TO THE SAME,
Dear Sir,
I must own I have long owed you a letter, but you must own you have owed me one a good deal longer. Besides I have but two people in the whole kingdom of Ireland to take care of, the Dean and you: but you have several who complain of your neglect in England. Mr. Gay complains, Mr. Harcourt complains, Mr. Jervas complains, Mr. Arbuthnot complains, my Lord complains; I complain. (Take notice of this figure of iteration, when you make your next sermon.) Some say, you are in deep discontent at the new turn of affairs; others, that you are so much in the Archbishop's good graces, that you will not correspond with any that have seen the last ministry. Some affirm, you have quarrelled with Pope (whose friends they observe daily fall from him, on account of his satirical and comical disposition); others, that you are insinuating yourself into the opinions of the ingenious Mr. What-do-ye-call-him. Some think you are preparing your sermons for the press, and others, that you will transform them into essays, and moral discourses. But the only excuse that I will allow you is, your attention to the life of Zoilus. The frogs already seem to croak for their transportation to England, and are sensible how much that Doctor is cursed and
