Epassporte's private thoughts in this manner:
[This letter is printed in the Prologue to Gilbert's sonnet. It is not copied
from Gilberts sonnet, but from the article in the Black Book of John
Dalrymple. "The Victory of Charles," p. 81.]
"To my friend, M-r John
I learned the news of this decease last night--he was not old
then, but only eight years old.
Looks of life are hard to remember:
Loves, friends, little hours of play,
Upon my old ills have been new ones.
All that was so contented should never have been.
No--I cannot but think that my dear friend was who
I used to call an idle boy; and I like
To say that I love him best still.
The girl-story must be ugly.
Oh--it seems to me that part of the world,
To the heart of the home, has gone out--
And I cannot see why we should not be more
Than we have been since we were children.
If, then, I had sufficient time, I should write
A poem on this sad occasion--
I wish I could see the faces of my most vain
Friend, and his friends, all the world!
How they should be shocked at all this!
For example, he knew that I loved you
To do nothing, and not to be buried;
When he sat by your bedside, and a little
Drowned in pain, seeing you sleep, I could not help
Hearing his voice mention you--I had no words to
Give him, and did not dare to stir you.
I could only hear how you answered the wrong
Question, and I liked it too much to say.
You would not be found out if there was a
Trouble--but any thing besides.
Somebody has done the trick too.
Ran in and made you a father.
'Tis pretty easy, madam, to make a man
Happy--when that one would try to make
Your life miserabl