. . Lord! . . ., I would not
be served so . . . I was never so used in all my born days .
. . I wondered he was not ashamed of himself, so I did . . .,
with such silly infantile moods of repulse and complaint as I
judged best adapted to the express the character of innocence
and affright. Pretending, however, to yield at length to the
vehemence of his insistence, in action and words, I sparingly
disclosed my thighs, so that he could just touch the cloven
inlet with the tip of his instrument: but as he fatigued and
toil'd to get it in, a twist of my body, so as to receive it
obliquely, not only thwarted his admission, but giving a
scream, as if he had pierced me to the heart, I shook him off
me with such violence that he could not with all his might to
it, keep the saddle: vex'd indeed at this he seemed, but not
in the style of any displeasure with me for my skittishness;
on the contrary, I dare swear he held me the dearer, and
hugged himself for the difficulties that even hurt his
instant pleasure. Fired, however, now beyond all bearance of
delay, he remounts and begg'd of me to have patience, strok-
ing and soothing me to it by all the tenderest endearments
and protestations of what he would moreover do for me; at
which, feigning to be something softened, and abating of the
anger that I had shewn at his hurting me so prodigiously, I
suffered him to lay my thighs aside, and make way for a new
trial; but I watched the directions and management of his
point so well, that no sooner was the orifice in the least
open to it, but I gave such a timely jerk as seemed to pro-
ceed not from the evasion of his entry, but from the pain his
efforts at it put me to: a circumstance too that I did not
fail to accompany with proper gestures, sighs and cries of
complaint, of which that he had hurt me .
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