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Works of Charles and Mary Lamb. VI-VII. Letters
Charles Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth, 2 June 1804

Contents vol. VI
Letters: 1796
Letters: 1797
Letters: 1798
Letters: 1799
Letters: 1800
Letters: 1801
Letters: 1802
Letters: 1803
Letters: 1804
Letters: 1805
Letters: 1806
Letters: 1807
Letters: 1808
Letters: 1809
Letters: 1810
Letters: 1811
Letters: 1812
Letters: 1814
Letters: 1815
Letters: 1816
Letters: 1817
Letters: 1818
Letters: 1819
Letters: 1820
Letters: 1821
Contents vol. VII
Letters: 1821
Letters: 1822
Letters: 1823
Letters: 1824
Letters: 1825
Letters: 1826
Letters: 1827
Letters: 1828
Letters: 1829
Letters: 1830
Letters: 1831
Letters: 1832
Letters: 1833
Letters: 1834
Appendix I
Appendix II
Appendix III
List of Letters
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[Dated at end: June 2, 1804.]

DEAR Miss Wordsworth, the task of letter-writing in my family falls to me; you are the organ of correspondence in yours, so I address you rather than your brother. We are all
sensibly obliged to you for the little scraps (Arthur’s Bower and his brethren) which you sent up; the bookseller has got them and paid
Mrs. Fenwick for them. So while some are authors for fame, some for money, you have commenced author for charity. The least we can do, is to see your commissions fulfilled; accordingly I have booked this 2d June 1804 from the Waggon Inn in Cripplegate the watch and books which I got from your brother Richard, together with Purchas’s Pilgrimage and Brown’s Religio Medici which I desire your brother’s acceptance of, with some pens, of which I observed no great frequency when I tarried at Grasmere. (I suppose you have got Coleridge’s letter)—These things I have put up in a deal box directed to Mr. Wordsworth, Grasmere, near Ambleside, Kendal, by the Kendal waggon. At the same time I have sent off a parcel by C.’s desire to Mr. T. Hutchinson to the care of Mr. “T. Monkhouse, or T. Markhouse” (for C.’s writing is not very plain) Penrith, by the Penrith waggon this day; which I beg you to apprize them of, lest my direction fail. In your box, you will find a little parcel for Mrs. Coleridge, which she wants as soon as possible; also for yourselves the Cotton, Magnesia, bark and Oil, which come to £2. 3. 4. thus
  Thread and needles 17 . 0 
  Magnesia 8 . 0 
  Oil 9 . 8 
    8 . 8 
  packing case 2. 3. 4 
    2 . 6 
    2 . 5 . 10 
  deduct a guinea I owe you, which C. was to pay,
but did not
1 . 1 .—  
  leaves you indebted 1 . 4 . 10 
whereby you may see how punctual I am.

I conclude with our kindest remembrances to your brother and Mrs. W.

We hear, the young John is a Giant.

And should you see Charles Lloyd, pray forget to give my love to him.

Yours truly, Dr Miss W.
C. Lamb.
June 2, 1804.

I send you two little copies of verses by Mary L—b:—

Child. “O Lady, lay your costly robes aside,
(Sings) No longer may you glory in your pride.”
Mother. Wherefore to day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
This day I am to be a bride, you know.
Why sing sad songs were made so long ago?
Child. “O Mother lay your costly robes aside,”
For you may never be another’s bride:
That line I learnt not in the old sad song.
Mother. I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue;
Play with the bride maids, and be glad, my boy,
For thou shalt be a second father’s joy.
Child. One father fondled me upon his knee:
One father is enough alone for me.

Suggested by a print of 2 females after Leo[nardo da] Vinci, called Prudence & Beauty, which hangs up in our ro[om]. O! that you could see the print!!

The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers’ fears,
To the Urseline Convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears:
“O Blanch, my child, repent thee of the courtly life ye lead.”
Blanch looked on a rose-bud, and little seem’d to heed;
She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought
On all her heart had whisper’d, and all the Nun had taught.
“I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,
All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch’s name;
Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
My Queen-like graces shining when my beauty’s gone from me.
But when the sculptur’d marble is raised o’er my head,
And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,
This saintly Lady Abbess has made me justly fear.
It nothing will avail me that I were worshipt here.”

I wish they may please you: we in these parts are not a little proud of them.

C. L.