 of your own, join with a severe duty in telling me, while thus circumstanced, we must meet no more. The world, a busy, partial judge, de∣lights in beholding the execution of those painful sentences it imposes. Ah, chosen of my soul! remember its afflictions can only be completed by your failing in the arduous trial, I am otherwise resolved to sustain. Rob me not of the melancholy pleasure fortune still allows me, in what∣ever solitude I am henceforth buried, of thinking him I selected from all man∣kind, was every thing but an Angel.
Above the slavery of opinion, I know no guide but rectitude: that tells me, Heaven itself will approve the efforts I yet make to charm you to life, to great∣ness, and to glory.—Oh, awful father of universal being! whose will alone could snatch from each the only object in cre∣ation, sanctify to the noblest purpose these dictates of my reason; and form both for the separate lots appointed us.

Elevate the passions of my Essex above the little motives of revenge, or malice—sublime his love into philanthropy, his rage into heroism.—And, oh! on the frail heart which now bleeds before thee, bestow patience and resignation, so to pass each long day as if the next were to unite me to him. I solicit not strength to ex∣pel him from that heart—no, rather may he ever continue its sole object; but be his conduct so ennobled, that when both are called with the whole world before thy dread tribunal, I may look down on the misjudging part of it, and truly say,—Father, it is not Essex I have loved, but Virtue in his person."
This passionate apostrophe, however highly wrought, in the cool judgment of Lady Pembroke, was even in her opinion entirely calculated for the romantic spirit to whom it was addressed. I earnestly besought the amiable Essex to suffer this to end the correspondence, which ad∣mitted not an indulgence beyond those conveyed in the letter; and gave it into the hands of my friend, with that sweet

sense of self-applause, which ever attends the consciousness of having gone beyond a painful duty.
Yes, still this dear sensation remains to me—it irradiates at intervals the deep gloom which steeps my soul, and anni∣hilates my senses.—I fear I begin again to wander, for my hand writing appears to my own eyes that of Essex.—Oh, how tight my head, my heart seems bound!—will no one loosen the shrunk fibres?—Hark! Is not that this Queen?—No—It was but the deep voice of the Winter's
