Not a moment can I be from him. I sit by his bed and read all day and at night I humour him in all his wanderings. He has just fallen asleep, the first for eight nights, and now from mere exhaustion. I hope he will not wake until I have written this, for I am anxious beyond measure to have you know his worse and worse state. Yet I dare not let him see I think it dangerous. I had seen him wake on the morning of this attack, and to all appearance he was going on merrily and he had unusual good spirits, when in an instant a Cough seized him and he vomited near two Cupfuls of blood. In a moment I got Dr Clark, who saw the manner of it, and immediately took away about eight ounces of blood from the Arm; it was black and thick in the extreme. Keats was much alarmed and dejected. O, what an awful day I had with him! He rush’d out of bed and said “this day shall be my last,” and but for me most certainly it would.

J. Severn, letter

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