Does not my cousin at Moor Park mistrust us a little?  I have a great belief they do.  I am sure Robin C——­ told my brother of it since I was last in town.  Of all things, I admire my cousin Molle has not got it by the end, he that frequents that family so much, and is at this instant at Kimbolton.  If he has, and conceals it, he is very discreet; I could never discern by anything that he knew it.  I shall endeavour to accustom myself to the noise on’t, and make it as easy to me as I can, though I had much rather it were not talked of till there were an absolute necessity of discovering it, and you can oblige me in nothing more than in concealing it.  I take it very kindly that you promise to use all your interest in your father to persuade him to endeavour our happiness, and he appears so confident of his power that it gives me great hopes.

Dear! shall we ever be so happy, think you?  Ah!  I dare not hope it.  Yet ’tis not want of love gives me these fears.  No, in earnest, I think (nay, I’m sure) I love you more than ever, and ’tis that only gives me these despairing thoughts; when I consider how small a proportion of happiness is allowed in this world, and how great mine would be in a person for whom I have a passionate kindness, and who has the same for me.  As it is infinitely above what I can deserve, and more than God Almighty usually allots to the best people, I can find nothing in reason but seems to be against me; and, methinks, ’tis as vain in me to expect it as ’twould be to hope I might be a queen (if that were really as desirable a thing as ’tis thought to be); and it is just it should be so.

We complain of this world, and the variety of crosses and afflictions it abounds in, and yet for all this who is weary on’t (more than in discourse), who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, or preparing for the next?  We see old folks, who have outlived all the comforts of life, desire to continue in it, and nothing can wean us from the folly of preferring a mortal being, subject to great infirmity and unavoidable decays, before an immortal one, and all the glories that are promised with it.  Is this not very like preaching?  Well, ’tis too good for you; you shall have no more on’t.  I am afraid you are not mortified enough for such discourse to work upon (though I am not of my brother’s opinion, neither, that you have no religion in you).  In earnest, I never took anything he ever said half so ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an injury.  It must suppose one to be a devil in human shape.  Oh, me! now I am speaking of religion, let me ask you is not his name Bagshawe that you say rails on love and women?  Because I heard one t’other day speaking of him, and commending his wit, but withal, said he was a perfect atheist.  If so, I can allow him to hate us, and love, which, sure, has something of divine in it, since God requires it of us.  I am coming into my preaching vein again.  What think you, were it not a good way of preferment as the times are?  If you’ll advise me to it I’ll venture.  The woman at Somerset House was cried up mightily.  Think on’t.