Our horses astray,
No straw, oats or hay;
December in May,
Our boys run away,
All servants at play.
Molly sends for the letter.
TO MRS. PRATT,
ON HER PRESENT OF A FIRE SCREEN, ADORNED WITH PAINTED MAPS.
MRS. Fitzmaurice did the unkindest thing she could imagine; she sends an open note by a servant (for she was too much a prude to write me a letter), desiring that the dean of St. Patrick's should inquire for one Howard, master of a ship, who had brought over a screen to him, the said dean, from Mrs. Pratt. Away I ran to the customhouse, where they told me the ship was expected every day: but the God of winds, in confederacy with Mrs. Fitzmaurice to teaze me, kept the ship at least a month longer, and left me miserable in a state of impatience, between hope and fear, worse than a lady who is in pain that her clothes will not be ready against the birth day. I will not move your good nature, by representing how many restless nights and days I have passed, with what dreams my sleep hath been disturbed, where I sometimes saw the ship sinking, my screen
