I have three of thy letters at once before me to answer; in each of which thou complainest of my silence; and in one of them tallest me, that thou canst not live without I scribble to thee every day, or every other day at least.

Why, then, die, Jack, if thou wilt.  What heart, thinkest thou, can I have to write, when I have lost the only subject worth writing upon?

Help me again to my angel, to my Clarissa; and thou shalt have a letter from me, or writing at least part of a letter, every hour.  All that the charmer of my heart shall say, that will I put down.  Every motion, every air of her beloved person, every look, will I try to describe; and when she is silent, I will endeavour to tell thee her thoughts, either what they are, or what I would have them to be—­so that, having her, I shall never want a subject.  Having lost her, my whole soul is a blank:  the whole creation round me, the elements above, beneath, and every thing I behold, (for nothing can I enjoy,) are a blank without her.

Oh! return, return, thou only charmer of my soul! return to thy adoring Lovelace!  What is the light, what the air, what the town, what the country, what’s any thing, without thee?  Light, air, joy, harmony, in my notion, are but parts of thee; and could they be all expressed in one word, that word would be Clarissa.

O my beloved Clarissa, return thou then; once more return to bless thy Lovelace, who now, by the loss of thee, knows the value of the jewel he has slighted; and rises every morning but to curse the sun that shines upon every body but him!

***

Well, but, Jack, ’tis a surprising thing to me, that the dear fugitive cannot be met with; cannot be heard of.  She is so poor a plotter, (for plotting is not her talent,) that I am confident, had I been at liberty, I should have found her out before now; although the different emissaries I have employed about town, round the adjacent villages, and in Miss Howe’s vicinage, have hitherto failed of success.  But my Lord continues so weak and low-spirited, that there is no getting from him.  I would not disoblige a man whom I think in danger still:  for would his gout, now it has got him down, but give him, like a fair boxer, the rising-blow, all would be over with him.  And here [pox of his fondness for me! it happens at a very bad time] he makes me sit hours together entertaining him with my rogueries:  (a pretty amusement for a sick man!) and yet, whenever he has the gout, he prays night and morning with his chaplain.  But what must his notions of religion be, who after he has nosed and mumbled over his responses, can give a sigh or groan of satisfaction, as if he thought he had made up with Heaven; and return with a new appetite to my stories? —­encouraging them, by shaking his sides with laughing at them, and calling me a sad fellow, in such an accent as shows he takes no small delight in his kinsman.