July 2^d.—But I am in the Vale of Coxwould & wish You saw in how princely a manner I live in it—’tis a Land of Plenty—I sit down alone to Venison, fish or wild foul—or a couple of fouls—with curds, and strawberrys & cream, (and all the simple clean plenty w^{ch}. a rich Vally can produce,—with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in Bond street) to drink y^r. health—I have a hundred hens & chickens ab^t my yard—and not a parishoner catches a hare a rabbit or a Trout—but he brings it as an offering—In short ’tis a golden Vally—& will be the golden Age when You govern the rural feast, my Bramine, & are the Mistress of my table & spread it with elegancy and that natural grace & bounty w^{th}. w^{ch}. heaven has distinguish’d You.… —Time goes on slowly—every thing stands still—hours seem days & days seem Years whilst you lengthen the Distance between us—from Madras to Bombay—I shall think it shortening—and then desire & expectation will be upon the rack again—come—come— * * * * * July 3^d. Hail! Hail! my dear Eliza—I steal something every day from my sentimental Journey—to obey a more sentimental impulse in writing to you—& giving you the present Picture of myself—my wishes—my Love, my sincerity—my hopes—my fears—tell me, have I varied in any one Lineament, from the first sitting—to this last—have I been less warm—less tender and affectionate than you expected or could have wish’d me in any one of ’em—or, however varied in the expressions of what I was & what I felt, have I not still presented the same air and face towards thee?—take it as a Sample of what I ever shall be—My dear Bramine—& that is—such as my honour, my Engagements & promisses & desires have fix’d me—I want You to be on the other side of my little table, to hear how sweetly y^r. Voice will be in Unison to all this—I want to hear what You have to say to y^r. Yorick upon this Text.—what heavenly Consolation w^d. drop from y^r. Lips—& how pathetically you w^d. enforce y^r. Truth & Love upon my heart to free it from every Aching doubt—Doubt! did I say—but I have none—and as soon w^d I doubt the Scripture I have preach’d on—as question thy promisses or suppose one Thought in thy heart during thy absence from me, unworthy of my Eliza—for if thou art false, my Bramine—the whole world—and Nature itself are lyars—and I will trust to nothing on this side of heaven—but turn aside from all Commerce with expectation, & go quietly on my way alone towards a State where no disappointments can follow me—you are grieved when I talk thus; it implies what does not exist in either of us—so cross it out if thou wilt—or leave it as a part of the picture of a heart that again Languishes for Possession—and is disturbed at every Idea of its uncertainty—So heaven bless thee—& ballance thy passions better than I have power to regulate mine—farewel my dear Girl—I sit in dread of to morrow’s post which is to bring me an acc^t. when _Madame_ is to arrive.——