There was a time, Molesworth—there was a time, if my finger had but ached, it was, My Lord, you look ill. Does not Lady Powis persuade you to have advice? You are really too careless of your health.
Shall she be another's?—Yes; when I shrink at sight of what lies yonder,—my sword, George;—that shall prevent her ever being another's.
Tell me you believe she will be mine:—it may help to calm my disturbed mind.—Be sure you do not hint she will be another's.
Have I told you, Mr. Powis is coming home?—I cannot recollect whether I have or not;—neither can I pain myself to look back.
All the world has something to comfort them, but your poor friend.—Every thing wears the face of joy, till I turn my eyes inwards:—there it is I behold the opposite;—there it is where Grief has fix'd her abode.—Does the fiend ever sleep? Will she be composed by ushering in the happy prospects of others?—Yes, I will feel, joy.—Joy did I say? Joy I cannot feel.—Satisfaction then?—Satisfaction likewise is forbid to enter.—What then will possess my mind; on recollecting peace is restor'd, where gratitude calls for such large returns?—I'll pray for them;—I'll pray for a continuance of their felicity.—I'll pray, if they have future ills in store, they may light on the head of Darcey.—Yes, he can bear more yet:—let the load be ever so heavy, he will stoop to take up the burthen of his friends;—such friends as Sir James and Lady Powis have been to
DARCEY.
LETTER XIX.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.