I blush to say, that when I first married I have more than once been in danger, from the mere boyish desire of conquest, notwithstanding my adoration for your lovely sister: such is the force of habit, for I must have been infinitely a loser by changing. I am now perfectly safe; my vanity has taken another turn: I pique myself on keeping the heart of the loveliest woman that ever existed, as a nobler conquest than attracting the notice of a hundred coquets, who would be equally flattered by the attention of any other man, at least any other man who had the good fortune to be as fashionable. Every thing conspires to keep me in the road of domestic happiness: the manner of life I am engaged in, your friendship, your example, and society; and the very fear I am in of losing your esteem. That I have the seeds of constancy in my nature, I call on you and your lovely sister to witness; I have been _your_ friend from almost infancy, and am every hour more _her_ lover. She is my friend, my companion, as well as mistress; her wit, her sprightliness, her pleasing kind of knowledge, fill with delight those hours which are so tedious with a fool, however lovely. With my Lucy, possession can never cure the wounded heart. Her modesty, her angel purity of mind and person, render her literally, "My ever-new delight." She has convinced me, that if beauty is the mother, delicacy is the nurse of love. Venus has lent her her cestus, and shares with her the attendance of the Graces. My vagrant passions, like the rays of the sun collected in a burning glass, are now united in one point. Lucy is here. Adieu! I must not let her know her power. You spend to-morrow with us; we have a little ball, and are to have a masquerade next week. Lucy wants to consult Emily on her dress; you and I are not to be in the secret: we have wrote to ask the Fitzgeralds to the masquerade; I will send Lucy's post coach for them the day before, or perhaps fetch them myself. Adieu! Your affectionate J. Temple. LETTER 211. To Captain Fitzgerald. Bellfield, Nov. 1. I have this moment a letter from Temple which has set my heart at rest: he writes like a lover, yet owns his past danger, with a frankness which speaks more strongly than any professions could do, the real present state of his heart. My anxiety for my sister has a little broke in on my own happiness; in England, where the married women are in general the most virtuous in the world, it is of infinite consequence they should love their husbands, and be beloved by them; in countries where gallantry is more permitted, it is less necessary. Temple will make her happy whilst she preserves his heart; but, if she loses it, every thing is to be feared from the vivacity of his nature, which can never support one moment a life of indifference. He has that warmth of temper which is the natural soil of the virtues; but which is unhappily, at the same time, most apt to produce indiscretions.