Think when but your little finger pains you, what endured to white-wash you and the rest of us.
Nobody will be the more justified for your endurance. You won't save the soul of a mouse. 'Tis a pure selfish pleasure.
You never was rack'd, was you? I should like an authentic map of those feelings.
You seem to have the flying gout.
You can scarcely scrue a smile out of your face—can you? I sit at immunity, and sneer ad libitum.
'Tis now the time for you to make good resolutions. I may go on breaking 'em, for any thing the worse I find myself.
Your Doctor seems to keep you on the long cure. Precipitate healings are never good.
Don't come while you are so bad. I shan't be able to attend to your throes and the dumbee at once.
I should like to know how slowly the pain goes off. But don't write, unless the motion will be likely to make your sensibility more exquisite.
Your affectionate and truly healthy friend C. LAMB.