The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.
"For auspicious," wrote Rathbeal, "read malefic. For love, read hate."
At another time:
Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles
Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.
Another post brought:
What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce?
What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?
Had Mr. Fox-Cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their frequency, savored of persecution. He was tempted, as his eyes fell upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it, unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself, and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness.