I was with him
again, and he was mightily recovered, and I hope he will do well, and
the doctor approved my reasons; but, if he should die, I should come off
scurvily. The Secretary of State (Mr. St. John) sent to me to dine with
him; Mr. Harley and Lord Peterborow dined there too; and at night came
Lord Rivers. Lord Peterborow goes to Vienna in a day or two: he has
promised to make me write to him. Mr. Harley went away at six; but we
stayed till seven. I took the Secretary aside, and complained to him
of Mr. Harley, that he had got the Queen to grant the First-Fruits,
promised to bring me to her, and get her letter to the bishops of
Ireland; but the last part he had not done in six weeks, and I was in
danger to lose reputation, etc. He took the matter right, desired me to
be with him on Sunday morning, and promises me to finish the affair in
four days; so I shall know in a little time what I have to trust
to.--It is nine o'clock, and I must go study, you little rogues; and so
good-night, etc.

30. Morning. The weather grows cold, you sauceboxes. Sir Andrew
Fountaine, they bring me word, is better. I will go rise, for my hands
are starving while I write in bed. Night. Now Sir Andrew Fountaine is
recovering, he desires to be at ease; for I called in the morning to
read prayers, but he had given orders not to be disturbed. I have lost
a legacy by his living; for he told me he had left me a picture and some
books, etc. I called to see my quondam neighbour Ford (do you know what
quondam is, though?), and he engaged me to dine with him; for he always
dines at home on Opera-days. I came home at six, writ to the Archbishop,
then studied till past eleven, and stole to bed, to write to MD these
few lines, to let you know I am in good health at the present writing
hereof, and hope in God MD is so too. I wonder I never write politics to
you: I could make you the profoundest politician in all the lane.--Well,
but when shall we answer this letter, No. 8 of MD's? Not till next year,
faith. O Lord--bo--but that will be a Monday next. Cod's-so, is it?
and so it is: never saw the like.--I made a pun t'other day to Ben
Portlack(11) about a pair of drawers. Poh, said he, that's mine a--- all
over. Pray, pray, Dingley, let me go sleep; pray, pray, Stella, let me
go slumber; and put out my wax-candle.

31. Morning. It is now seven, and I have got a fire, but am writing abed
in my bed-chamber. 'Tis not shaving-day, so I shall be ready earl