sleep.
But I do not repent it, for I should not love you if I did not think you
discreet enough to be trusted with the knowledge of all my kindness.
Therefore 'tis not that I desire to hide it from you, but that I do not
love to tell it; and perhaps if you could read my heart, I should make
less scruple of your seeing on't there than in my letters.

I can easily guess who the pretty young lady is, for there are but two
in England of that fortune, and they are sisters, but I am to seek who
the gallant should be. If it be no secret, you may tell me. However, I
shall wish him all good success if he be your friend, as I suppose he is
by his confidence in you. If it be neither of the Spencers, I wish it
were; I have not seen two young men that looked as if they deserved
better fortunes so much as those brothers.

But, bless me, what will become of us all now? Is not this a strange
turn? What does my Lord Lisle? Sure this will at least defer your
journey? Tell me what I must think on't; whether it be better or worse,
or whether you are at all concern'd in't? For if you are not I am not,
only if I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer was made
me by Henry Cromwell, I might have been in a fair way of preferment,
for, sure, they will be greater now than ever. Is it true that Algernon
Sydney was so unwilling to leave the House, that the General was fain to
take the pains to turn him out himself? Well, 'tis a pleasant world
this. If Mr. Pim were alive again, I wonder what he would think of these
proceedings, and whether this would appear so great a breach of the
Privilege of Parliament as the demanding the 5 members? But I shall talk
treason by and by if I do not look to myself. 'Tis safer talking of the
orange-flower water you sent me. The carrier has given me a great charge
to tell you that it came safe, and that I must do him right. As you say,
'tis not the best I have seen, nor the worst.

I shall expect your Diary next week, though this will be but a short
letter: you may allow me to make excuses too sometimes; but, seriously,
my father is now so continuously ill, that I have hardly time for
anything. 'Tis but an ague that he has, but yet I am much afraid that is
more than his age and weakness will be able to bear; he keeps his bed,
and never rises but to have it made, and most times faints with that.
You ought in charity to write as much as you can, for, in earnest, my
life here since my father's sickness is