation,
and her own gorgeous dress, make her the envy of all the strolling
ladies in the town; but Corinna knows she herself is but part of
Limberham's household stuff, and is as capable of being disposed of
elsewhere, as any other movable. But while her keeper is persuaded by
his spies, that no enemy has been within his doors since his last visit,
no Persian prince was ever so magnificently bountiful: a kind look or
falling tear is worth a piece of brocade, a sigh is a jewel, and a smile
is a cupboard of plate. All this is shared between Corinna and her guard
in his absence. With this great economy and industry does the unhappy
Limberham purchase the constant tortures of jealousy, the favour of
spending his estate, and the opportunity of enriching one by whom he
knows he is hated and despised. These are the ordinary and common evils
which attend keepers, and Corinna is a wench but of common size of
wickedness. Were you to know what passes under the roof where the fair
Messalina reigns with her humble adorer! Messalina is the professed
mistress of mankind; she has left the bed of her husband and her
beauteous offspring, to give a loose to want of shame and fulness of
desire. Wretched Nocturnus, her feeble keeper! How the poor creature
fribbles in his gait, and scuttles from place to place to despatch his
necessary affairs in painful daylight, that he may return to the
constant twilight preserved in that scene of wantonness, Messalina's
bedchamber. How does he, while he is absent from thence, consider in his
imagination the breadth of his porter's shoulders, the spruce nightcap
of his valet, the ready attendance of his butler! Any of all whom he
knows she admits, and professes to approve of. This, alas! is the
gallantry; this the freedom of our fine gentlemen: for this they
preserve their liberty, and keep clear of that bugbear, marriage. But he
does not understa