Dear Bookhouse Pub, I love you; all I can bring you is a swooning admiration of your Beauty. You absorb me in spite of myself you alone: for I look not forward with any pleasure to what is call'd being settled in the world; I tremble at domestic cares--yet for you I would meet them, though if it would leave you the happier I would rather die than do so. I have three luxuries to brood over in my walks, your bountiful feasts, cold draft beers and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them all in the same minute.
Love, John