give you; for, trust me, I was so tired with my journey, so _dowd_ with
my cold, and so out of humour with our parting, that I should have done
it with great unwillingness to anybody else. I lay abed all next day to
recover myself, and rised a Thursday to receive your letter with the
more ceremony. I found no fault with the ill writing, 'twas but too easy
to read, methought, for I am sure I had done much sooner than I could
have wished. But, in earnest, I was heartily troubled to find you in so
much disorder. I would not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to
yourself, in whom I am more concerned. No; for God's sake, let us not
make afflictions of such things as these; I am afraid we shall meet with
too many real ones.

I am glad your journey holds, because I think 'twill be a good diversion
for you this summer; but I admire your father's patience, that lets you
rest with so much indifference when there is such a fortune offered.
I'll swear I have great scruples of conscience myself on the point, and
am much afraid I am not your friend if I am any part of the occasion
that hinders you from accepting it. Yet I am sure my intentions towards
you are very innocent and good, for you are one of those whose interests
I shall ever prefer much above my own; and you are not to thank me for
it, since, to speak truth, I secure my own by it; for I defy my ill
fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it in the persons of my
friends. I wonder how your father came to know I was in town, unless my
old friend, your cousin Hammond, should tell him. Pray, for my sake, be
a very obedient son; all your faults will be laid to my charge else,
and, alas! I have too many of my own.

You say nothing how your sister does, which makes me hope there is no
more of danger in her sickness. Pray, when it may be no trouble to her,
tell her how much I am her servant; and have a care of yourself this