I could make some guesse whether souls that go to heaven, retain any
memory of us that stay behinde, if I knew whether you ever thought of us,
since you enjoyed your heaven, which is your self, at home. Your going
away hath made _London_ a dead carkasse. A Tearm and a Court do a little
spice and embalme it, and keep it from putrefaction, but the soul went
away in you: and I think the onely reason why the plague is somewhat
slackned is because the place is dead already, and no body left worth the
killing. Wheresoever you are, there is _London_ enough: and it is a
diminishing of you to say so, since you are more then the rest of the
world. When you have a desire to work a miracle, you will return hither,
and raise the place from the dead, and the dead that are in it; of which I
am one, but that a hope that I have a room in your favour keeps me alive,
which you shall abundantly confirme to me, if by one letter you tell me
that you have received my six; for now my letters are grown to that bulk,
that I may divide them like _Amadis_ the _Gaules_ book, and tell you that
this is the first letter of the second part of the first book.
_Your humblest, and affectionate
servant_ J. D.
_Strand, S._ Peters
_day at nine_.
[ii.]
_To the worthiest Lady M{rs}_ B. W.