Another letter! – A very exact and a very dangerous correspondence: I have every moment occasion to remind myself that Lord Ossory has betrayed me. In spite of this remembrance, how shall I resist the tender emotions of my heart? They persuade me to listen to him. But what can he say? His reiterated offers to justify himself, astonish, and offend me. Ah! how is it possible! He married; he has even a daughter by this marriage – They say she is called Juliet – Insolent! To give my name to the daughter of his wife! Lady Arthur, aunt to the late Lady Ossory, has been here eight days; she talks continually of the graces and beauty of this little Juliet: I never met with so impertinent a creature: but I will give you my Lord's letter.

To Lady Catesby.

Alas! Madam! On what do you congratulate me? Of what value to me is the life which you refuse to make happy? From you these cold civilities! Ah! you could not afflict me more sensibly than by this insulting politeness; it is always attended by indifference. It is your pity, your tender pity, which is necessary to my peace; it is the condescension of one day, one hour, that I entreat of you. Will you not hear me? Am I condemned without hope of pardon? Will you refuse me a favour which is granted to the vilest criminals? We have at least been friends – Do you then no longer remember you have given me a still softer name? Our mutual love, your promises, your tender vows, are they all effaced? Recall Hertford to your remembrance, my dear, my adorable Juliet. – It is a man once honoured with your tenderness, who begs of you, upon his knees, one moment's conversation. By all that has power to move you, I conjure you not to reject my prayer! Do not continue to afflict an unhappy man, whose fate is in your hands.