POESIA
Philip Sydney, “With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb’st the Sky”, from Astrophel and Stella, 30 (1591)
With howsadsteps, O moon, thouclimb’st the skies!
How silently, and with howwan a face!
What! mayit be thateven in heavenlyplace
Thatbusyarcherhissharparrowstries?
Sure, ifthat long-with-love-acquaintedeyes
Can judge of love, thoufeel’st a lover’s case:
I readit in thylooks; thylanguishedgrace
To me, thatfeel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Isconstant love deemedtherebutwant of wit?
Are beautiesthereasproudasherethey be?
Do theyabove love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scornwhomthat love dothpossess?
Do they call ‘virtue’ there—ungratefulness?
PROSA
Samuel Richardson, Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded(1740), Letter X
DEAR MOTHER,
You and mygoodfathermaywonderyouhavenothad a letter from me in so many weeks; but a sad, sad scene, hasbeen the occasion of it. For to be sure, nowitistooplain, thatallyourcautionswerewellgrounded. O mydearmother! I ammiserable, trulymiserable!—Butyet, don’t be frightened, I amhonest!—God, of hisgoodness, keep me so!
O thisangel of a master! this fine gentleman! thisgraciousbenefactor to yourpoor Pamela! whowas to take care of me at the prayer of hisgooddyingmother; whowas so apprehensive for me, lest I should be drawn in by Lord Davers’snephew, that he wouldnotlet me go to Lady Davers’s: Thisvery gentleman (yes, I must call him gentleman, though he hasfallen from the merit of thattitle) hasdegradedhimself to offerfreedoms to hispoorservant! He hasnowshewedhimself in histruecolours; and, to me, nothingappear so black, and so frightful.
I havenotbeenidle; buthadwrit from time to time, how he, by slymeandegrees, exposedhiswickedviews; butsomebody stole myletter, and I knownotwhathasbecome of it. Itwas a very long one. I fear, he thatwasmeanenough to do badthings, in onerespect, didnotstickatthis. But be itasitwill, all the use he can make of itwill be, that he may be ashamed of his part; I not of mine: for he willsee I wasresolved to be virtuous, and gloried in the honesty of mypoorparents.
I willtellyouall, the nextopportunity; for I amwatchedverynarrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl isalwaysscribbling; I thinkshemay be betteremployed. And yet I work all hours with myneedle, uponhislinen, and the fine linen of the family; and am, besides, aboutfloweringhim a waistcoat.—But, oh! myheart’sbrokealmost; for whatam I likely to have for myreward, butshame and disgrace, or else illwords, and hard treatment! I’lltellyouallsoon, and hope I shallfindmy long letter.
Your mostafflicted DAUGHTER.
May-be, I he and himtoomuch: butitishisown fault if I do. For whydid he loseallhisdignity with me?