LETTER LXVII.
Mr. Lovelace, To John Belford, Esq;
Monday, July 17. Eleven at Night.
Curse upon thy hard heart, thou vile caitiff! How hast thou tortured me, by thy designed abruption! 'Tis impossible that Miss Harlowe should have ever suffered as thou hast made me suffer, and as I now suffer!
That Sex is made to bear pain. It is a curse, that the first of it entailed upon all her daughters, when
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she brought the curse upon us all. And they love those best, whether man or child, who give them most---But to stretch upon thy damn'd tenter-hooks such a spirit as mine---No rack, no torture, can equal my torture!
And must I still wait the return of another messenger? Confound thee for a malicious devil! I wish thou wert a post-horse, and I upon the back of thee! How would I whip and spur, and harrow up thy clumsy sides, till I made thee a ready-roasted, ready-stayed, mess of dog's meat; all the hounds in the county howling after thee as I drove thee, to wait my dismounting, in order to devour thee peace-meal; life still throbbing in each churned mouthful!
Give this fellow the sequel of thy tormenting scribble.
Dispatch him away with it. Thou hast promised it shall be ready. Every cushion or chair I shall sit upon, the bed I shall lie down upon (if I go to bed) till he return, will be stuffed with bolt-upright awls, bodkins, corking-pins, and packing-needles: Already I can fansy, that to pink my body like my mind, I need only to be put into a hogshead stuck full of steel-pointed spikes, and rolled down a hill three times as high as the Monument.
But I lose time; yet know not how to employ it till this fellow returns with the sequel of thy soul-harrowing intelligence!