Creep out of bed and Madame La Grippe holds fortified positions in my head and vitals, whirls in a derisive dervish-dance in my ears. Slowly to breakfast and slowly to class, shivering. Fever mounts to my face after I am seated and for minutes I struggle with an oppressive longing to leave and go back to my garret to bed.

After lunch home and stretch out on the divan but Madame slays me with her heavy weights, which she drops upon me, defenseless, as I lie. So that I find no comfort, and rising, pick up the small brown Mermaid books that stand between my dachshund bookends. The title-page bears the legend, from Beaumont, "I lie and dream of your full Mermaid wine". The books are plays of Beaumont and Fletcher.

Find greater ease in my big green chair, my feet on the bed. I browse in the plays, hunting for the songs therein. They are my delight.

Especially do I admire the conceit in the Wedding-Masque in "The Maid's Tragedy" when Cynthia begs the Night--

"Hold back thy hours, dark Night, till we have done;

The Day will come too soon:

Young malds will curse thee, if thou steal'st away,

And leav'st their losses open to the day:

Stay, stay and hide

The blushes of the bride.

Stay, gentle Night, and with thy darkness cover

The kisses of her lover;

Stay, and confound her tears and her shrill cryings

Her weak denials, vows, and often-dyings;

Stay, and hide all: