At the worst of my little troubles, I have only to think of Ovid--and his mother's ice melts away from me directly; I feel brave enough to endure anything.
"Take my heart's best love, dear--no, next best love, after Ovid!--and give some of it to your poor suffering husband.

May I ask one little favour?
The English gentleman who has taken our old house at Rome, will not object to give you a few flowers out of what was once my garden.
Send them to me in your next letter.".