t miscarried. And so
Inish-Corthy,(16) and the river Slainy; fine words those in a lady's
mouth. Your hand like Dingley's, you scambling,(17) scattering
sluttikin! YES, MIGHTY LIKE INDEED, IS NOT IT?(18) Pisshh, do not talk
of writing or reading till your eyes are well, and long well; only I
would have Dingley read sometimes to you, that you may not lose the
desire of it. God be thanked, that the ugly numbing is gone! Pray
use exercise when you go to town. What game is that ombra which
Dr. Elwood(19) and you play at? is it the Spanish game ombre? Your
card-purse? you a card-purse! you a fiddlestick. You have luck indeed;
and luck in a bag. What a devil! is that eight-shilling tea-kettle
copper, or tin japanned? It is like your Irish politeness, raffling for
tea-kettles. What a splutter you keep, to convince me that Walls has
no taste! My head continues pretty well. Why do you write, dear sirrah
Stella, when you find your eyes so weak that you cannot see? what
comfort is there in reading what you write, when one knows that? So
Dingley cannot write, because of the clutter of new company come to
Wexford! I suppose the noise of their hundred horses disturbs you; or
do you lie in one gallery, as in an hospital? What! you are afraid of
losing in Dublin the acquaintance you have got in Wexford, and chiefly
the Bishop of Raphoe,(20) an old, doting, perverse coxcomb? Twenty at a
time at breakfast. That is like five pounds at a time, when it was never
but once. I doubt, Madam Dingley, you are apt to lie in your travels,
though not so bad as Stella; she tells thumpers, as I shall prove in my
next, if I find this receives encouragement.--So Dr. Elwood says there
are a world of pretty things in my works. A pox on his praises! an enemy
here would say more. The Duke of Buckingham would say as much, though
he and I are terribly fallen out; and the great men are perpetually
inflaming me against him: they bring me all he says of me, and, I
believe, make it worse out of roguery.--No, 'tis not your pen is
bewitched, Madam Stella, but your old SCRAWLING, SPLAY-FOOT POT-HOOKS,
S, S,(21) ay that's it: there the s, s, s, there, there, that's exact.
Farewell, etc.

Our fine weather is gone; and I doubt we shall have a rainy journey
to-day. Faith, 'tis shaving-day, and I have much to do. When Stella says
her pen was bewitched, it was only because there was a hair in it. You
know, the fellow they call God-help-it had the same thoughts of his
wif