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LETTER XLII.
Mr. Bedford, To Robert Lovelace, Esq;
Monday, Aug. 14.
I am extremely concerned for thy illness. I should be very sorry to lose thee. Yet, if thou diest so soon, I could wish, from my Soul, it had been before the beginning of last April: And this as well for thy sake, as for the sake of the most excellent woman in the world: For then thou wouldst not have had the most crying sin of thy life to answer for.
I was told on Saturday, that thou wert very much out of order; and this made me forbear writing till I heard further. Harry, on his return from thee, confirmed the bad way thou art in. But I hope Lord M. in his unmerited tenderness for thee, thinks the worst of thee. What can it be, Bob? A violent fever, they say; but attended with odd and severe symptoms.
I will not trouble thee in the way thou art in, with what passes here with Miss Harlowe. I wish thy repentance as swift as thy illness; and as efficacious, if thou diest; for it is else to be feared, that She and You will never meet in one place.
I told her how ill you are. Poor man! said she. Dangerously ill, say you?
Dangerously indeed, Madam!---So Lord M. sends me word!
God be merciful to him, if he die!---said the admirable creature.---Then, after a pause, Poor wretch!---May he meet with the mercy he has not shewn!
I send this by a special messenger: For I am impatient to hear how it goes with thee.---If I have received thy last Letter, what melancholy reflections will that last, so full of shocking levity, give to
Thy true Friend,
John Belford!