think I have experienced some moments in my life, when playing at
cards _for nothing_ has even been agreeable. When I am in sickness, or
not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play a
game at piquet _for love_ with my cousin Bridget--Bridget Elia.

I grant there is something sneaking in it; but with a toothache, or a
sprained ancle,--when you are subdued and humble,--you are glad to put
up with an inferior spring of action.

There is such a thing in nature, I am convinced, as _sick whist_.--

I grant it is not the highest style of man--I deprecate the manes of
Sarah Battle--she lives not, alas! to whom I should apologise.--

At such times, those _terms_ which my old friend objected to, come in
as something admissible.--I love to get a tierce or a quatorze, though
they mean nothing. I am subdued to an inferior interest. Those shadows
of winning amuse me.

That last game I had with my sweet cousin (I capotted her)--(dare I
tell thee, how foolish I am?)--I wished it might have lasted for ever,
though we gained nothing, and lost nothing, though it was a mere shade
of play: I would be content to go on in that idle folly for ever. The
pipkin should be ever boiling, that was to prepare the gentle lenitive
to my foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after the game was over:
and, as I do not much relish appliances, there it should ever bubble.
Bridget and I should be ever playing.