We women to new joys unseen may move: 
      There are no prints left in the paths of love. 
      All goods besides by public marks are known: 
      But those men most desire to keep, have none.

This infernal implement had the confidence further to hint, that when a wife, some other man would not find half the difficulty with my angel that I had found.  Confidence indeed!  But yet, I must say, if a man gives himself up to the company of these devils, they never let him rest till he either suspects or hate his wife.

But a word or two of other matters, if possible.

Methinks I long to know how causes go at M. Hall.  I have another private intimation, that the old peer is in the greatest danger.

I must go down.  Yet what to do with this lady the mean while!  These cursed women are full of cruelty and enterprise.  She will never be easy with them in my absence.  They will have provocation and pretence therefore.  But woe be to them, if——­

Yet what will vengeance do, after an insult committed?  The two nymphs will have jealous rage to goad them on.  And what will withhold a jealous and already-ruined woman?

To let her go elsewhere; that cannot be done.  I am still too resolved to be honest, if she’ll give me hope:  if yet she’ll let me be honest.  But I’ll see how she’ll be after the contention she will certainly have between her resentment and the terror she has reason for from our last conversation.  So let this subject rest till the morning.  And to the old peer once more.

I shall have a good deal of trouble, I reckon, though no sordid man, to be decent on the expected occasion.  Then how to act (I who am no hypocrite) in the days of condolement!  What farces have I to go through; and to be the principal actor in them!  I’ll try to think of my own latter end; a gray beard, and a graceless heir; in order to make me serious.

Thou, Belford, knowest a good deal of this sort of grimace; and canst help a gay heart to a little of the dismal.  But then every feature of thy face is cut out for it.  My heart may be touched, perhaps, sooner than thine; for, believe me or not, I have a very tender one.  But then, no man looking into my face, be the occasion for grief ever so great, will believe that heart to be deeply distressed.

All is placid, easy, serene, in my countenance.  Sorrow cannot sit half an hour together upon it.  Nay, I believe, that Lord M.’s recovery, should it happen, would not affect me above a quarter of an hour.  Only the new scenery, (and the pleasure of aping an Heraclitus to the family, while I am a Democritus among my private friends,) or I want nothing that the old peer can leave me.  Wherefore then should grief sadden and distort such blythe, such jocund, features as mine?

But as for thine, were there murder committed in the street, and thou wert but passing by, the murderer even in sight, the pursuers would quit him, and lay hold of thee:  and thy very looks would hang, as well as apprehend thee.