“But money’s virtue, gold is fate.”
He coloured as red as fire to see me turn so quick upon him, and in a
kind of a rage told me he would conquer me, and writes again thus—
“I scorn your gold, and yet I love.”
I ventured all upon the last cast of poetry, as you’ll see, for I wrote
boldly under his last—
“I’m poor: let’s see how kind you’ll prove.”
This was a sad truth to me; whether he believed me or no, I could not
tell; I supposed then that he did not. However, he flew to me, took me
in his arms, and, kissing me very eagerly, and with the greatest
passion imaginable, he held me fast till he called for a pen and ink,
and then told me he could not wait the tedious writing on the glass,
but, pulling out a piece of paper, he began and wrote again—
“Be mine, with all your poverty.”