I need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed _verbatim_ my last way. In particular, I fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of Merlin wave," it looks so like Mr. Merlin, [1] the ingenious successor of the immortal Merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and flourishing in magical reputation, in Oxford Street; and, on my life, one half who read it would understand it so.
Do put 'em forth finally, as I have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends, -- and of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ _inter se_. Thus taste may safely be put to the vote. I do long to see our names together, -- not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether; for not a living soul I know, or am intimate with, will scarce read the book, -- so I shall gain nothing, _quoad famam_; and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I cannot help denying. -- I am aware of the unpoetical cast of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those six lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor Mary.
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