much I promise you. Brown says I am getting stouter. I rest well and from last night do not remember any thing horrid in my dream, which is a capital symptom, for any organic derangement always occasions a Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idle amusement to hunt after a motto for my Book which I will have if lucky enough to hit upon a fit one1--not intending to write a preface. I fear I am too late with my note--you are gone out--you will be as cold as a topsail in a north latitude--I advise you to furl yourself and come in a doors.
Good bye Love.
My dearest Fanny, I slept well last night and am no worse this morning for it. Day by day if I am not deceived I get a more unrestrain'd use of my Chest. The nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more his anxiety becomes, so I lingering upon the borders of health feel my impatience increase. Perhaps on your account I have imagined my illness more serious than it is: how horrid was the chance of slipping into the ground instead of into your arms--the difference is amazing Love. Death must come at last; Man must die, as Shallow says;2 but before that is my fate I feign would try what more pleasures than you have given, so sweet a creature as you can give. Let me have another op〈p〉ortunity of years before me and I will not die without being remember'd.3 Take care of yourself dear that we may both be well in the Summer. I do not at all fatigue myself with writing, having merely to put a line or two here and there, a Task which would worry a stout state of the body and mind, but which just suits me as I can do no more.