ABSTRACT
My dear friend You do very well to be so lazie. It makes me a libertine. Had you been assiduous, I had been forced to a constant correspondence. Now though I write no oftner than you, you will have no cause to complain. Neither mean I to superogate1 It seems you have no value for such zeal, else you would write oftner than once a moneth. Hereafter I intend to seem as careless as you are, and write no oftner than you do. There will be no great need of my troubling you often. There will be but litle theame from Mastricht, and thither by God’s favour do I set out tomorrow morning betimes. It will be Saterday comes sennight2 ere I be there. Let not that be an excuse for your not writing. The most pardonable one will be want of purpose. That which I most long for from you, is to know every peece of your resolution in the disposal of your person. You may add as much more as you will, but that is the only task I set you, and if there be anything you would know of me, it will cost you onely the asking. Your last cools exceedingly my expectation of your transfretation.3 You remember my auncient opinions of that matter, though you cannot be so unjust to me as not to think there are but few, I say very few, things in the world I would preferr to your society. If your affairs and resolutions interdict that, I will most submissively acquiesce. If I be put to it again, it is very like my advice will run in the old channel, though when it was opportune I sollicited your haste hitherward to be winged. But if your own sense master your inclinations, yours will easily overrule mine. If your inclinations be but so far blunted as to afford room for advice, I think mine will be that home is most expedient now for you. I think the storms that were to be apprehended are over. If you do but
know by conjecture the passion I have for your conversation you will think this is no small proficiency in self deniall. But I need not insist on this subject. You will always get more as you require it.
