That the river, presuming it still had a right
To keep its own bed, and annoy'd at intrusion,
Broke in all at once, to our utter confusion,
And, had we not flown at the top of our speed,
You ne'er would have had this epistle to read.
But I find I have come to the end of my sheet,
And the postman is ringing his bell in the street;
So, with hundreds of kisses, I'll finish forthwith.
Believe me, love,
toujours à toi,