Nothing yet from my Lord Ossory. Not answer me! It becomes him well to behave with haughtiness – He is displeased, perhaps – Was my letter so cruel? – The vain creature cannot support the style of indifference from a woman who once expressed such tenderness for him; that of hatred would have offended him less – Ah! if I was to write to him at present – But no more, let us not think of him.

I have received two letters from my Lord Castle-Cary; he complains of you. I will tell him, he is in the wrong; but to you, I must say, he has reason for his complaints. You laugh at his jealousy: you are to blame: if you had ever felt its horrors, you would not allow yourself to imbitter his torments by these pleasantries. With a tender and generous nature, is it possible you can ridicule an involuntary emotion, which affects the soul with such exquisite sorrow? It is a folly, you say, and an extravagance: it may be so, but it is a folly which wounds one to desperation. It is in the anguish of a man who adores her, that Lady Henrietta finds amusement: he ought to be sure of your tenderness, to know you, to believe you. Does love then listen to reason? By reflecting on my own sentiments, I have perhaps, acquired some little knowledge of the human heart. She, my dear, who can laugh at the inquietude, at the sorrow of a man who is attached to her, either no longer loves him, or deceived herself when she imagined she ever loved him.

The anguish of a lover cannot be indifferent to a mistress, who returns his passion; she is afflicted, because he is sad; she weeps, because his tears flow: she seeks to calm, to dissipate, the chagrins which she partakes – Ah! how can one give those pains, and render them yet more bitter by railleries, by a gaiety, that – Fie, Henrietta! Fie! You have retarded my Lord Castle-Cary's happiness: soften at least this tedious time of expectation, by a complaisance which you owe to the sincerity and warmth of his affection. I love him; you know it: and your faults may fall a little upon me.