SIR—­I was so kind as to write to you by the coachman, and let me tell you I think ’twas the greatest testimony of my friendship that I could give you; for, trust me, I was so tired with my journey, so dowd with my cold, and so out of humour with our parting, that I should have done it with great unwillingness to anybody else.  I lay abed all next day to recover myself, and rised a Thursday to receive your letter with the more ceremony.  I found no fault with the ill writing, ’twas but too easy to read, methought, for I am sure I had done much sooner than I could have wished.  But, in earnest, I was heartily troubled to find you in so much disorder.  I would not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to yourself, in whom I am more concerned.  No; for God’s sake, let us not make afflictions of such things as these; I am afraid we shall meet with too many real ones.

I am glad your journey holds, because I think ’twill be a good diversion for you this summer; but I admire your father’s patience, that lets you rest with so much indifference when there is such a fortune offered.  I’ll swear I have great scruples of conscience myself on the point, and am much afraid I am not your friend if I am any part of the occasion that hinders you from accepting it.  Yet I am sure my intentions towards you are very innocent and good, for you are one of those whose interests I shall ever prefer much above my own; and you are not to thank me for it, since, to speak truth, I secure my own by it; for I defy my ill fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it in the persons of my friends.  I wonder how your father came to know I was in town, unless my old friend, your cousin Hammond, should tell him.  Pray, for my sake, be a very obedient son; all your faults will be laid to my charge else, and, alas!  I have too many of my own.

You say nothing how your sister does, which makes me hope there is no more of danger in her sickness.  Pray, when it may be no trouble to her, tell her how much I am her servant; and have a care of yourself this cold weather.  I have read your Reine Marguerite, and will return it you when you please.  If you will have my opinion of her, I think she had a good deal of wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of so high a spirit.  She speaks with too much indifference of her husband’s several amours, and commends Bussy as if she were a little concerned in him.  I think her a better sister than a wife, and believe she might have made a better wife to a better husband.  But the story of Mademoiselle de Tournon is so sad, that when I had read it I was able to go no further, and was fain to take up something else to divert myself withal.  Have you read Cleopatre?  I have six tomes on’t here that I can lend you if you have not; there are some stories in’t you will like, I believe.  But what an ass am I to think you can be idle enough at London to read romance!  No, I’ll keep them till you come hither; here they may be welcome to you for want of