You were, in your own eyes, still the graceful prince of a trivial comedy, not the sombre figure of a tragic show.
Had there been nothing in your heart to cry out against so vulgar a sacrilege, you might at least have remembered the sonnet he wrote who saw with such sorrow and scorn the letters of John Keats sold by public auction in London, and have understood at last the real meaning of my lines: "...

I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet's heart That small and sickly eyes may glare or gloat." One cannot always keep an adder in one's breast to feed on one, nor rise up every night to sow thorns in the garden of one's soul.
I cannot allow you to go through life bearing in your heart the burden of having ruined a man like me.
Does it ever occur to you what an awful position I would have been in if, for the last two years, during my appalling sentence, I had been dependent on you as a friend?
Do you ever think of that?
Do you ever feel any gratitude to those who by kindness without stint, devotion without limit, cheerfulness and joy in giving, have lightened my black burden for me, have arranged my future life for me, have visited me again and again, have written to me beautiful and sympathetic letters, have managed my affairs for me, have stood by me in the teeth of obloquy, taunt, open sneer or insult even?
I thank God every day that he gave me friends other than you.

I owe everything to them.

The very books in my cell are paid for by Robbie out of his pocket money.

From the same source[55] are to come clothes for me when I am released.