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<h2> LETTER XVII </h2>
<p>MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY, JULY 17, ELEVEN AT NIGHT.</p>
<p>Curse upon thy hard heart, thou vile caitiff! How hast thou tortured me,
by thy designed abruption! 'tis impossible that Miss Harlowe should have
ever suffered as thou hast made me suffer, and as I now suffer!</p>
<p>That sex is made to bear pain. It is a curse that the first of it entailed
upon all her daughters, when she brought the curse upon us all. And they
love those best, whether man or child, who give them most—But to
stretch upon thy d——d tenter-hooks such a spirit as mine—No
rack, no torture, can equal my torture!</p>
<p>And must I still wait the return of another messenger?</p>
<p>Confound thee for a malicious devil! I wish thou wert a post-horse, and I
upon the back of thee! how would I whip and spur, and harrow up thy clumsy
sides, till I make thee a ready-roasted, ready-flayed, mess of dog's meat;
all the hounds in the country howling after thee, as I drove thee, to wait
my dismounting, in order to devour thee piece-meal; life still throbbing
in each churned mouthful!</p>
<p>Give this fellow the sequel of thy tormenting scribble.</p>
<p>Dispatch him away with it. Thou hast promised it shall be ready. Every
cushion or chair I shall sit upon, the bed I shall lie down upon (if I go
to bed) till he return, will be stuffed with bolt-upright awls, bodkins,
corking-pins, and packing needles: already I can fancy that, to pink my
body like my mind, I need only to be put into a hogshead stuck full of
steel-pointed spikes, and rolled down a hill three times as high as the
Monument.</p>
<p>But I lose time; yet know not how to employ it till this fellow returns
with the sequel of thy soul-harrowing intelligence!</p>
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