of ropes, and prepared everything for my reception. Thus was I ever
doomed to be led into scrapes by the muse. Let no man henceforth carry
on a secret amour in poetry.

The old man's ire was in some measure appeased by the pummelling of my
head, and the anguish of my sprain; so he did not put me to death on
the spot. He was even humane enough to furnish a shutter, on which I
was carried back to the college like a wounded warrior. The porter was
roused to admit me; the college gate was thrown open for my entry; the
affair was blazed abroad the next morning, and became the joke of the
college from the buttery to the hall.

I had leisure to repent during several weeks' confinement by my sprain,
which I passed in translating Boethius' Consolations of Philosophy. I
received a most tender and ill-spelled letter from my mistress, who had
been sent to a relation in Coventry. She protested her innocence of my
misfortunes, and vowed to be true to me "till death." I took no notice
of the letter, for I was cured, for the present, both of love and
poetry. Women, however, are more constant in their attachments than
men, whatever philosophers may say to the contrary. I am assured that
she actually remained faithful to her vow for several months; but she
had to deal with a cruel father whose heart was as hard as the knob of
his cane. He was not to be touched by tears or poetry; but absolutely
compelled her to marry a reputable young tradesman; who made her a
happy woman in spite of herself, and of all the rules of romance; and
what is more, the mother of several children. They are at this very day
a thriving couple and keep a snug corner shop, just opposite the figure
of Peeping Tom at Coventry.

I will not fatigue you by any more details of my studies at Oxford,