LETTERLXVIII.TO MR. R——.
July 16, 1773.
DEAR M——,
S*** is a riddle—I will serve him if I can—were I rich, he should have no reason to despise me—but he must learn to try to serve himself—I wish you would throw your good sense upon paper for him—advice from one of his own years would sink deeper than the fusty phlegmatic saws of an old man—do, in charity, give him half an hour’s labour—I do really think that you and S*** have sense enough for a dozen young fellows—and if it pleased God it were so divided—they would each be happier, wiser, and richer, than S*** or M——. And this by the way of thanking you—pooh—will do that when I see you—and if that never happens, a good action thanks itself.—Mr. Garrick called upon S—— on Tuesday night, and won his heart; he called to pay poor deGroote’s lodgings, sat with him some time, and chatted friendly.
I admire your modesty in grudging me two letters for one—and greasing me with the fulsoms of sneering praise—Sirrah, be quiet—what, you Snoodle-poop! have you any care—wife—or family? You ought to write volumes—it gives expansion to your thoughts—facility to your invention—ease to your diction—and pleases your Friend,
SANCHO.
Write, Knave—or—or—or—