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To my Honored Friend Mr. T. B.
SIR,
THis is the entrance upon my fifth year, and I fear ’twill prove the worst: I have been very much troubled with a throng of unruly Distempers, that have (contrary to my expectation) crouded into the Main-guard of my body, when the drowsie Sentinels of my brain were a sleep. Where they got in I know not, but to my grief and terror I find them predominant: Yet as Doctor Dunne, sometimes Dean of St. Pauls, said, That the bodies diseases do but mellow a man for Heaven, and so ferments him in this World, as he shall need no long concoction in the Grave, but hasten to the Resurrection. And if this were weighed seriously in the Ballance of Religious Reason, the World we dwell in would not seem so inticing and bewitching as it doth.
We are only sent by God of an Errand into this World, and the time that’s allotted us for to stay, is only for an Answer. When God my great Master shall in good earnest call me home, which these warnings tell me I have not long to stay, I hope then I shall be able to give him a good account of my Message.
Sir, My weakness gives a stop to my writing, my hand being so shakingly feeble, that I can hardly hold my pen any further then to tell you, I am yours {106} while I live, which I believe will be but some few minutes.
If this Letter come to you before I’me dead, pray for me, but if I am gone, pray howsoever, for they can do me no harm if they come after me.
Vale.
Your real Friend,
G. A.