SIR,—­I received your letter to-day, when I thought it almost impossible that I should be sensible of anything but my father’s sickness and my own affliction in it.  Indeed, he was then so dangerously ill that we could not reasonably hope he should outlive this day; yet he is now, I thank God, much better, and I am come so much to myself with it, as to undertake a long letter to you whilst I watch by him.  Towards the latter end it will be excellent stuff, I believe; but, alas! you may allow me to dream sometimes.  I have had so little sleep since my father was sick that I am never thoroughly awake.  Lord, how I have wished for you!  Here do I sit all night by a poor moped fellow that serves my father, and have much ado to keep him awake and myself too.  If you heard the wise discourse that is between us, you would swear we wanted sleep; but I shall leave him to-night to entertain himself, and try if I can write as wisely as I talk.  I am glad all is well again.  In earnest, it would have lain upon my conscience if I had been the occasion of making your poor boy lose a service, that if he has the wit to know how to value it, he would never have forgiven me while he had lived.

But while I remember it, let me ask you if you did not send my letter and Cleopatre where I directed you for my lady?  I received one from her to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she has not heard from me this three weeks.  I have writ constantly to her, but I do not so much wonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems not to have received that which I sent to you nor the books.  I do not understand it, but I know there is no fault of yours in’t.  But, mark you! if you think to ’scape with sending me such bits of letters, you are mistaken.  You say you are often interrupted, and I believe it; but you must use then to begin to write before you receive mine, and whensoever you have any spare time allow me some of it.  Can you doubt that anything can make your letters cheap?  In earnest, ’twas unkindly said, and if I could be angry with you it should be for that.  No, certainly they are, and ever will be, dear to me as that which I receive a huge contentment by.  How shall I long when you are gone your journey to hear from you! how shall I apprehend a thousand accidents that are not likely nor will ever happen, I hope!  Oh, if you do not send me long letters, then you are the cruellest person that can be!  If you love me you will; and if you do not, I shall never love myself.  You need not fear such a command as you mention.  Alas!  I am too much concerned that you should love me ever to forbid it you; ’tis all that I propose of happiness to myself in the world.  The burning of my paper has waked me; all this while I was in a dream.  But ’tis no matter, I am content you should know they are of you, and that when my thoughts are left most at liberty they are the kindest.  I swear my eyes are so heavy that I hardly see what I write, nor do I think you will be able to read it