SIR,—­’Tis most true what you say, that few have what they merit; if it were otherwise, you would be happy, I think, but then I should be so too, and that must not be,—­a false and an inconstant person cannot merit it, I am sure.  You are kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no friends nor no princes, the honour would be lost upon me; I should become a crown so ill, there would be no striving for it after me, and, sure, I should not wear it long.  Your letter was a much greater loss to me than that of Henry Cromwell, and, therefore, ’tis that with all my care and diligence I cannot inquire it out.  You will not complain, I believe, of the shortness of my last, whatever else you dislike in it, and if I spare you at any time ’tis because I cannot but imagine, since I am so wearisome to myself, that I must needs be so to everybody else, though, at present, I have other occasions that will not permit this to be a long one.  I am sorry it should be only in my power to make a friend miserable, and that where I have so great a kindness I should do so great injuries; but ’tis my fortune, and I must bear it; ’twill be none to you, I hope, to pray for you, nor to desire that you would (all passion laid aside) freely tell me my faults, that I may, at least, ask your forgiveness where ’tis not in my power to make you better satisfaction.  I would fain make even with all the world, and be out of danger of dying in anybody’s debt; then I have nothing more to do in it but to expect when I shall be so happy as to leave it, and always to remember that my misfortune makes all my faults towards you, and that my faults to God make all my misfortunes.

Your unhappy.

Letter 46.

SIR,—­That which I writ by your boy was in so much haste and distraction as I cannot be satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my thoughts as I meant them.  No, I find it is not easily done at more leisure, and I am yet to seek what to say that is not too little nor too much.  I would fain let you see that I am extremely sensible of your affliction, that I would lay down my life to redeem you from it, but that’s a mean expression; my life is of so little value that I will not mention it.  No, let it be rather what, in earnest, if I can tell anything I have left that is considerable enough to expose for it, it must be that small reputation I have amongst my friends, that’s all my wealth, and that I could part with to restore you to that quiet you lived in when I first knew you.  But, on the other side, I would not give you hopes of that I cannot do.  If I loved you less I would allow you to be the same person to me, and I would be the same to you as heretofore.  But to deal freely with you, that were to betray myself, and I find that my passion would quickly be my master again if I gave it any liberty.  I am not secure that it would not make me do the most extravagant things in the world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual war alive with it as long as there