and servant.

_Letter 10._--Dorothy is suffering from _the spleen_, a disease as
common to-day as then, though we have lost the good name for it. This
and the ague plague her continually. My Lord Lisle's proposed embassy to
Sweden is, we see, still delayed; ultimately Bulstrode Whitelocke is
chosen ambassador.

Dorothy's cousin Molle, here mentioned, seems to have been an old
bachelor, who spent his time at one country house or another, visiting
his country friends; and playing the bore not a little, I should fear,
with his gossip and imaginary ailments.

Temple's father was at this time trying to arrange a match for him with
a certain Mrs. Ch. as Dorothy calls her. Courtenay thinks she may be one
Mistress Chambers, an heiress, who ultimately married Temple's brother
John, and this conjecture is here followed.

SIR,--Your last letter came like a pardon to one upon the block. I had
given over the hopes on't, having received my letters by the other
carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The loss put me hugely out of
order, and you would have both pitied and laughed at me if you could
have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, who came hither the day
before, and surprised me very much. Not being able to say anything, I
got her to cards, and there with a great deal of patience lost my money
to her;--or rather I gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, in
comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, in earnest, I was not able
to disguise the joy it gave me, though one was by that is not much your
friend, and took notice of a blush that for my life I could not keep
back. I put up the letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could to
lose the money I had left, that I might take occasion to go fetch some
more; but I did not make such haste back again, I can assure you. I took
time enough to have coined myself some money if I had had the art on't,
and left my brother enough to make all his addresses to her if he were
so disposed. I know not whether he was pleased or not, but I am sure I
was.

You make so reasonable demands that 'tis not fit you should be denied.
You ask my thoughts but at one hour; you will think me bountiful, I
hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour when you have them not.
No, in earnest, my very dreams are yours, and I have got such a habit of
thinking of you that any other thought intrudes and proves uneasy to me.
I drink your health every morning in a drench that would poi