I KNOW there will be no end of your impertinent scribble, if I don't
write to you. I write therefore: but, without entering into argument
with such a conceited and pert preacher and questioner, it is, to forbid
you to plague me with your quaint nonsense. I know not what wit in a
woman is good for, but to make her overvalue herself, and despise every
other person. Yours, Miss Pert, has set you above your duty, and above
being taught or prescribed to, either by parents, or any body else. But
go on, Miss: your mortification will be the greater; that's all, child.
It shall, I assure you, if I can make it so, so long as you prefer that
villainous Lovelace, (who is justly hated by all your family) to every
body. We see by your letter now (what we too justly suspected before),
most evidently we see, the hold he has got of your forward heart. But
the stronger the hold, the greater must be the force (and you shall have
enough of that) to tear such a miscreant from it. In me, notwithstanding
your saucy lecturing, and your saucy reflections before, you are sure of
a friend, as well as of a brother, if it be not your own fault. But if
you will still think of such a wretch as that Lovelace, never expect
either friend or brother in