feels them--are fitter therefore to advise me, than I am myself.

I will here rest my cause. Have I, or have I not, suffered or borne
enough? And if they will still persevere; if that strange persister
against an antipathy so strongly avowed, will still persist; say, What
can I do?--What course pursue?--Shall I fly to London, and endeavour to
hide myself from Lovelace, as well as from all my own relations, till my
cousin Morden arrives? Or shall I embark for Leghorn in my way to my
cousin? Yet, my sex, my youth, considered, how full of danger is this
last measure!--And may not my cousin be set out for England, while I am
getting thither?--What can I do?--Tell me, tell me, my dearest Miss Howe,
[for I dare not trust myself,] tell me, what I can do.

ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.

I have been forced to try to compose my angry passions at my harpsichord;
having first shut close my doors and windows, that I might not be heard
below. As I was closing the shutters of the windows, the distant
whooting of the bird of Minerva, as from the often-visited woodhouse,
gave the subject in that charming Ode to Wisdom, which does honour to our
sex, as it was written by one of it. I made an essay, a week ago, to set
the three last stanzas of it, as not unsuitable to my unhappy situation;
and after I had re-perused the Ode, those were my lesson; and, I am sure,
in the solemn address they contain to the All-Wise and All-powerful
Deity, my heart went with my fingers.

I enclose the Ode, and my effort with it. The subject is solemn; my
circumstances are affecting; and I flatter myself, that I have not been
quite unhappy in the performance. If it obtain your approbation, I shall
be out of doubt, and should be still more assured, could I hear it tried