LETTERXLII.TO MR. M——.
February 9, 1777.
ZOUNDS! if alive—what ails you? if dead—why did you not send me word?—Where’s my Tristram?—What, are all bucks alike!—all promise, and no—but I won’t put myself in a passion—I have but one foot, and no head—go-to—why, what a devil of a rate dost thou ride at anathematizing and reprobating poor ——! pho! thou simpleton—he deserves thy pity—and whoever harbours a grain of contempt for his fellow-creatures—either in the school ofpoverty or misfortune—that Being is below contempt—and lives the scorn of men—and shame of devils.—Thou shalt not think evil of ——; nor shall he, either by word or thought, dispraisingly speak or think of M——.
In regard to thy N——, thou art right—guard her well—but chiefly guard her from the traitor in her own fair breast, which, while it is the seat of purity and unsullied honor—fancies its neighbours to be the same—nor sees the serpent in the flowery foliage—till it stings—and then farewell sweet peace and its attendant riches.
I have only time to thank you for the leaves, and to lament your want of perspicuity in writing.—My love to George when you see him—and two loves to Nancy—tell her I could fold her to my bosom with the same tender pressure I do my girls—shut my eyes—draw her to my heart—and call her Daughter!—and thou, monkey-face, write me a decent letter—or you shall have another trimming from yours,
I. SANCHO.
Look’ye Sir, I write to the ringing of the shop-door bell—I write—betwixt serving—gossiping—and lying. Alas! what cramps to poor genius!