Huntingdon,
            28 Dec. 75.
            Your condescension in removing my most groundless cause of jealousy yesterday, was more than I deserved. How I exposed myself by my violence with you! But, I tell you, my passions are all gunpowder. Though, thank God, no Othello, yet am I

"One not easily jealous; but, being wrought,
Impatient in th' extreme;"

and how extremely do I love you, worship you, idolize you!

            How could I think you particular to such a thing as B? You said that you forgave me today, and I hope that you did. Let me have it again from your own dear lips tomorrow, instead of the next day. Everything shall be ready; and the guitar, which I wrote for, is come down; and I'll bring the song, and you shall sing it, and play it: and I'll beg you to forgive me, and you shall forgive me; and—five hundred ands besides.

            Why, I would be jealous of this sheet of paper, if you kissed it with too much rapture.

            What a fool! No, my Martha, rather say what a lover!

            Many thanks for your picture. It is like. Accept this proof that I have examined it.

'Tis true, creative man, thine art can teach
The living picture everything but speech!
True, thou hast drawn her, as she is, all fair;
Divinely fair! her lips, her eyes, her hair!
Full well I know the smile upon that face;
Full well I know those features' every grace!
But what is this? My Martha's mortal part.
There is a subject beggars all thine art:
Paint but her mind, by Heav'n! and thou shalt be,
Shalt be my more than Pagan deity.
Nature may possibly have cast, of old,
Some other beauty in as fair a mould;
But all in vain you'll search the world, to find
Another beauty with so fair a mind.

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