My Lord,--my friend,--my Darcey, nothing is impossible.
By heaven! he exclaim'd, you would not flatter me;--by heaven she lives!
Ask me not farther, my Lord.--What is the blessing you most wish
for?--Suppose that blessing granted.--And you, Risby, suppose the
extasy,--the thankfulness that ensued.--He that is grateful to man, can
he be ungrateful to his Maker?
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
LETTER XXXVII.
Miss Powis to Lady Powis.
_London_.
Think me not ungrateful, my ever-honour'd Lady, that I have been silent
under the ten thousand obligations which I receiv'd at Barford
Abbey.--But indeed, my dear Lady, I have been _very_ ill.--I have had
the small-pox:--I was seiz'd delirious the evening after my arrival in
Town.--My God! what a wretch did I set out with!--Vile man!--Man did I
say?--_No_; he is a disgrace to _manhood_.--How shall I tell your
Ladyship all I have suffer'd?--I am weak,--_very_ weak;--I find myself
unequal to the task.--
This moment I have hit on an expedient that will unravel all;--I'll
recall a letter [Footnote: This was the same Lord Darcey's servant saw
on the counter.
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