Chapter LXX: Letter LXVIII: To Mr. R

July 16, 1773.

DEAR M----,

S*** is a riddle--I will serve him if I can--were I rich, he should have no reason to despise me--but he must learn to try to serve himself--I wish you would throw your good sense upon paper for him--advice from one of his own years would sink deeper than the fusty phlegmatic saws of an old man--do, in charity, give him half an hour’s labour--I do really think that you and S*** have sense enough for a dozen young fellows--and if it pleased God it were so divided--they would each be happier, wiser, and richer, than S*** or M----. And this by the way of thanking you--pooh--will do that when I see you--and if that never happens, a good action thanks itself.--Mr. Garrick called upon S---- on Tuesday night, and won his heart; he called to pay poor de Groote’s lodgings, sat with him some time, and chatted friendly.

I admire your modesty in grudging me two letters for one--and greasing me with the fulsoms of sneering praise--Sirrah, be quiet--what, you Snoodle-poop! have you any care--wife--or family? You ought to write volumes--it gives expansion to your thoughts--facility to your invention--ease to your diction--and pleases your Friend,

SANCHO.

Write, Knave--or--or--or--