The Works of Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 11/From Andrew Fountaine to Jonathan Swift - 1
JUNE 27, 1710.
I NEITHER can nor will have patience any longer; and, Swift, you are a confounded son of a . May your half acre turn to a bog, and may your willows perish; may the worms eat your Plato, and may Parvisole[1] break your snuffbox. What! because there is never a bishop in England with half the wit of St. George Ashe, nor ever a secretary of state with a quarter of Addison's good sense; therefore you can't write to those that love you, as well as any Clogher or Addison of them all. You have lost your reputation here, and that of your bastard, the Tatler, is going too; and there is no way left to recover either, but your writing. Well! 'tis no matter; I'll e'en leave London. Kingsmill is dead, and you don't write to me. Adieu.