To Mrs Arabella Hunt by William Congreve.

Dear Madam

Not believe that I love you? You cannot pretend to be so incredulous.
If you do not believe my tongue, consult my eyes, consult your own.
You will find by yours that they have charms; by mine that i have a heart which feel them.
Recall to mind what happened last night. That at least was a lover’s kiss.
It’s eagerness, it’s fierceness, its warmth, expressed the God its parent.
But oh! It’s sweetness, and it’s melting softness expressed him more.
With trembling in my limbs, and fevers in my soul, I ravish’d it.
Convulsions, panting, murmurings shew’d the mighty disorder within me: the mighty disorder increased by it.
For those dear lips shot through my heart, and thro’ my bleeding vitals, delicious poison,
and an avoidless but yet a charming ruin.

What cannot a day produce?
The night before i thought myself a happy man, in want of nothing,
and in fairest expectation of fortune; approved of by men of wit,
and applauded by others. Please, nay charmed with my friends,
my then dearest friends, sensible of every delicate pleasure, and in their turns possessing all.

But love, almighty love, seems in a moment to have removed me to a prodigious distance
from every object but you alone. In the midst of crowds I remain in solitude.
Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
I appear transported to some foreign desert with you
(oh, that I were really thus transported!), where, abundantly supplied with everything, in thee,
i might live out an age of uninterrupted ecstasy.

Then scene of the world’s great stage seems suddenly and sadly chang’d.
Unlovely objects are all around me, excepting thee; the charms of all the world appear to be translated to thee.
Thus in this sad, but oh, too pleasing state! my soul can fix upon nothing but thee;
thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.

If you and hope forsake it, despair and endless misery attend it.