W hat, am I to study while you are in pain, above all in pain on my account? Shall I not of my own accord punish myself with every kind of penance? It were only right, by Hercules. For who else brought on that pain in the knee, which you write was worse last night, who else if not Centumcellae,1 not to mention myself? What then shall I do, who cannot see you and am racked with such anxiety? Besides, however much I might be minded to study, the courts forbid it, which, as those say who know, will take up whole days. Still I send you to-day's maxim and the day-before-yesterday's commonplace. The whole day yesterday we spent on the road. To-day it is hard to find time for anything but the evening maxim. Do you sleep, say you, the livelong night? Aye, I can sleep, for I am a great sleeper; but it is so cold in my room that I can scarcely put my hand outside the bed-clothes.2 But in good sooth what most of all put my mind off study was the thought that by my undue fondness for literature3 I did you an ill turn at the Harbour,4 as the event shewed. And so farewell to all Catos and Ciceros and Sallusts, as long as you fare well and I see you, though with never a book, established in health. Farewell, my chief joy, sweetest of masters. My Lady greets you. Send me three maxims and commonplaces.