they would have suspected me no very
sober person.

You are safe arrived, you say, and pleased with the place already, only
because you meet with a letter of mine there. In your next I expect some
other commendation on't, or else I shall hardly make such haste to it as
people here believe I will.

All the servants have been to take their leaves on me, and say how sorry
they are to hear I am going out of the land; some beggar at the door has
made so ill a report of Ireland to them that they pity me extremely, but
you are pleased, I hope, to hear I am coming to you; the next fair wind
expect me. 'Tis not to be imagined the ridiculous stories they have
made, nor how J.B. cries out on me for refusing him and choosing his
chamber-fellow; yet he pities me too, and swears I am condemned to be
the miserablest person upon earth. With all his quarrel to me, he does
not wish me so ill as to be married to the proudest, imperious,
insulting, ill-natured man that ever was; one that before he has had me
a week shall use me with contempt, and believe that the favour was of
his side. Is not this very comfortable? But, pray, make it no quarrel; I
make it none, I assure you. And though he knew you before I did, I do
not think he knows you so well; besides that, his testimony is not of
much value.

I am to spend this next week in taking leave of this country, and all
the company in't, perhaps never to see it more. From hence I must go
into Northamptonshire to my Lady Ruthin, and so to London, where I shall
find my aunt and my brother Peyton, betwixt whom I think to divide this
summer.

Nothing has happened since you went worth your knowledge. My Lord
Marquis Hertford has lost his son, my Lord Beauchamp, who has left a
fine young widow. In earnest, 'tis great pity; at the rate of our young
nobility he was an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an excellent
husband. My Lord Cambden, too, has fought with Mr. Stafford, but there's
no harm done. You may discern the haste I'm in by my writing. There will
come a time for a long letter again, but there will never come any
wherein I shall not be

Yours.

[Sealed with black wax, and directed]
For Mr. William Temple,
at Sir John Temple's home
in Damask Street,
Dublin.

Thus Dorothy leaves Chicksands, her last words from her old home to
Temple breathing her love and affection for him. It is no great sorrow
at the moment to leave Chicksa