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His wife was Elizabeth Throgmorton, whom he married in to the great vexation of Queen Elizabeth. Of his large output of poetry only about thirty short pieces survive; he wrote accounts of his travels, many essays and a "History of the World" to B. You shall now receive, my dear wife, my last words, in these my last lines, my love I send you, that you may keep it when I am dead, and my counsel that you may remember it when I am no more. I would not by my will present you with sorrows, dear Bess.

Let them go into the grave with me, and be buried in the dust. And seeing it is not the will of God that I shall see you any more in this life, bear it patiently, and with a heart like thyself. First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive or my words can express for your many travails and care taken for me, which, though they have not taken effect, as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world.

Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bare me living, do not hide yourself many days after my death, but by your travails seek to help your miserable fortunes, and the right of your poor child. Thy mournings cannot avail me, I am but dust. The writings were drawn at Midsummer twelve months, my honest Cousin Brett can testify so much, and Dalberrie, too, can remember somewhat therein.

And I trust my blood will quench their malice that have thus cruelly murthered me; and that they will not seek also to kill thee and thine with extreme poverty. To what friend to direct thee, I know not, for all mine have left me in the true time of trial; and I plainly perceive that my death was determined from the first day.

Most sorry I am, God knows, that being thus surprised with death, I can leave you in no better state. God is my witness, I meant you all my office of wines, or all that I could have purchased by selling it, half my stuff, and all my jewels; but some on't for the boy. But God hath prevented all my resolutions, and even that great God that ruleth all in all.

But if you can live free from want, care for no more; the rest is but vanity. Love God, and begin betimes, to repose yourself on Him, and therein shall you find true and lasting riches, and endless comfort. For the rest, when you have travailled and wearied all your thoughts over all sorts of worldly cogitations, you shall but sit down by sorrow in the end. Teach your son also to love and fear God whilst he is yet young, that the fear of God may grow up with him; and the same God will be a husband to you, and a father to him, husband and a father which cannot be taken from you.

In Jersey, I have also much money owing me, besides the arrears of the Wines will pay my debts. And howsoever you do, for my soul's sake, pay all poor men. When I am gone, no doubt you shall be sought by many; for the world thinks that I was very rich.

But take heed of the pretences of men, and their affections; for they last not but in honest, and worthy men; and no greater misery can befall you in this life than to become a prey, and afterwards to be despised. I speak not this, God knows, to dissuade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect of the world and of God.

As for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine. Death hath cut us asunder; and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. Remember your poor child, for his father's sake, who chose you, and loved you in his happiest times. Get those Letters if it be possible which I wrote to the Lords, wherein I sued for my life.

God is my witness, it was for you and yours I desired life. But it is true that I disdain myself for begging it; for know it, dear wife, that your son is the son of a true man, and one, who in his own respect, despiseth death and all his misshapen and ugly shapes. I cannot write much. God knows how hardly I steal this time, while others sleep; and it is also high time that I should separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied thee; and either lay it at Shirbourne if the land continue or in Exeter Church by my Father and Mother.

The everlasting, powerful, infinite and omnipotent God, that Almighty God who is goodness itself, the true life, and true light, keep thee, and thine; have mercy on me, and teach me to forgive my persecutors and accusers, and send us to meet in His glorious kingdom.

My dear wife, farewell. Bless my poor boy, pray for me, and let my good God, hold you both in His arms. All kings, and all their favourites, All glory of honours, beauties, wits, The sun itself, which makes times as they pass, Is elder by a year now than it was, When thou and I last another saw. All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love bath no decay; This no to-morrow bath, nor yesterday, Running, it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

This letter was written by the King to his wife, after he had been forced to sign the Covenant, after his surrender to the Scots at Newark, , in the fourth year of the Civil War. Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henry IV and Marie de' Medici, was the loyal helpmate and devoted ally of the King, all her considerable energies and resources were used in his cause, and, after his death in , she turned them to the service of her sons and lived to see the elder, Charles II, restored to the throne of Great Britain in At the date at which this letter was written the Queen was actively engaged in trying to raise an army from the Duke of Lorraine and in obtaining money by pledging her jewels with Cardinal Mazarin.

She retired into a Carmelite nunnery and died at Colombes, France, These two last weeks I heard not from thee, nor any about thee, which hath made my present condition the more troublesome, but I expect daily the contentment of hearing from thee. Indeed I have need of some comfort, for I never knew what it was to be barbarously baited before, and these five or six days last have much surpassed, in rude pressures against my conscience, all the rest since I came to the Scotch army; for, upon I know not what intelligence from London, nothing must serve but my signing the covenant the last was, my commanding all my subjects to do it , declaring absolutely, and without reserve, for Presbyterian government, and my receiving the Directory in my family, with an absolute command for the rest of the kingdom; and if I did not all this, then a present agreement must be made with the parliament, without regard of me, for they said that otherways they could not hope for peace or a just war.

It is true they gave me many other fair promises in case I did what they desired and yet for the militia they daily give ground ; but I answered them, that what they demanded was absolutely against my conscience, which might be persuaded, but would not be forced by anything they could speak or do. This was the sum of divers debates and papers between us, of which I cannot now give thee an account.

At least I made them be content with another message to London requiring an answer to my former with an offer to go thither upon honourable and fast conditions. Thus all I can do is but delaying of ill, which I shall not be able to do long without assistance from thee.

I cannot but again remind thee, that there was never man so alone as I, and therefore very much to be excused for the mentioning of any error, because I have reason to suspect everything that they advised me, and to distrust mine own single opinion, having no living soul to help me. To conclude, all the comfort I have is in thy love and a clear conscience.

I know the first will not fail me, nor by the Grace of God the other. Only I desire thy particular help, that I should be as little vexed as may be; for if thou do not, I care not much for others. I need say no more of this, nor will at this time, but that I am eternally thine. Love is life's end—an end, but never ending All joys, all sweets, all happiness awarding; Love is Life's wealth, ne'er spent, but ere spending; More rich by giving, taking by discarding, Love's life's reward, rewarded in rewarding.

This delightful Englishwoman was the daughter of Sir Peter Osborne, a cavalier gentleman who lived at Chick-sands, Bedfordshire, and at one time commanded the Royalist forces in Guernsey. At the age of twenty-one she became betrothed to William Temple, who was one year her junior; but there were many difficulties in the way of their marriage and it was nearly seven years before it took place.

During this period the lovers frequently corresponded and Dorothy's letters are preserved, though Temple's have been lost. They have long since been considered among the most charming in any language. The marriage was happy and Lady Temple lived to see her brilliant husband honoured and successful. Tragedy touched her in the sad death of her eldest son in and six years later she died herself, largely, it is said, from grief at the death of Mary II, one of her most intimate friends; she was then in her sixty-seventh year and had had forty years of married happiness.

The following letters are but specimens of the delicate and gracious style of Dorothy Osborne; they are reprinted here by the deeply appreciated permission of His Honour Sir Edward Parry, the owner of the copyright of these letters. It is to Sir Edward Parry's book on Dorothy Osborne, which holds the position of a classic, that the reader is referred. Sir Edward Parry's book contains the complete correspondence of Dorothy Osborne with William Temple, with full particulars of her life and family; with loving care and diligent scholarship the editor of these famous letters has dated, arranged and annotated them until they form a biography of one of the most fragrant feminine personalities in English history.

The numbers in brackets refer to the numbers of the Letters in Sir Edward Parry's book. I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind. Oh me, how should one do to mend all these!

I say nothing of the pretty humour you fancied me in, in your dream, because 'twas but a dream. Sure, if it had been anything else, I should have remembered that my Lord L. But seriously, now, I wonder at your patience. How could you hear me talk so senselessly, though 'twere but in your sleep, and not to be ready to beat me?

What nice mistaken points of honour I pretend to, and yet could allow him a room in the same bed with me! Well, dreams are pleasant things to people whose humours are so; but to have the spleen, and to dream upon't, is a punishment I would not wish my greatest enemy. I seldom dream, or never remember them, unless they have been so sad as to put me into such disorder as I can hardly recover when I am awake, and some of those I am confident I shall never forget.

You ask me how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account not only of what I do for the present, but of what I am likely to do this seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably early, and before I am ready I go round the house till I am weary of that, and then into the garden till it grows too hot for me.

About ten o'clock I think of making me ready, and when that's done I go into my father's chamber, from thence to dinner, where my cousin Molle and I sit in great state in a room and at a table that would hold a great many more. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working, and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by the house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, and sit in the shade singing of ballads.

I go to them and compare their voices and beauties to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find a vast difference there; but, trust me I think these are as innocent as those could be. I talk to them, and find they want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so.

Most commonly, when we are in the midst of our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings at their heels. I, that am not so nimble, stay behind; and when I see them driving home their cattle, I think 'tis time for me to retire too. When I have supped, I go into the garden, and so to the side of a small river that runs by it, where I sit down and wish you with me you had best say this is not kind neither.

In earnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and would be much more so to me if I had your company. I sit there sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and were it not for some cruel thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes that will not let me sleep there, I should forget that there were such a thing to be done as going to bed. Since I writ this my company is increased by two, my brother Harry and a fair niece, the eldest of my brother Peyton's daughters. She is so much a woman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt; and so pretty, that if I had any design to gain a servant, I should not like her company; but I have none, and therefore shall endeavour to keep her here as long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for she will easily consent to it, having so much of my humour though it be the worst thing in her as to like a melancholy place and little company.

My brother John is not come down again, nor am I certain when he will be here. He went from London into Gloucestershire to my sister who was very ill, and his youngest girl, of which he was very fond, is since dead. But I believe by that time his wife has a little recovered her sickness and the loss of her child, he will be coming this way.

My father is reasonably well, but keeps his chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be so perfectly recovered as to come abroad again. I am sorry for poor Walker, but you need not doubt of what he has of yours in his hands, for it seems he does not use to do his work himself. I speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that sets all his seals and rings. If what you say of my Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, I shall believe you, but otherwise I can assure you I have heard from people that pretend to know her very well, that her kindness to Compton was very moderate, and that she never liked him so well as when he died and gave her his estate.

But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so strange as that you should imagine a coldness and an indifference in my letters where I so little meant it; but I am not displeased you should desire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss of it when it is safest. Only I would not have you apprehend it so far as to believe it possible—that were an injury to all the assurances I have given you, and if you love me you cannot think me unworthy. I should think myself so, if I found you grew indifferent to me, that I have had so long and so particular a friendship for; but, sure, this is more than I need to say.

You are enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, and if so, you know better than I can tell you how much I am. In my opinion you do not understand the laws of friendship right. No, sure, if we are friends we must both command and both obey alike, indeed a mistress and a servant sounds otherwise, but, that is ceremony and this is truth. Yet what reason had I to furnish you with a stick to beat myself withal, or desire that you should command, that do it so severely?

I must eat fruit no longer than I could be content you should be in a fever;—is not that an absolute forbidding it me? I am glad you lay no fault to my charge but indiscretion, though that be too much, 'tis a well-natured one in me. I confess it is a fault to believe too easily, but 'tis not out of vanity that I do it—as thinking I deserve you should love me and therefore believing it—but because I am apt to think people so honest as to speak as they mean, and the less I deserve it the more I think myself obliged.

I know 'tis a fault in anyone to be mastered by a passion, and of all passions love is perhaps the least pardonable in a woman; but when 'tis mingled with gratitude 'tis sure the less to be blamed. Readers of Sir William Temple's Essays will find many references there to the times and reasons for eating or abstaining from fruit. I do not think if there were more that loved me I should love them all, but I am certain I could not love the most perfect person in the world, unless I did first firmly believe he had a passion for me.

And yet you would persuade me I am not just, because I did once in my life deny you something. I'll swear you are not, if you do not believe that next the happy end of all our wishes, I desire to see you; but you know the inconveniency that will certainly follow, and if you can dispense with them I can, to show that my obedience is not less than yours.

I cannot hear too often that you are kind and noble enough to prefer my interest above your own, but, sure if I have any measure of either myself, the more liberty you give me the less I shall take. I know not with what constancy you could hear the sentence of your death, but I am certain there is nothing I could not hear with more; and if your interest in me be dearer to you than your life, it must necessarily follow that 'tis dearer to me than anything in the world besides.

Therefore you may be sure I will preserve it with all my care. I cannot promise that I shall be yours because I know not how far my misfortunes may reach, nor what punishments are reserved for my fault, but I dare almost promise you shall never receive the displeasure of seeing me another's. No, in earnest, I have so many reasons to keep me from that, besides your interest, that I know not whether it be not the least of the obligations you have to me. Sure the whole world could never persuade me unless a parent commanded it to marry one that I had no esteem for, and where I have any, I am not less scrupulous than your father, or I should never be brought to do them the injury as to give them a wife whose affections they could never hope for; besides that, I must sacrifice myself in't and live a walking misery till the only hope that would then be left me were perfected.

Oh, me! I meant to chide you for the shortness of your last letter, and to tell you that if you do not take the same liberty of telling me of all my faults I shall not think you are my friend. In earnest, 'tis true, you must use to tell me freely of anything you see amiss in me; whether I am too stately or not enough, what humour pleases you and what does not, what you would have me do and what avoid, with the same freedom that you would use to a person over whom you had an absolute power, and were concerned in.

These are the laws of friendship as I understand them, and I believe I understand them right, for I am certain no one can be more perfectly a friend than I am. Had you the bit of paper I sent you from St. Well here I am, God knows for how long or how short a time, nor shall I be able to guess till all our company that we expect is come; then as I find their humours I shall resolve. Why did not you tell me how ill I looked? All people here will not believe but I have been desperately sick.

I do not find I am ill though, but I have lost a collop that's certain, and now I am come to my own glass I find I have not brought down the same face I carried up. But 'tis no matter, 'tis well enough for this place. I shall hear from you a Thursday, and next week I shall be able to say much more than I can this, both because I shall have more time, and besides I shall know more.

You will send the picture and forget not that you must walk no more in the cloisters. No, in earnest, 'tis not good for you, and you must be ruled by me in that point. Besides if we do not take care of ourselves, I find nobody else will. I would not live, though, if I had not some hope left that a little time may breathe great alterations, and that 'tis possible we may see an end of our misfortune.

When that hope leaves us then 'tis time to die, and if I know myself I should need no more to kill me. Let your letter be as much too long as this is too short, I shall find by that how I must write. I do not think this is sense, nor have I time to look it over.

If you have ever loved me, do not refuse the last request I shall ever make you; 'tis to preserve yourself from the violence of your passion. Vent it all upon me; call me and think me what you please; make me, if it be possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it all without the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it all, for had you never seen me you had certainly been happy.

I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false. No; I call heaven to witness that if my life could satisfy for the least injury my fortune has done you I cannot say 'twas I that did them you , I would lay it down with greater joy than any person ever received a crown; and if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever entertain a thought of kindness for any person in the world besides, may I live a long and miserable life.

This is all I can say. Tell me if be possible I can do anything for you, and tell me how I may deserve your pardon for all the trouble I have given you. I would not die without it. I dare not hope it. Yet 'tis not want of love gives me these fears. No, in earnest, I think nay, I am 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, that have outlived all the comforts of life, desire to continue 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. Lose the world's Life! But to be dead alive, and still To wish, but never have our will To be possessed and yet to miss, To wed a true but absent bliss Are lingering tortures, and their smart Dissects and racks and grinds the heart! As soul and body in that state Which unto us seems separate Cannot be said to live, until Re-union; which days fulfil And slow paced seasons; so in vain Through hours and minutes—Time's long train— I look for thee and from thy light As from my soul, for life and light, For till thine eyes shine so on me Mine are fast closed and will not see.

When she was a spoilt, wilful, rather hysterical girl of sixteen years, she was married to her first cousin, William Prince of Orange-Nassau and Stadtholder of the United Provinces. This Prince, then in his twenty-eighth year, was one of the most remarkable men of his age, already famous as soldier-statesman and as the linch-pin of the European opposition to the encroachments and pretensions of Louis XIV.

William was austere, stately, absorbed in vast schemes and complicated policies, and his marriage was one of ambition as it set him, a grandson of Charles I, one step nearer the British throne, and gave him, as the husband of the heiress to that throne, a strong position in English home politics, which he used persistently to detach England from the French interest.

The frivolous, ignorant Mary, brought up in the corrupt atmosphere of her uncle's court, entered with tears of distress and reluctance into what seemed likely to be an unhappy marriage. Within a short time, however, the emotional girl fell deeply in love with her husband and soon conceived for him a passion approaching idolatry, which blended with her passionate adherence to that Protestantism of which her husband was the professed champion.

During her residence of twelve years in Holland, Mary completely identified herself with her husband's aims and ideals, with his country and his faith. Her father never paid her an allowance and made continuous attempts to ruin her married life by spies and tale-bearers set in her household, and Mary became as estranged from him, as she was devoted to her husband.

We have her word that she was "happier than she knew" in Holland, but a deep grief shadowed her entire life; this was the childlessness that followed the disappointed hopes of an heir and darkened the first years of her marriage. Mary was very handsome, fond of dancing, music and needlework—this to a passion—but she subdued herself to a quiet life of sober domesticity when in Holland, where her noble and lovable qualities made her extremely popular.

Her private diaries and memoirs show an almost fanatic passion for her husband and a Protestant piety amounting to bigotry. In the crisis of Mary made her husband's expedition to England possible by letting it be known that she put all her claims second to those of her husband; it appears from her private papers that she was sincerely convinced that her father had foisted a 'pretender' upon the nation in the person of the infant Prince of Wales.

She joined William in England in and said good-bye to her personal happiness with her reluctant acceptance, with William, of the joint sovereignty of Great Britain. When James landed in Ireland, William went in person to command his forces, and Mary was left to govern a divided unsettled country, torn by plot and faction and threatened by foreign invasion. She was, at her own request, assisted by a Council, none of the members of which she wholly liked or trusted.

Her letters contain careful accounts of home affairs, these have been omitted and only the personal passages retained. These give a vivid picture of the lonely, agitated woman in a difficult, distasteful position, surrounded by danger, enemies, spies and lukewarm friends and supported only by her intense love for her husband. She had to face the naval defeat off Beachy Head and the subsequent landing of the French, risings in the city, treachery among her advisers and the constant anxiety lest the news from Ireland should be of defeat or the death of husband or father.

Without experience, education or training, Mary, by common consent, succeeded very well in her task, through ability, courage and sincere loyalty. Her letters were found, long after her death, in a box known as 'King William's Chest'; they were reprinted, the first time by Sir John Dalrymple at the end of the eighteenth century. Not a line of William's correspondence to his wife remains; she burnt all her papers when she knew that she was stricken with small-pox; of this disease she died, aged thirty-two years—after a reign of six years.

She always suffered from ill health, and agitation and melancholia had undermined her spirits. William displayed the most frantic grief at her death and never recovered from the shock of this terrible loss. There has recently been presented to the London Museum a wallet finely worked in tiny beads that William used during his campaigns; it was made by Mary, the most exquisite and industrious of needlewomen, and is in excellent preservation—the design consists of portraits of herself and her husband with symbols of separated lovers.

The paper book shows both dates with a vertical bar separating them. In this ebook a forward slash has been used as the separator. You will be weary of seeing every day a letter from me, it may be; yet being apt to flatter myself, I will hope you will be as willing to read as I to write. And indeed it is the only comfort I have in this world, besides that of trust in God.

I have nothing to say to you at present that is worth writing, and I think it unreasonable to trouble you with my grief, which I must continue while you are absent, though I trust every post to hear some good news or other from you; therefore, I shall make this very short, and only tell you I have got a swell'd face, though not quite so bad yet, as it was in Holland five years ago.

I believe it came by standing too much at the window when I took the waters. I cannot enough thank God for your being so well past the dangers of the sea; I beseech him in his mercy still to preserve you so, and send us once more a happy meeting upon earth. I long to hear again from you how the air of Ireland agrees with you, for I must own I am not without my fears for that, loving you so entirely as I do, and shall till death.

The news which is come to-night of the French fleet being upon the coast, makes it thought necessary to write you both ways; and I, that you may see how matters stand in my heart, prepare a letter for each. I think Lord Torrington has made no haste: And I cannot tell whether his being sick, and staying for Lord Pembroke's regiment, will be a sufficient excuse; But I will not take up your time with my reasonings, I shall only tell you, that I am so little afraid, that I begin to fear I have not sense enough to apprehend the danger; for whether it threatens Ireland, or this place, to me 'tis much at one, as to the fear; for as much a coward as you think me, I fear more for your dear person than my poor carcass.

I know who is most necessary in the world. What I fear most at present is not hearing from you. Love me whatever happens, and be assured I am ever entirely yours till death. As I was ready to go into my bed, Lord Nottingham came and brought me a letter, of which he is going to give you an account; for my own part, I shall say nothing to it, but that I trust God will preserve us, you where you are, and poor I here. Methinks Lord Torrington has made no haste; they say he stays for Lord Pembroke's regiment; He also has not been very quick, for he received it at 8 this evening, and kept it till now, that he has sent it open to Lord Nottingham.

I thank God I am not much afraid; I think too little; which makes me fear it is want of apprehending the danger. That which troubles me most in all things is your absence and the fear I am in, something may be done to hinder us from hearing from you; in that case I don't know what will become of us. I will trust in God who is our only help. Farewell, I will trouble you with no more, but only desire you, whatever happens, to love me as I shall you to death.

As for the building, I fear there will be many obstacles; for I spoke to Sir J. Lowther this very day, and hear so much use for money, and find so little, that I cannot tell whether that of Hampton court will not be a little the worse for it, especially since the French are in the Channel, and at present between Portland and us, from whence the stone must come; but in a day or two, I hope to give you a more certain account, this being only my own conjecture.

God be praised that you are so well, I hope in his mercy he will continue it. I have been obliged to write this evening to M. Schulenberg to desire him to advance money for the 6 regiments to march, which they say is absolutely necessary for your service as well as honour. The lords of the treasury have made me pawn my word for it, and that to-morrow 20, pounds will be paid him.

It is now candle-light, and I dare say no more but that I am ever and entirely yours. Before I went out of the room, I received your dear letter from Lough-bricklin, but I cannot express what I then felt, and still feel, at the thoughts that now it may be you are ready to give battle, or have done it. My heart is ready to burst. I can say nothing, but pray to God for you. This has waked me who was almost asleep, and almost puts me out of any possibility of saying any more, yet I must strive with my heart to tell you, that this afternoon the ill news of the battle of Fleury came; I had a letter from the Prince of Waldeck, with a copy of the account he sent you, so that I can say nothing, but that God, in whose hands all events only are, knows best why he has ordered it so, and to him we must submit.

This evening there has been a person with me, from whom you heard at Chester probably Earl of Broadalbin and whom you there ordered to come to me, as he says; he believes you will know him by this, and will by no means be named, and, what is worse, will name nobody, so that I fear there is not much good to be done, yet I won't give over so.

I must end my letter, for my eyes are at present in somewhat a worse condition than before I received your letter: My impatience for another from you is as great as my love, which will not end but with my life, which is very uneasy to me at present, but I trust in God, who alone can preserve you and comfort me.

This event nearly caused a panic in the capital, mainly calmed by the Queen's resolution and courage. Though by my letter it may be you would not think me so much in pain as I am, yet I must tell you I am very much so, but not for what Lord Monmouth would have me; he daily tells me of the great dangers we are in, and now has a mind to be sent to Holland of which you will hear either this or the next post. I see everyone is inclined to it for a reason I have mentioned before; but to let that pass I must tell you again how he endeavours to fright me, and indeed things have but a melancholy prospect; but I am fully persuaded God will do some great thing or other, and it may be, when human means fail, he will show his power; this makes me, that I cannot be so much afraid as it may be I have reason for; but that which makes me in pain is fear for what is done may not please you.

I am sure it is my chief desire, but you know I must do what others think fit, and I think they all desire as much as may be to act according to your mind. I long to hear from you, and know in what we have failed; for my own part, if I do anything what you don't like, 'tis my misfortune and not my fault; for I love you more than my life, and desire only to please you.

This is only to tell you I have received yours of the 28th, Old Stile, which puts me in many troubles that I shall not trouble you with at present; to-morrow night an express shall go to you that cannot possibly be dispatched to-night, and I am not sorry; for at this time I dare say but little by candle-light, and 'tis to-morrow the fifth Sunday of the month. I have really hardly had time to say my prayers, and was feign to run away to Kensington, where I had three hours of quiet, which is more than I have had together since I saw you.

That place made me think how happy I was there, when I had your company; but now—I will say no more, for I shall but hurt my own eyes, which I want more now than ever. Adieu; think of me, and love me as much as I shall you, who I love more than my life. I should have sent this last post; but not seeing Madam Nienhuys, hindered me then, and makes me send it to you now, which I hope you excuse.

I can never give God thanks enough as long as I live for your preservation; I hope in his mercy this is a sign he preserves you to finish the work he has begun by you; but I hope it may be a warning to you, to let you see you are exposed to as many accidents as others; and though it has pleased God to keep you once in so visible a manner, yet you must forgive me if I tell you that I should think it a tempting God to venture again without a great necessity; I know what I say of this kind will be attributed to fear; I own I have a great deal for your dear person, yet I hope I am not unreasonable upon the subject, for I do trust in God, and he is pleased every day to confirm me more and more in the confidence I have in him; yet my fears are not less, since I cannot tell if it should be his will to suffer you to come to harm for our sins, and when that might happen; For though God is able, yet many times he punishes the sins of a nation as it seems good in his sight.

Your writing me word how soon you hoped to send me good news, shows me how soon you thought there might be some action, and that thought put me in perpetual pain. This morning when I heard the express was come, before Lord Nottingham came up, I was taken with a trembling for fear, which has hardly left me yet, and I really don't know what I do.

Your letter came just before I went to chapel; and though the first thing Lord Nottingham told me was, that you were very well, yet the thoughts that you expose yourself thus to danger, fright me out of my wits, and make me not able to keep my trouble to myself: But for God's sake let me beg you to take more care for the time to come; consider what depends upon your safety; there are so many more important things than myself, that I think I am not worthy naming among them. But it may be the worst will be over before this time, so that I will say no more.

I did not answer your letter by the post last night, because the express could not be dispatched; and I believe more hindrances are come, for Lord Steward and Lord Pembroke write word they will be here to-night; but I can say very little upon the subject at present, for really I had my head and heart so full of you, I could mind nothing else. It is now past 10 o'clock; I don't tell you for an excuse, for I am not sleepy; my impatience is too great to hear from you again, that I am not master of it, nor indeed of myself; so that you must excuse me from saying more than is just necessary.

Lord Nottingham will give you an account of all that has been done. Lord Carmarthen will write to you about a thing he has put in my head, and since I thought of it, I only fear that, and nothing else; I desired he would write it himself, believing what he said would have more weight with you than if it came from me, for you would believe I spoke most out of self-interest.

I wish to God he could prevail. The Lords are come back from the fleet, of that I leave also Lord Nottingham to write; but I have undertook to say another thing to you, which is about who shall command it, for I find every body is so animated against Lord Torrington that 'tis not to be imagined; whether you will think fit to confine him after his behaviour, I don't know, but all the Lords believe you will not These are all the names I remember, and when I have told them you I think I might as well have let it alone; it was only that they thought it better I should put you in mind of anybody else; you will please to resolve what shall be done as soon as possible; I hope you will forgive me if I forget half what I have to say, for really my concern for you has got the mastery, and I am not able to think of anything else, but that I love you in more abundance than my own life.

How to begin this letter I don't know, or how ever to render God thanks enough for his mercys; indeed, they are too great, if we look on our defects; but as you say, 'tis his own cause: And since 'tis for the glory of his great name we have no reason to fear but he will perfect what he has begun: For myself in particular, my heart is so full of joy and acknowledgment to that great God who has preserved you, and given you such a victory, that I am unable to explain it. I beseech him to give me grace to be ever sensible, as I ought, and that I and all may live suitable to such a mercy as this is.

I am sorry the fleet has done no better, but 'tis God's providence, and we must not murmur, but wait with patience to see the event. I was yesterday out of my senses with trouble, I am now almost so with joy, so that I can't really as yet tell what I have to say to you, by this bearer, who is impatient to return. I hope in God, by the afternoon, to be in a condition of sense enough to say much more, but for the present I am not. When I writ the foregoing part of this, it was in the morning, soon after I had received yours, and now 'tis 4 in the afternoon; but I am not yet come to myself, and fear I shall lose this opportunity of writing all my mind, for I am still in such a confusion of thoughts, that I scarce know what to say, but I hope in God you will now readily consent to what Lord President wrote last night, for methinks there is nothing more for you to do.

I will hasten Kensington as much as it's possible, and I will also get ready for you here, for I will hope you may come before that is done. I must put you in mind of one thing, believing it now the season, which is that you wou'd take care of the church in Ireland.

Everybody agrees that it is the worst in Christendom: There are now bishopricks vacant, and other things, I beg you would take time to consider who you will fill them with. You will forgive me that I trouble you with this now, but I hope you will take care of those things which are of so great consequence as to religion, which I am sure will be more your care every day, now that it has pleased God still to bless you with success.

I think I have told you before how impatient I am to hear how you approve what has been done here; I have but little part in it myself, but I long to hear how others have pleased you. I am very uneasie in one thing, which is want of somebody to speake my mind freely to, for it's a great constraint to think and be silent, and there is so much matter that I am one of Solomon's fools, who am ready to burst I have writ this at so many times that I fear you will hardly make sense of it. I long to hear what you will say to the proposition that will be sent you this night by the lords, and do flatter myself mightily with the hopes to see you, for which I am more impatient than can be expressed; loving you with a passion which cannot end but with my life.

I wrote to you a Tuesday night by the post, only to show that I would miss no opportunity of doing it, and have kept Mr. Gray ever since, having nothing worth writing or troubling you with. I shall now begin by answering your letter by him and thank God with all my soul for the continuance of your good success and hope that you will have no more to do but come back here, where you are wish'd for by all that love you or themselves; I need not say most by me, it would be a wrong to me to suppose you doubt it.

If the first part of your letter was extreme welcome, the next was not less so; for next to knowing your health and success, that of your being satisfied with what has been done here is the best news, and till then I was very much in pain. Every hour makes me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I hear stir, I think brings me a letter. I shall not go about to excuse myself; I know 'tis a folly to a great degree, to be so uneasy as I am at present, when I have no reason to apprehend any ill cause, but only might attribute your silence to your marching farther from Dublin, which makes the way longer.

I have stay'd till I am almost asleep in hopes; but they are vaine, and I must once more go to bed, and wish to be waked with a letter from you, which I shall at last get, I hope. Till I know whether you come or no, I can not resolve to write you all that has past this day, till which time I thought you had given me wrong characters of men, but now I see they answer my expectation of being as little of a mind as of a body.

Adieu, do but love me, and I can bear any thing. Last night I received your letter from Wels with so much joy, that it was seen in my face by those who knew the secret of it that you were coming. I will not take up more of your time with endeavouring to tell you what is impossible to be express'd; but you know how much I love you, and therefore will not doubt of my delight to think that I shall soon see you I think it will be to no purpose to refer the thing by letter to you; You will be here yourself before an answer, and I don't know if this long letter will come to you; at least I hope 'twill meet you upon the way.

After this long letter I must tell you, that 'tis impossible for Kensington to be ready for your first coming, though I will do my best you shall not stay long for it. When you are come I will make my apology for the matter when I see you. I shall now only tell you I am in great pain till I know if I have done well in this business or no.

I am almost half asleep, for 'tis very late. Pardon all my faults, and believe I will commit none willingly; and that I love you more than my life. You will not wonder that I did not write last night, when you know that at noon I received yours, by Mr. Butler, whose face I shall love to see ever hereafter, since he has come twice with such good news. That he brought yesterday was so welcome to me, that I won't go about expressing it, since 'tis impossible; But for my misfortune, I have now another reason to be glad of your coming, and a very strong one, if compared to anything but the kindness I have for your dear self, and that is the divisions which, to my thinking, encrease here daily, or at least appear more and more to me Thus the matter is, and thus you will find it, for since you are so near coming, I think it will not be proper to do anything that is not absolutely necessary, and when you do come, you will then be the best judge of the whole matter.

I have one thing to beg, which is, that if it be possible, I may come and meet you upon the road, either where you dine, or anywhere else, for I do so long to see you, that I am sure had you as much mind to see your poor wife again, you would propose it; but do as you please; I will say no more, but that I love you so much it cannot encrease, else I am sure it would. Unless I could express the joy I had at the thoughts of your coming, it will be in vain to undertake telling you of the disappointment 'fis to me that you do not come so soon.

I begin to be in great pain lest you had been in the storm a Thursday night, which I am told was great though its being a t'other side of the house hinder'd my hearing it , but was soon delivered by your letters of the 29th from Ch.

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