r buy.

MY DEAR MOORE,

I am going to be married--that is, I am accepted, and one usually
hopes the rest will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that _are_ to
be), _you_ think too strait-laced for me, although the paragon of only
children, and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men', and
full of 'most blest conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss Milbanke
is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to proceed there in my
elect capacity,--which, however, I cannot do until I have settled some
business in London, and got a blue coat.

She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothing
certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, that she has talents
and excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgement, after
having refused six suitors and taken me.

Now, if you have anything to say against this, pray do; my mind's
made up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen to
reason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break it
off, but I will hope not. In the meantime I tell you (a _secret_, by
the by,--at least till I know she wishes it to be public) that I have
proposed and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish me joy,
for one mayn't be married for months. I am going to town to-morrow,
but expect to be here, on my way there, within a fortnight.

If this had not happened, I should have gone to Italy. In my way down,
perhaps you will meet me at Nottingham, and come over with me here.
I need not say that nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of
course, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to
her happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person
that--that--in short, I wish I was a better.

TO JOHN MURRAY

_No bid for sweet voices_

Venice, 6 _April_, 1819.

The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday last, by post, in
four packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containing
in all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I will
permit no curtailments.... You shan't make _canticles_ of my cantos.
The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail;
but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. If you
please, you may publish _anonymously_; it will perhaps be better; but
I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine.

So you and Mr. Foscolo, etc., want me to undertake what you call a
'great work'? an Epic Poem, I suppose or some such