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Full well I know the smile upon that face
Full well I know those features' every grace !
But what is this--my M.'s mortal part-
There is a subject beggars all thine art :
Paint but her mind, by Heav'n! and thou shalt

Shalt be my more than pagan deity.-
Nature may possibly have caft, of old,
Some other beauty in as fair a mould-
But all in vain you'll search the world to find
Another beauty with so fair mind.

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Huntingdon, 1 Jan. 1776. LEST I should not see you this morning, I will fcribble this before I mount honest Crop ; that I may leave it for you.

This is a new year. May every day of it be happy to my M. May—but don't you know there's not a wish of bliss I do not wish you ?

A new year-I like not this word. There may be new lovers.--I lie-there may not. M. will never change her H. I am sure she'll never change him for a truer lover.

A new


A new year—76. Where shall we be in 77? Where in 78? Where in 79? Where in 80 ?

In misery or bliss,in life or death, in heaven or hell-wherever you are, there may H. be also !

The soldier whom you desired me to beg off, returns thanks to his unknown benefactress. Discipline must be kept up in our way; but I am sure you will do me the justice to believe I an no otherwise a friend to it.


To the Same.


Huntingdon, Feb. 8. 1776. SINCE the thaw fent me from H. the day be. fore yesterday, I have written four times to you, and believe verily I shall write four-and-forty times to you in the next four days. The bliss I have enjoyed with you these three weeks has increased, not diminished, my affection. Three weeks and more in the same house with my M. ! -'Twas more than I deserved. And yet, to be obliged to resign you every night to another !--By these eyes, by your still dearer eyes, I don't think I slept three hours during the whole three weeks. Yet, yet, 'twas bliss. How lucky, that I was pressed to stay at

H. the

H. the night the snow set in! Would it had snowed till doomsday! But, then, you must have been his every night till doomsday. Now, my happy time may come.

Though I had not strength to resist when under the same roof with you, ever since we parte ed, the recollection that it was his roof has made me niserable. Whimsical, that he should bid you press me, when I at first refused his solicitation.-Is H. guilty of a breach of hofpitality ?

I must not question-I must not think, I must not write.-But, we will meet as we fixed.

Does Robin Gray suspect ?-Sufpect! And is H. a subject for suspicion ?

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Huntingdon, 16 Feb. 1976. EVERY time I see you I discover some new charm, some new accomplishment. Before Heaven, there was not a title of flattery in what I told you yesterday. Nothing can be flattery which I say of you, for no invention, no poetry, no any thing can come up to what Ithink of you.

One of our Kings said of the citizens of his good city of London, that when he considered


their riches, he was in admiration at their undere standings--when he confidered their understandings, he was in admiration at their riches. Just so do I with regard to your person and your inind, but for a different reason.-Nature was in one of her extravagant moods when she put you together. She might have made two captivating women out of you--by my soul, half a dozen! Your turn for music, and excellence in it, would be a sufficient stock of charms for the most difagreeable woman to set up with in life. Music has charms to do things most incredible, music

Now shall I, with the good-humoured, digresa five pen of our favourite Montaigne in his entertaining Effays, begin with love, and end with a treatise upon the Gamut. .

Yet to talk of music, is to talk of you. M. and music are the same. What is music without


? And harmony has tuned your mind, yoạr perfon, your every look, and word, and action.

Observe--when I write to you I never pretend to write sense. I have no head; you have made me all heart, from top to bottom. Sense—why, I am out of my senses, and have been these fix weeks. Were it possible my scrawls to you could ever be read by any one but you, I should be D


are my

called a madman. I certainly am either curst or bleft (I know not which) with passions wild as the torrent's roar. Notwithstanding I take this fimile from water, the element, out of which Iam formed, is fire: Swift had water in his brain: I have a burning coal of fire : your hand can light it up to rapture, rage, or madness. Men, real men, have never been wild enough for my admin ration: it has wandered into the ideal world of fancy. Othello (but he should have put himself to death in his wife's fight, not his wife), Zanga,

heroes. Milk-and-water pafsions are like fentimental comedy. Give me (you see, how, like your friend Montaigne, I strip myself of my fkin, and thew you all my veins and arteries, even the playing of my heart)give me, I say, tragedy, affecting tragedy, in the world, as well as in the theatre.- I would massacre all mankind sooner than lose

you. -This is mere madness; And thus, awhile, the fit will work on him ; Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His Gilence will fit drooping.

Inconsistent being! While I am ranting thus about tragedy, and blood, and murder-behold, I am as weak as a woman. My tears flow at but the

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