Twice in the week came letters, and delight
Beam’d in the eye of Richard at the sight:
Letters of love, all full and running o’er;
The paper fill’d till it could hold no more; 50
Cross’d with discolour’d ink, the doublings full—
No fear that love should find abundance dull;
Love reads unsated all that love inspires;
When most indulged, indulgence still requires;
Looks what the corners, what the crossings tell,
And lifts each folding for a fond farewell.