wherein I can be serviceable to that gentleman, for whom nobody has a greater esteem, than your most faithful humble servant,
FROM MR. PRIOR.
IF I am to chide you for not writing to me, or beg your pardon that I have not writ to you, is a question; for our correspondence has been so long interrupted, that I swear I do not know which of us wrote last. In all cases, I assure you of my continual friendship, and kindest remembrance of you; and with great pleasure, expect the same from you. I have been ill this winter. Age, I find, comes on; and the cough does not diminish.
Non sum qualis eram bonæ
Sub Regno Cynaræ Pass for that.
I am tired with politicks, and lost in the South Sea. The roaring of the waves, and the madness of the people, were justly put together. I can send you no sort of news, that holds either connexion or sense. It is all wilder than St. Anthony's dream; and the bagatelle is more solid than any thing, that has been endeavoured here this year. Our old friend Oxford is not well, and continues in Herefordshire. John of Bucks[1] died last night, and Conningsby was sent
