Let Other Pens Dwell On

Her Eye Fell Everywhere On Lawns And Plantations Of The Freshest Green; And The Trees, Though Not Fully Clothed, Were In That Delightful State When Farther Beauty Is Known To Be At Hand, And When, While Much Is Actually Given To The Sight, More Yet Remains For The Imagination.

It Was A Gloomy Prospect, And All That She Could Do Was To Throw A Mist Over It, And Hope When The Mist Cleared Away, She Should See Something Else.

And If I Had Not A Letter To Write Myself, I Might Sit By You And Admire The Evenness Of Your Writing, As Another Young Lady Once Did. But I Have An Aunt Too, Who Must Not Be Longer Neglected.

My Sore Throats Are Always Worse Than Anyone's.

The Less Said The Better.