the fame, and it comes into my mind, that, on many of those papers, I've seen an endorsement, A. H. which I fancy might be thofe you overlooked. My Lord spoke of you with great regard, and told me how narrowly you both miffed of going together on an adventurous expedition *. The real reason I carried him your poem was, that I imagined you would never fend it him, of all mankind; and that I was truly pleased with it.

I am troubled to reflect, how unequal a correfpondent I am to you, partly through want of health, (for I have fince had a fever,) partly through want of fpirits, and want of folitude; for the last thing we poets care to own, is the other want, that of abilities.

But I am fenfibly pleased with your letter, not only with that which feemed to prompt it, but with the things faid in it and I thank you for both.-Believe me defirous to see you when, and where, you fhall determine; though I wish it were here: you'll fee a place feeming more fit for me than it is; looking poetical, yet too much in the world: romantic and not retired however, I can lock up all avenues to it fometimes, and I know no better reason for doing so, or for shutting out the world, than to enjoy fuch an one as yourself.

I am, Sir, with esteem and fincerity,

Your, etc.

*On an expedition to the West Indies.

WARTON.

I

Dear Sir,

LETTER IX.

TO THE SAME.

September 3, 1731.

HAVE been, and yet am, totally confined by my mother's relapse, if that can be called fo, which is rather a constant and regular decay. She is now on her last bed, in all probability, from whence the has not rifen in fome weeks, yet in no direct pain, but a perpetual languor. I fuffer for her, for myself, and for

you, in the reflection of what you have felt at the fide of a fick bed, which I now feel, and of what I probably foon fhall fuffer, which you now fuffer, in the lofs of one's best friend. I have wifhed (ever fince I faw your letter) to afk you, fince you find your own house a scene of forrows, to pass some days in mine; which I begin to think I fhall foon have the fame melancholy reafon to fhun. In the mean time, I make a fort of amusement of this melancholy fituation itself, and try to derive a comfort in imagining I give fome to her. I am feldom prompted to poetry in these circumstances; yet I'll fend you a few lines. I fent t'other day from her bed-fide to a particular friend. Indeed I want fpirits and matter, to fend you any thing else, or on any other fubject. These too are fpiritlefs, and incorrect.

While ev'ry joy, fuccefsful youth! is thine,
Be no unpleafing melancholy mine.

Me long, ah long! may these foft cares engage;
To rock the cradle of repofing age,

With lenient arts prolong a parent's breath,

Make languor fmile, and smooth the bed of death.
Me, when the cares my better years have shown
Another's age, fhall haften on my own;
Shall fome kind hands, like B***'s* or thine,
Lead gently down, and favour the decline?
In wants, in fickness, shall a friend be nigh,
Explore my thought, aud watch my asking eye?
Whether that blefing be deny'd, or giv'n,
Thus far, is right; the reft belongs to Heav'n +.

Excufe this, in a man who is weak and wounded, but not by his enemies, but for his friends. I wish you the continuance of all that is yet dear to you

and am truly

in life,

Yours.

*Bolingbroke's. The Lines were probably fist addressed to Murray, who is called the "fuccefsful youth."

+ Afterwards used, with variations, as the conclufion of his Epilogue to the Satires, addreffed to Arbuthnot.

Dear Sir,

LETTER X.

TO THE SAME.

September 29, 1731.

I

RETURN You the inclosed the day after I received it, left it fhould retard your finishing the copy, now the year draws toward winter: and though I am in a great hurry, which allows me to fay little, only to tell you, in my Lord's name and my own, that we think you fhew even more friendship and confidence in us, than we have hitherto been juftly entitled to, from any use our opinion could be of, to a judgment fo good as your own. We are fully satisfied; and 'tis but a word or two, that I can carp, with the utmost and most extended feverity of a friend. It will be with infinitely greater promptitude, and pleasure, that I fhall speak (every where) my real approbation and esteem of the performance, in which I shall do no more than difcharge my confcience. I wifh fincerely, I could as well ferve you in promoting its fuccefs, as I can testify it deserves all fuccefs. You will, I am fure, be fo candid, and fo reasonable, as to conclude, I would not decline writing your epilogue on any but a just reafon, and indeed (to me) an invariable maxim, which I have held these twenty years. Every poetical friend I have, has had my word, I never would; and my leave to take the fame refufals I made

CC 4

I made him, ill, if ever I wrote one for another and this very winter, Mr. Thomson and Mr. Mallet excuse me, whofe tragedies either are to appear this season, or the next. I fancy the latter, as I have feen or heard of no more but a first act, yet, of each.

I have lately had an addrefs of another kind from a man of letters, which gives me more embarrassment, and in the conduct whereof I could wish I had your advice, though I hardly know how to afk it. I hope foon to fee the critical work you promised me, in which I hope to have fome further occasion of proving to you the real deference I have to your fentiments, and esteem for your perfon. I am,

Dear Sir,

October 29, 1731.

THERE
HERE is an ill fate hangs upon me in relation to

the pleasure I've often (from the very first time I faw you at Dr. Young's) propofed in our acquaintance. I really stayed that night in town, upon Bowry's notice, which he left in writing, that you fhould be at home all Wednesday, and had dedicated three hours to you, or, more properly, to myself with you. I afked.

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