I truly deplore those misfortunes, and those sufferings, for your own sake; which nevertheless encourage me to renew my old hope.  I know not particulars.  I dare not inquire after them; because my sufferings would be increased with the knowledge of what your’s have been.  I therefore desire not the know more than what common report wounds my ears with; and what is given me to know, by your absence from your cruel family, and from the sacred place, where I, among numbers of your rejected admirers, used to be twice a week sure to behold you doing credit to that service of which your example gave me the highest notions.  But whatever be those misfortunes, of whatsoever nature those sufferings, I shall bless the occasion for my own sake (though for your’s curse the author of them,) if they may give me the happiness to know that this my renewed address may not be absolutely rejected.—­Only give me hope, that it may one day meet with encouragement, if in the interim nothing happen, either in my morals or behaviour, to give you fresh offence.  Give me but hope of this—­not absolutely to reject me is all the hope I ask for; and I will love you, if possible, still more than I ever loved you—­and that for your sufferings; for well you deserve to be loved, even to adoration, who can, for honour’s and for virtue’s sake, subdue a passion which common spirits [I speak by cruel experience] find invincible; and this at a time when the black offender kneels and supplicates, as I am well assured he does, (all his friends likewise supplicating for him,) to be forgiven.

That you cannot forgive him, not forgive him so as to receive him again to favour, is no wonder.  His offence is against virtue:  this is a part of your essence.  What magnanimity is this!  How just to yourself, and to your spotless character!  Is it any merit to admire more than ever a lady who can so exaltedly distinguish?  It is not.  I cannot plead it.

What hope have I left, may it be said, when my address was before rejected, now, that your sufferings, so nobly borne, have, with all the good judges, exalted your character?  Yet, Madam, I have to pride myself in this, that while your friends (not looking upon you in the just light I do) persecute and banish you; while your estate is withheld from you, and threatened (as I know,) to be withheld, as long as the chicaning law, or rather the chicaneries of its practisers, can keep it from you:  while you are destitute of protection; every body standing aloof, either through fear of the injurer of one family, or of the hard-hearted of the other; I pride myself, I say, to stand forth, and offer my fortune, and my life, at your devotion.  With a selfish hope indeed:  I should be too great an hypocrite not to own this! and I know how much you abhor insincerity.

But, whether you encourage that hope or not, accept my best services, I beseech you, Madam:  and be pleased to excuse me for a piece of honest art, which the nature of the case (doubting the honour of your notice otherwise) makes me choose to conclude with—­it is this: