you do not care much for
seeing me. Well, my master, remember last night you swaggered like a
young lord. I'll make your stomach come down; rise quickly, you had
better, and come hither that I may give you a lesson this morning before
I go.

Je n'ay guere plus dormie que vous et mes songes n'ont pas estres moins
confuse, au rest une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous ma
fennestre, m'out tourmentes de tel facon que je doubt fort si je
pourrois jamais les souffrire encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort
mauvaise humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai habillee voire ce
qu'il est posible de faire pour vostre sattisfaction, apres je viendre
vous rendre conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne scaurois
jamais doubte que je ne vous ayme plus que toutes les choses du monde.

I have slept as little as you, and may be allowed to talk as
unreasonably, yet I find I am not quite senseless; I have a heart still
that cannot resolve to refuse you anything within its power to grant.
But, Lord, when shall I see you? People will think me mad if I go abroad
this morning after having seen me in the condition I was in last night,
and they will think it strange to see you here. Could you not stay till
they are all gone to Roehampton? they go this morning. I do but ask,
though do what you please, only believe you do a great injustice if you
think me false. I never resolv'd to give you an eternal farewell, but I
resolv'd at the same time to part with all the comfort of my life, and
whether I told it you or not I shall die yours.

Tell me what you will have me do.

Here comes the note again to tell you I cannot call on you to-night; I
cannot help it, and you must take it as patiently as you can, but I am
engaged to-night at the Three Rings to sup and play. Poor man, I am
sorry for you; in earnest, I shall be quite spoiled. I see no remedy;
think whether it were not best to leave me and begin a new adventure.

And now we have finished. Dorothy Osborne is passing away, will soon be
translated into Dorothy Temple; with the romance of her life all past
history, and fast becoming as much a romance to herself, as it seems to
us, looking back at it after more than two centuries. Something it is
becoming to her over which she can muse and dream and weave into tales
for the children who will gather round her. Something the reality of
which will grow doubtful to her, if she find idle hours for dreaming and
doubting in