My most precious Treasure is this deare Billet, writ with a Coal; the last Thing he sett his Hand to, wherein he sayth, "I never liked your Manner towards me better than when you kissed me last."
19th.
They have let us bury his poor mangled Trunk; but, as sure as there's a Sun in Heaven, I'll have his Head!—before another Sun hath risen, too. If wise Men won't speed me, I'll e'en content me with a Fool.
I doe think Men, for the most Part, be Cowards in theire Hearts ... moral Cowards. Here and there, we find one like Father, and like Socrates, and like ... this and that one, I mind not theire Names just now; but in the Main, methinketh they lack the moral Courage of Women. Maybe, I'm unjust to 'em just now, being crost.
July 20th.
