Well, methinks thou sayest, I begin to think tolerably of this device.

I knew thou wouldst, when I explained myself.  Another time prepare to wonder; and banish doubt.

Now, Belford, I shall expect, that she will show some concern at the broken vessel, as it may be attended with fatal effects, especially to one so fiery in his temper as I have the reputation to be thought to be:  and the rather, as I shall calmly attribute the accident to the harasses and doubts under which I have laboured for some time past.  And this will be a further proof of my love, and will demand a grateful return—­

And what then, thou egregious contriver?

Why then I shall have the less remorse, if I am to use a little violence:  for can she deserve compassion, who shows none?

And what if she shows a great deal of concern?

Then shall I be in hopes of building on a good foundation.  Love hides a multitude of faults, and diminishes those it cannot hide.  Love, when acknowledged, authorizes freedom; and freedom begets freedom; and I shall then see how far I can go.

Well but, Lovelace, how the deuce wilt thou, with that full health and vigour of constitution, and with that bloom in thy face, make any body believe thou art sick?

How!—­Why, take a few grains of ipecacuanha; enough to make me reach like a fury.

Good!—­But how wilt thou manage to bring up blood, and not hurt thyself?

Foolish fellow!  Are there no pigeons and chickens in every poulterer’s shop?

Cry thy mercy.

But then I will be persuaded by Mrs. Sinclair, that I have of late confined myself too much; and so will have a chair called, and be carried to the Park; where I will try to walk half the length of the Mall, or so; and in my return, amuse myself at White’s or the Cocoa.

And what will this do?

Questioning again!—­I am afraid thou’rt an infidel, Belford—­Why then shall I not know if my beloved offers to go out in my absence?—­And shall I not see whether she receives me with tenderness at my return?  But this is not all:  I have a foreboding that something affecting will happen while I am out.  But of this more in its place.

And now, Belford, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, allow, that it is a right thing to be sick?—­Lord, Jack, so much delight do I take in my contrivances, that I shall be half sorry when the occasion for them is over; for never, never, shall I again have such charming exercise for my invention.

Mean time these plaguy women are so impertinent, so full of reproaches, that I know not how to do any thing but curse them.  And then, truly, they are for helping me out with some of their trite and vulgar artifices.  Sally, particularly, who pretends to be a mighty contriver, has just now, in an insolent manner, told me, on my rejecting her proffered aids, that I had no mind to conquer; and that I was so wicked as to intend to marry, though I would not own it to her.