is considered the Mammon.  A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the God.  An artist must serve Mammon; he must have ’self-concentration’—­selfishness, perhaps.  You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.  The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together.  And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of Endymion, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards?  I am picked up and sorted to a pip.  My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk.  I am in expectation of Prometheus every day.  Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act.  I remember you advising me not to publish my first blights, on Hampstead Heath.  I am returning advice upon your hands.  Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have been published but for a hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now.  I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley.  In hope of soon seeing you—­

To CHARLES BROWN

A despairing cry

Naples, 1 Nov. [1820.]

MY DEAR BROWN,

Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my health suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done the whole voyage.  The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;—­if that can be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would fainest dwell upon.  As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on a little;—­perhaps it may relieve the load of wretchedness which presses upon me.  The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill me.  My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well.  I can bear to die—­I cannot bear to leave her.  Oh, God!  God!  God!  Everything I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.  The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head.  My imagination is horribly vivid about her—­I see her—­I hear her.  There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment.  This was the case when I was in England:  I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt’s, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day.  Then there was a good hope of seeing her again—­Now!—­O that I could be buried near where she lives!  I am afraid to write to her—­to receive a letter from her—­to see her handwriting would break my heart—­even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear.  My dear Brown, what am I to do?  Where can I look for consolation or ease?  If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me.  Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out.  When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (poste restante)—­if she is well and happy, put a mark thus +; if—­