Indeed I will not deceive you with respect to my Health. This is the fact as far as I know. I have been confined three weeks[41] and am not yet well—this proves that there is something wrong about me which my constitution will either conquer or give way to. Let us hope for the best. Do you hear the Thrush singing over the field? I think it is a sign of mild weather—so much the better for me. Like all Sinners now I am ill I philosophize, aye out of my attachment to every thing, Trees, Flowers, Thrushes, Spring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c.—aye every thing but you.—My sister would be glad of my company a little longer. That Thrush is a fine fellow. I hope he was fortunate in his choice this year. Do not send any more of my Books home. I have a great pleasure in the thought of you looking on them.
Ever yours my sweet Fanny
J. K.
XX.
My dearest Girl,
I continue much the same as usual, I think a little better. My spirits are better also, and consequently I am more resign’d to my confinement. I dare not think of you much or write much to you. Remember me to all.
Ever your affectionate
John Keats.