assured me she was not: so did her physician Arbuthnot, who always attends her. Yet these devils have spread that she has holes in her legs, and runs at her navel, and I know not what. Arbuthnot has sent me from Windsor a pretty Discourse upon Lying, and I have ordered the printer to come for it. It is a proposal for publishing a curious piece, called, The Art of Political Lying, in two volumes, &c. And then there is an abstract of the first volume, just like those pamphlets which they call "The Works of the Learned." Pray get it when it comes out[1]. The queen has a little of the gout in one of her hands. I believe she will stay a month still at Windsor. Lord treasurer showed me the kindest letter from her in the world, by which I picked out one secret, that there will be soon made some knights of the garter. You know another is fallen by lord Godolphin's death: he will be buried in a day or two at Westminster abbey. I saw Tom Leigh in town once. The bishop of Clogher has taken his lodging for the winter; they are all well. I hear there are in town abundance of people from Ireland; half a dozen bishops at least. The poor old bishop of London[2], at past fourscore, fell down backward going up stairs, and I think broke or cracked his skull; yet is now recovering. The town is as empty as at midsummer; and if I had not occasion for physick, I would be at Windsor still. Did I tell you of lord Rivers's will; he has left legacies to about twenty paltry old whores by name, and not a farthing to any friend, dependent or relation:
- ↑ This is published among the dean's works, and is part of the Miscellany, which he printed in conjunction with Mr. Pope.
- ↑ Dr. Henry Compton, translated to that see from the bishoprick of Oxford, in 1675.
