ll again, dearest
MD.

LONDON, Dec. 20, 1711.

I was with the Secretary this morning, and, for aught I can see, we
shall have a languishing death: I can know nothing, nor themselves
neither. I dined, you know, with our Society, and that odious Secretary
would make me President next week; so I must entertain them this day
se'night at the Thatched House Tavern: it will cost me five or six
pounds; yet the Secretary says he will give me wine.

Saturday night. I have broken open my letter, and tore it into the
bargain, to let you know that we are all safe: the queen has made no
less than twelve Lords to have a majority; nine new ones, the other
three peers' sons; and has turned out the Duke of Somerset. She is
awaked at last, and so is Lord Treasurer: I want nothing now but to see
the Duchess out. But we shall do without her. We are all extremely
happy. Give me joy, sirrahs. This is written in a coffee-house.

LONDON, Feb. 26, 1712.

I was again busy with the Secretary. I dined with him, and we were to do
more business after dinner; but after dinner is after dinner--an old
saying and a true, "much drinking, little thinking." We had company with
us, and nothing could be done, so I am to go there again to-morrow.

To-day in the morning I visited upwards: first I saw the Duke of Ormond
below stairs, and gave him joy of being declared General in Flanders;
then I went up one pair of stairs, and sat with the duchess; then I went
up another pair of stairs, and paid a visit to Lady Betty; and then
desired her woman to go up to the garret, that I might pass half an hour
with her, for she was young and handsome, but she would not.

Tell Walls that I spoke to the Duke of Ormond about his friend's
affairs. I likewise mentioned his own affair to Mr. Southwell. But oo
must not know zees sings, zey are secrets; and we must keep them flom
nauty dallars. I was with Lord Treasurer to-day, and hat care oo for
zat? Monday is parson's holiday, and oo lost oo money at cards; ze
devil's device. Nite, nite, my two deelest logues.

LONDON, April 6, 1713

I was this morning at the rehearsal of Mr. Addison's play, called
"Cato," which is to be acted on Friday. There were not above half a
score of us to see it. We stood on the stage, and it was foolish enough
to see the actors prompted every moment, and the poet directing them;
and the drab that acts Cato's daughter, in the midst of a passionate
part, calling out "What's next?" I