“The good people who know us, will do so, Madam,” said I; “but I had rather have their silent prayers than their audible ones; and I have caused some of them to be told so.  What I apprehend is, that you will be more uneasy to-morrow, when at church you’ll see a good many people in the same way.  Indeed my story, and your dear brother’s tenderness to me, are so much talked of, that many strangers are brought hither to see us:  ’tis the only thing,” continued I (and so it is, Miss), “that makes me desirous to go to London; for by the time we return, the novelty, I hope, will cease.”  Then I mentioned some verses of Mr. Cowley, which were laid under my cushion in our seat at church, two Sundays ago, by some unknown hand; and how uneasy they have made me.  I will transcribe them, my dear, and give you the particulars of our conversation on that occasion.  The verses are these: 

  “Thou robb’st my days of bus’ness and delights,
  Of sleep thou robb’st my nights. 
  Ah! lovely thief! what wilt thou do? 
  What! rob me of heaven too? 
  Thou ev’n my prayers dost steal from me,
  And I, with wild idolatry,
  Begin to GOD, and end them all to thee.

  No, to what purpose should I speak? 
  No, wretched heart, swell till you break. 
  She cannot love me, if she would,
  And, to say truth, ’twere pity that she should. 
  No, to the grave thy sorrow bear,
  As silent as they will be there;
  Since that lov’d hand this mortal wound does give,
  So handsomely the thing contrive
  That she may guiltless of it live;
  So perish, that her killing thee
  May a chance-medley, and no murder, be.”

I had them in my pocket, and read them to my lady; who asked me, if her brother had seen them?  I told her, it was he that found them under the cushion I used to sit upon; but did not shew them to me till I came home; and that I was so vexed at them, that I could not go to church in the afternoon.

“What should you be vexed at, my dear?” said she:  “how could you help it?  My brother was not disturbed at them, was he?”—­“No, indeed,” replied I:  “he chid me for being so; and was pleased to make me a fine compliment upon it; that he did not wonder that every body who saw me loved me.  But I said, this was all that wicked wit is good for, to inspire such boldness in bad hearts, which might otherwise not dare to set pen to paper to affront any one.  But pray, Madam,” added I, “don’t own I have told you of them, lest the least shadow of a thought should arise, that I was prompted by some vile secret vanity, to tell your ladyship of them, when I am sure, they have vexed me more than enough.  For is it not a sad thing, that the church should be profaned by such actions, and such thoughts, as ought not to be brought into it?  Then, Madam, to have any wicked man dare to think of one with impure notions!  It gives me the less opinion of myself, that I should