ve read somewhere of a Monster among the Ancients, with a
Virgins face, and all beside, a Serpent; which holds exact Resemblance
here, unless _de Cros_ should object against it, because Serpents have
stings, and his Letter has none. However, if we will not grant him a
_Conjurer_, as he would fain be thought, yet we cannot in Conscience
deny him to be a _Jugler_, since the first thing he presents us with, is
meer _slight of hand_; For he lays down a piece of _Gold_ upon the
Table, and immediately, _Presto, 'tis gone_; and all we can see, is only
half a dozen Pellets of _Dirt_. In short, I am not able to reach what he
means by so whimsical a beginning, and of so different a piece from
every word that follows; unless that being resolved to say nothing
afterwards, which any body would believe, he thought fit to entertain us
at first with three Lines he is sure no body doubts.

But, to be serious. If Sir _W. T._ be _of great worth_, If _de Cros_
either believes it himself, or would have any body else to do so, why is
every word that follows, so contradictory to these? If he _deserves
well_, why is he used so very ill? Does _de Cros_ understand what a man
of _great worth_ means? I doubt he does not, either by himself, or by
such Company, as so much good Language in all the rest of his Letter,
would make us believe he keeps. Can a man of _great worth_, and that
_deserves well_, be _Vain_, _Proud_, _Revengeful_, _Ungrateful to his
Friend_, _False to his Master_, and impertinently _Ambitious_ in his
very Retreat from all Publick Affairs? This is indeed a very worthy, and
a very lively Character of a Man _of worth_. But is not such stuff as
this, just a sputtering out, _Quicquid in Buccam venerit?_ Like hot
Porridge, that burns his Tongue; tho 'tis pretty plain, that all his
heat proceeds from the overflowing of his Gall within, and from nothing
without. One would think he has very well practised the old Rule of
_Calumniare fortiter_; yet he has lamentably fail'd of the consequence,
_Aliquid inherebit_; for all the Dirt he endeavours to fling about,
loves its own Element, and sticks close to his own Fingers. I never knew
so unlucky a Gamester to throw so often, and to be always out! What, not
one hit! I think the devil's in the Dice; however, lets throw again, but
first we'll change Dice, and if the good Morals of this Man of great
worth will not pass, let's try our luck at his Naturals. Sir _W. T._
(says my Gamester) _has been of