she would go to me and desire my worship to write to your worship to know how the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved him that he has neither eat nor slept (to do him any good) since he came home, and in grace of God this shall be a warning to him as long as he lives.  He takes it so heavily that I think I must be friends with him again; but pray hereafter seal your letters, so that the difficulty of opening them may dishearten anybody from attempting it.

It was but my guess that the ladies at Heams’ were unhandsome; but since you tell me they were remarkably so, sure I know them by it; they are two sisters, and might have been mine if the Fates had so pleased.  They have a brother that is not like them, and is a baronet besides.  ’Tis strange that you tell me of my Lords Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel; but what becomes of young Compton’s estate?  Sure my Lady Carey cannot neither in honour nor conscience keep it; besides that, she needs it less now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) dead.

Sir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of mine.  My brother tells me they meet sometimes, and have the most ado to pull off their hats to one another that can be, and never speak.  If I were in town I’ll undertake he would venture the being choked for want of air rather than stir out of doors for fear of meeting me.  But did you not say in your last that you took something very ill from me?  If ’twas my humble thanks, well, you shall have no more of them then, nor no more servants.  I think that they are not necessary among friends.

I take it very kindly that your father asked for me, and that you were not pleased with the question he made of the continuance of my friendship.  I can pardon it him, because he does not know me, but I should never forgive you if you could doubt it.  Were my face in no more danger of changing than my mind, I should be worth the seeing at threescore; and that which is but very ordinary now, would then be counted handsome for an old woman; but, alas!  I am more likely to look old before my time with grief.  Never anybody had such luck with servants; what with marrying and what with dying, they all leave me.  Just now I have news brought me of the death of an old rich knight that has promised me this seven years to marry me whensoever his wife died, and now he’s dead before her, and has left her such a widow, it makes me mad to think on’t, L1200 a year jointure and L20,000 in money and personal estate, and all this I might have had if Mr. Death had been pleased to have taken her instead of him.  Well, who can help these things?  But since I cannot have him, would you had her!  What say you?  Shall I speak a good word for you?  She will marry for certain, and perhaps, though my brother may expect I should serve him in it, yet if you give me commission I’ll say I was engaged beforehand for a friend, and leave him to shift for himself.  You would be my neighbour if you had her, and I should see you