not know what property you have, but I will enquire into it be sure however that beyond the obligation that a lodger may have to a landlord you have none to Mrs. Abbey. Let the surety of this make you laugh at Mrs. A's foolish tattle. Mrs. Dilke's Brother has got your Dog. She is now very well-still liable to Illness. I will get her to come and see you if I can make up my mind on the propriety of introducing a stranger into Abbey's house. Be careful to let no fretting injure your health as I have suffered it-health is the greatest of blessings—with health and hope we should be content to live, and so you will find as you grow older-I am As Brown is not to be a fixture at Hampstead, I have at last made up my mind to send home all lent books. I should have seen you before this, but my mind has been at work all over the world to find out what to do. I have my choice of three things, or at least two,— South America, or Surgeon to an Indiaman; which last, I think, will be my fate. I shall resolve in a few days. Remember me to Mrs. D. and Charles, and your father and mother. Ever truly yours CXC. To FANNY BRAWNE. [Kentish Town, May 1820.] My dearest Girl, I endeavour to make myself as patient as possible. Hunt amuses me very kindly-besides I have your ring on my finger and your flowers on the table. I shall not expect to see you yet because it would be so much pain to part with you again. When the Books you want come you shall have them. I am very well this afternoon. My dearest ... [Signature cut off.] CXCI. To FANNY BRAWNE. My dearest Fanny, Tuesday Afternoon. [Kentish Town, May 1820?] For this Week past I have been employed in marking the most beautiful passages in Spenser, intending it for you, and comforting myself in being somehow occupied to give you however small a pleasure. It has lightened my time very much. I am much better. God bless you. Your affectionate J. Keats. CXCII. To FANNY BRAWNE. My dearest Girl, Tuesday Morn. [Kentish Town, May 1820.] I wrote a letter' for you yesterday expecting to have seen your mother. I shall be selfish enough to send it though I know it may give you a little pain, because I wish you to see how unhappy I am for love of you, and endeavour as much as I can to entice you to give up your whole heart to me whose whole existence hangs upon you. You could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart-I am greedy of you. Do not think of anything but me. Do not live as if I was not existing. Do not forget me-But have I any right to say you forget me? Perhaps you think of me all day. Have I any right to wish you to be unhappy for me? You would forgive me for wishing it if you knew the extreme passion I have that you should love me—and for you to love me as I do you, you must think of no one but me, much less write that sentence. Yesterday and this morning I have been haunted with a sweet vision-I have seen you the whole time in your shepherdess dress. How my senses have ached at at! How my heart has been devoted to it! How my eyes have been full of tears at it! Indeed I think a real love is enough to occupy the widest heart. Your going to town alone when I heard of it was a shock to me—yet I expected it-promise me you will not for some time till I get better. Promise me this and fill the paper full of the most endearing names. If you cannot do so with good 1 Probably not extant. will, do my love tell me-say what you think-confess if your heart is too much fasten'd on the world. Perhaps then I may see you at a greater distance, I may not be able to appropriate you so closely to myself. Were you to lose a favorite bird from the cage, how would your eyes ache after it as long as it was in sight; when out of sight you would recover a little. Perhaps if you would, if so it is, confess to me how many things are necessary to you besides me, I might be happier; by being less tantaliz'd. Well may you exclaim, how selfish, how cruel not to let me enjoy my youth! to wish me to be unhappy. You must be so if you love me. Upon my soul I can be contented with nothing else. If you would really what is call'd enjoy yourself at a Party-if you can smile in people's faces, and wish them to admire you now-you never have nor ever will love me. I see life in nothing but the certainty of your Love-convince me of it my sweetest. If I am not somehow convinced I shall die of agony. If we love we must not live as other men and women do I cannot brook the wolfsbane of fashion and foppery and tattle-you must be mine to die upon the rack if I want you. I do not pretend to say that I have more feeling than my fellows, but I wish you seriously to look over my letters kind and unkind and consider whether the Person who wrote them can be able to endure much longer the agonies and uncertainties which you are so peculiarly made to create. My recovery of bodily health will be of no benefit to me if you are not mine when I am well. For God's sake save me-or tell me my passion is of too awful a nature for you. Again God bless you. J. K. No-my sweet Fanny-I am wrong-I do not wish you to be unhappy-and yet I do, I must while there is so sweet a Beauty-my loveliest, my darling! good bye! I kiss you-O the torments! My dear Taylor, CXCII. To JOHN TAYLOR. 11 June [1820]. In reading over the proof of "St. Agnes' Eve" since I left Fleet Street, I was struck with what appears to me an alteration in the seventh stanza very much for the worse. The passage I mean stands thus her maiden eyes incline Still on the floor, while many a sweeping train 'Twas originally written her maiden eyes divine Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration. I do not use train for concourse of passers by, but for skirts sweeping along the floor. In the first stanza my copy reads, second line bitter chill it was, to avoid the echo cold in the second line. Ever yours sincerely John Keats |