Then I imagine thee interposing to qualify my impatience, as Ajax did to Achilles: 

      ——­Do not chafe thee, cousin: 
      ——­And let these threats alone,
      Till accident or purpose bring thee to it.

All that vexes me, in the midst of my gloried-in devices, is, that there is a sorry fellow in the world, who has presumed to question, whether the prize, when obtained, is worthy of the pains it costs me:  yet knows, with what patience and trouble a bird-man will spread an acre of ground with gins and snares; set up his stalking horse, his glasses; plant his decoy-birds, and invite the feathered throng by his whistle; and all his prize at last (the reward of early hours, and of a whole morning’s pains) only a simple linnet.

To be serious, Belford, I must acknowledge, that all our pursuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles of different sort and sizes, proportioned to our years and views:  but then is not a fine woman the noblest trifle, that ever was or could be obtained by man?—­And to what purpose do we say obtained, if it be not in the way we wish for?—­If a man is rather to be her prize, than she his?

***

And now, Belford, what dost think?

That thou art a cursed fellow, if—­

If—­no if’s—­but I shall be very sick to-morrow.  I shall, ’faith.

Sick!—­Why sick?  What a-devil shouldst thou be sick for?

For more good reasons than one, Jack.

I should be glad to hear but one.—­Sick, quotha!  Of all thy roguish inventions I should not have thought of this.

Perhaps thou thinkest my view to be, to draw the lady to my bedside.  That’s a trick of three or four thousand years old; and I should find it much more to my purpose, if I could get to her’s.  However, I’ll condescend to make thee as wise as myself.

I am excessively disturbed about this smuggling scheme of Miss Howe.  I have no doubt, that my fair-one, were I to make an attempt, and miscarry, will fly from me, if she can.  I once believed she loved me:  but now I doubt whether she does or not:  at least, that it is with such an ardour, as Miss Howe calls it, as will make her overlook a premeditated fault, should I be guilty of one.

And what will being sick do for thee?

Have patience.  I don’t intend to be so very bad as Dorcas shall represent me to be.  But yet I know I shall reach confoundedly, and bring up some clotted blood.  To be sure, I shall break a vessel:  there’s no doubt of that:  and a bottle of Eaton’s styptic shall be sent for; but no doctor.  If she has humanity, she will be concerned.  But if she has love, let it have been pushed ever so far back, it will, on this occasion, come forward, and show itself; not only in her eye, but in every line of her sweet face.

I will be very intrepid.  I will not fear death, or any thing else.  I will be sure of being well in an hour or two, having formerly found great benefit by this astringent medicine, on occasion of an inward bruise by a fall from my horse in hunting, of which perhaps this malady may be the remains.  And this will show her, that though those about me may make the most of it, I do not; and so can have no design in it.