“And so in love says every one.”
He takes his ring again, and writes another line thus—
“Virtue alone is an estate.”
I borrowed it again, and I wrote under it—
“But money’s virtue, gold is fate.”
He coloured as red as fire to see me turn so quick upon him, and in a kind of a rage told me he would conquer me, and writes again thus—
“I scorn your gold, and yet I love.”
I ventured all upon the last cast of poetry, as you’ll see, for I wrote boldly under his last—
“I’m poor: let’s see how kind you’ll prove.”
This was a sad truth to me; whether he believed me or no, I could not tell; I supposed then that he did not. However, he flew to me, took me in his arms, and, kissing me very eagerly, and with the greatest passion imaginable, he held me fast till he called for a pen and ink, and then told me he could not wait the tedious writing on the glass, but, pulling out a piece of paper, he began and wrote again—