To George Mordaunt, Esq;
OH! Mordaunt! I am indeed undone: I
was too confident of my own strength:
I depended on the power of gratitude and
honor over my heart, but find them too
weak to defend me against such inexpressible
loveliness: I could have resisted her beauty
only, but the mind which irradiates those
speaking eyes–the melting music of those
gentle accents, "soft as the fleeces of descending
snows"–the delicacy, yet lively
tenderness of her sentiments–that angel innocence
–that winning sweetness–the absence
of her parents, and Lady Anne's coquetry
with Lord Fondville, have given me
opportunities of conversing with her, which
have for ever destroyed my peace–I must
tear myself from her–I will leave Belmont
the moment my Lord returns–I am for
ever lost–doomed to wretchedness–but
I will be wretched alone–I tremble lest
my eyes should have discovered–lest pity
should involve her in my misery.
Great heavens! was I not sufficiently
unhappy? to stab me to the heart, I have
just received the following letter from Lord
Belmont.
