umber. After all this (which would
have satisfied an ordinary young man) did I this last Thursday receive a
letter from him by Collins, which he sent first to London that it might
come thence to me. I threw it into the fire; and do you but keep my
counsel, nobody shall ever know that I had it; and my gentleman shall be
kept at such a distance as I hope to hear no more of him. Yet I'll swear
of late I have used him so near to rudely that there is little left for
me to do. Fye! what a deal of paper I have spent upon this idle fellow;
if I had thought his story would have proved so long you should have
missed on't, and the loss would not have been great.

I have not thanked you yet for my tweezers and essences; they are both
very good. I kept one of the little glasses myself; remember my ring,
and in return, if I go to London whilst you are in Ireland, I'll have my
picture taken in little and send it you. The sooner you despatch away
will be the better, I think, since I have no hopes of seeing you before
you go; there lies all your business, your father and fortune must do
all the rest. I cannot be more yours than I am. You are mistaken if you
think I stand in awe of my brother. No, I fear nobody's anger. I am
proof against all violence; but when people haunt me with reasoning and
entreaties, when they look sadly and pretend kindness, when they beg
upon that score, 'tis a strange pain to me to deny. When he rants and
renounces me, I can despise him; but when he asks my pardon, with tears
pleads to me the long and constant friendship between us, and calls
heaven to witness that nothing upon earth is dear to him in comparison
of me, then, I confess, I feel a stronger unquietness within me, and I
would do anything to evade his importunity. Nothing is so great a
violence to me as that which moves my compassion. I can resist with ease
any sort of people but beggars. If this be a fault in me, 'tis at least
a well-natured one; and therefore I hope you will forgive it me, you
that can forgive me anything, you say, and be displeased with nothing
whilst I love you; may I never be pleased with anything when I do not.
Yet I could beat you for writing this last strange letter; was there
ever anything said like? If I had but a vanity that the world should
admire me, I would not care what they talked of me. In earnest, I
believe there is nobody displeased that people speak well of them, and
reputation is esteemed by all of much greater va