I have plaguy news to acquaint thee with. Miss Harlowe is gone
off!—Quite gone, by soul!—I have no time for particulars, your servant
being gone off. But if I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the
matter. The ladies here are all blubbering like devills, accusing one
another most confoundedly: whilst Belton and I damn them all together
in thy name.
If thou shouldst hear that thy fellow Will. is taken dead out of some
horse-pond, and Dorcas cut down from her bed’s teaster, from dangling
in her own garters, be not surprised. Here’s the devil to pay. Nobody
serene but Jack Belford, who is taking minutes of examinations,
accusations, and confessions, with the significant air of a Middlesex
Justice; and intends to write at large all particulars, I suppose.
I heartily condole with thee: so does Belton. But it may turn out for
the best: for she is gone away with thy marks, I understand. A foolish
little devill! Where will she mend herself? for nobody will look upon
her. And they tell me that thou wouldst certainly have married her, had
she staid. But I know thee better.
Dear Bobby, adieu. If Lord M. will die now, to comfort thee for this
loss, what a seasonable exit would he make! Let’s have a letter from
thee. Pr’ythee do. Thou can’st write devill-like to Belford, who shews
us nothing at all. Thine heartily,