Wentworth Place, between January 7 and 14, 1819.

My dear Haydon--We are very unlucky--I should have stopped to dine with you, but I knew I should not have been able to leave you in time for my plaguy sore throat; which is getting well.

I shall have a little trouble in procuring the Money and a great ordeal to go through--no trouble indeed to any one else--or ordeal either. I mean I shall have to go to town some thrice, and stand in the Bank an hour or two--to me worse than anything in Dante--I should have less chance with the people around me than Orpheus had with the Stones. I have been writing a little now and then lately: but nothing to speak of--being discontented and as it were moulting. Yet I do not think I shall ever come to the rope or the Pistol, for after a day or two's melancholy, although I smoke more and more my own insufficiency--I see by little and little more of what is to be done, and how it is to be done, should I ever be able to do it. On my soul, there should be some reward for that continual agonie ennuyeuse. I was thinking of going into Hampshire for a few days. I have been delaying it longer than I intended. You shall see me soon; and do not be at all anxious, for this time I really will do, what I never did before in my life, business in good time, and properly.--With respect to the Bond--it may be a satisfaction to you to let me have it: but as you love me do not let there be any mention of interest, although we are mortal men--and bind ourselves for fear of death.

Yours for ever

JOHN KEATS.