_Next Friday!_--Well, I long to see you after a dreadful, dreadful
absence of _eight days_.--There is something confounded ridiculous in
all this stuff; nor can I scarce credit that man should pine, fret, and
make himself unhappy, because he is loosed from the apron-strings of his
Phillida for a few days.--I see you shrug;--but my fate is not dependent
on your prognostications.--Was it so, I know where I should be,--down
amongst the _dead_ men;--down amongst the _dead_ men.--

However, I would consent to be rank'd in the number of Cupid's slain,
could I be hit by just such a dart as pierc'd you.

Vulcan certainly has none ready made that will do, unless he sharpens
the points of those which have already recoiled.

But hold; I must descend from the clouds, to regale myself on a fine
turtle at the Duke of R----d's. What an _epicure!_ Talk of feasting my
palate, when my eyes are to meet delicacies of a far more inviting
nature!--There _was_ a time I should have been envy'd _such_ a
repast:--_that_ time is fled;--_you_ are no longer a monopolizer of
beauty;--can sing but of _one_,--talk but of _one_--dream but of
_one_,--and, what is still more extraordinary, love but _one_.--

Give _me_ a heart at large;--such confin'd notions are not for

MOLESWORTH.