SIR,

LETTER VI.

TO THE SAME.

March 2, 1731.

I AM extremely pleased with the favour you have done me in sending me your poem, and the more, as it gives me the opportunity of assuring you I never did, or meant you the least injury; in which I should have fully satisfied you long since, had you asked me the question. I remember, Mr. Lintot shewed me a piece of yours, of which (he said) you desired my opinion: I was just then in a great hurry, going a journey out of town upon business for a few days; and therefore told him I would call for it in a day or two, to read carefully: however, I cast my eye on some parts of it, which I liked, and told him so. This was all, to the best of my memory, that passed between us; and you may imagine it was some surprize to me when I saw your Preface a very short time after. I think it incumbent on any well-meaning man, to acquit himself of an ill-grounded suspicion in another, who perhaps means equally well, and is only too credulous. I am sincerely so far from resenting this mistake, that I am no more displeased at your thinking it necessary to treat me so much in a style of compliment as you do in your letter. I will say nothing of the poem you favour me with, for fear of being in the wrong; but I am sure, the per

son who is capable of writing it, can need no man to judge it. I am, with all respect, Sir,

Your, etc.

I received yours but four days since, it being directed to Chiswick, where I have not lived this twelvemonth.

DEAR SIR,

LETTER VII.

TO THE SAME.

Twickenham, March 14, 1731.

I AM not more happy, nor feel a greater ease in comparison of my former pain, in the recovery from my rheumatism, than in that from your displeasure. Be assured, no little offenders ever shall be distinguished more by me. Your dedication pleases me almost equally with the poem; our hearts beat just together, in regard to men of power and quality : but a series of infirmities (for my whole life has been but one long disease) has hindered me from following your advices. I this day have writ to Lord Peterborough a letter with your poem. The familiarity in which we have lived some years, makes it not unusual, in either him or me, to tell each other any thing that pleases us: otherwise you might think it arrogant in me to pretend to put so good a thing into his hands, in which I have no merit. Your mention of our friend Mr. Mallet I thank you for,

and should be glad he would give me an opportunity of thanking you in person, who am, with sincerity, Sir,

Your, etc.

DEAR SIR,

LETTER VIII.

TO THE SAME.

Twickenham, April 4, 1731. It is a serious pleasure to me to find you concerned, that I should do your good sense and discernment the justice it deserves. It is impossible for me not to think just what you would have me on this head; the whole spirit and meaning of your poem shews all little thoughts to be strangers to your soul. I happen to know many particulars relating to the Earl of Peterborough's conduct, and just glory, in that scene you draw so well: but no man ought (I think) to attempt what you aim at, or can pretend to do him more honour than what you yourself here have done; except himself: I have long pressed him to put together many papers lying by him, to that end. On this late occasion he told me you had formerly endeavoured the same, and it comes into my mind, that, on many of those papers, I've seen an endorsement A. H. which I fancy might be those you overlooked. My Lord spoke of you with great regard, and told me how narrowly you both missed of going together on an adventurous expedition.

The real reason I carried him your poem was, that I imagined you would never send it him, of all mankind; and that I was truly pleased with it.

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

But I am sensibly pleased with your letter, not only with that which seemed to prompt it, but with the things said in it: and I thank you for both-Believe me desirous to see you: when, and where, you shall determine; though I wish it were here: you'll see a place seeming 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 sometimes, and I know no better reason for doing so, or for shutting out the world, than to enjoy such an one as yourself.

I am, Sir, with esteem and sincerity,

DEAR SIR,

LETTER IX.

TO THE SAME.

Your, etc.

September 3, 1731.

I HAVE been, and yet am, totally confined by my mother's relapse, if that can be called so, which is rather a constant and regular decay. She is now on

her last bed, in all probability, from whence she has
not risen in some weeks, yet in no direct pain, but a
perpetual languor. I suffer for her, for myself, and
for you, in the reflection of what you have felt at the
side of a sick bed, which I now feel, and of what I
probably soon shall suffer, which you now suffer, in
the loss of one's best friend. I have wished (ever
since I saw your letter) to ask you, since you find
your own house a scene of sorrows, to pass some
days in mine; which I begin to think I shall soon
have the same melancholy reason to shun. In the
mean time, I make a sort of amusement of this me-
lancholy situation itself, and try to derive a comfort
in imagining I give some to her. I am seldom
prompted to poetry in these circumstances; yet I'll
send you a few lines I sent t'other day from her bed-
side to a particular friend. Indeed I want spirits
and matter, to send you any thing else, or on any
other subject. These too are spiritless and incorrect.
While ev'ry joy, successful youth! is thine,
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.

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

With lenient arts prolong a parent's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death.
Me, when the cares my better years have shewn
Another's age, shall hasten on my own;
Shall some kind hands, like B***'s or thine,
Lead gently down, and favour the decline?
In wants, in sickness, shall a friend be nigh,
Explore my thought, and watch my asking eye?
Whether that blessing be denied, or giv❜n,

Thus far, is right; the rest belongs to Heav'n.

Excuse this, in a man who is weak and wounded,