Were it not that I had promised to write whene’er I had leisure, I might, perchance, choose rather to loiter about the pleasaunce with my brother’s children, and to sit by the water basins, watching the goldfish, and paddling my fingers. But the strange impatience that has held me of late forces me to take pen in hand, and to write the wild thoughts that flee through my brain. If only the sound of thy voice came, the mid-day heat would disappear and I should be refreshed as by fountains. Tell me of Love, not in the few words that almost make me swoon with their power, but in one long, uninterrupted recital. Fear not the censure of other folk (for the speech shall sink secret into my bosom) but drag it out of thy very heart--one drop of blood for each word. Thy miniature lies on my table; alas! my Bible hath grown dusty with neglect. May we not meet to talk of Passion and of Death, and how they oft walk hand in hand together?--Your most loyal and ever devoted ALTHEA. THE SAME TO THE SAME. _5th August 1709._ A trifle I have written I enclose. One at dinner chid me for never having loved. The verses were born of fevered heat during a restless night. I have named them ‘The Secret Priestess of the Amorous Deities’ Nymphs and Shepherds forthwith sing To Dan Cupid, Friend and King, Gamester with our wavering hearts, Giver both of joys and smarts: Hail to Cupid! Hail! Hail to Venus! Mother Queen, Who, with eyes of glist’ning sheen, Sports him on, our souls to cheat, Laughs and sings at every feat: Hail to Venus! Hail! But the Love, which dwelt inside My heart’s core, had leifer died, Than be praised and sung aloud, For ’twas secret, wild, and proud. THE SAME TO THE SAME. _September 20th, 1809._ That we should truly admire what you were good enough to praise gives me pure joy. In my girlhood I had dreams of helping another by throwing my whole life into his. Am I really of service to you? Assure me that you did not flatter. Doubting is delicious only when one is certain that the doubts must be resolved. Another walk in the coppice, now that the nights are so sweet and so misty. Another of those fatal, delicious hours, wherein Love comes at the flood. Dear Marston, best and noblest of friends, believe me ever to be your devoted and very attached servant. A MANUSCRIPT OF ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR, SUGGESTED BY SOME DREAD. (Written about January 1710.) There is nothing in the world more sad than a Love that’s dying. Profoundest melancholy comes when the gaudily-hued leaves drop from the parent boughs in Autumn, and leave the trunk gaunt, bare, and unlovely. Those trees are beautifullest whose fruit hangs bright and cheering through the Winter, but alack! they are rare indeed.