Dear madam, Adieu.

Bow Bells are just now ringing, ding dong, but whether for this, I cannot presently tell; but it is likely enough, for I have known them ring upon much foolisher occasions, and lately too.

TO JOHN EVELYN

Reply to an old friend

Clapham, 7 Aug. 1700.

I have no herds to mind, nor will my Doctor allow me any books here.  What then, will you say, too, are you doing?  Why, truly, nothing that will bear naming, and yet I am not, I think, idle; for who can, that has so much of past and to come to think on, as I have?  And thinking, I take it, is working, though many forms beneath what my Lady and you are doing.  But pray remember what o’clock it is with you and me; and be not now, by overstirring, too bold with your present complaint, any more than I dare be with mine, which, too, has been no less kind in giving me my warning, than the other to you, and to neither of us, I hope, and, through God’s mercy, dare say, either unlooked for or unwelcome.  I wish, nevertheless, that I were able to administer any thing towards the lengthening that precious rest of life which God has thus long blessed you, and, in you, mankind, with; but I have always been too little regardful of my own health, to be a prescriber to others.  I cannot give myself the scope I otherwise should in talking now to you at this distance, on account of the care extraordinary I am now under from Mrs. Skinner’s being suddenly fallen very ill; but ere long I may possibly venture at entertaining you with something from my young man in exchange—­I don’t say in payment, for the pleasure you gratify me with from yours, whom I pray God to bless with continuing but what he is! and I’ll ask no more for him.

JONATHAN SWIFT

1667-1745

TO STELLA

The Dean at home

London, 16 Jan. 1710-11.

O faith, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb of an answer to any of MD’s; there is for you now; and yet Presto ben’t angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next Irish post, except he sees MD’s little handwriting in the glass frame at the bar of St. James’s Coffee-house, where Presto would never go but for that purpose.  Presto’s at home, God help him, every night from six till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as anybody in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry.  As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of happiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD.  I love the expectation of it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself, that I have it yet to be happy with.  Yes faith, and when I write to MD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and I prating to you, and telling you where I have been:  Well,