Here lies John Hughes and Sarah Drew;
          Perhaps you’ll say, What’s that to you? 
          Believe me, friend, much may be said
          On that poor couple that are dead. 
          On Sunday next they should have married;
          But see how oddly things are carried! 
          On Thursday last it rain’d and lighten’d,
          These tender lovers sadly frighten’d,
          Shelter’d beneath the cocking hay,
          In hopes to pass the time away,
          But the BOLD THUNDER found them out,
          (Commission’d for that end no doubt)
          And seizing on their trembling breath,
          Consign’d them to the shades of death. 
          Who knows if ’twas not kindly done? 
          For had they seen the next year’s fun,
          A beaten wife and cockold swain
          Had jointly curs’d the marriage chain: 
          Now they are happy in their doom,
          FOR POPE HAS WROTE UPON THEIR TOMB.

I CONFESS, these sentiments are not altogether so heroic as yours; but I hope you will forgive them in favour of the two last lines.  You see how much I esteem the honour you have done them; though I am not very impatient to have the same, and had rather continue to be your stupid living humble servant, than be celebrated by all the pens in Europe.

I WOULD write to Mr C——­; but suppose you will read this to him, if he inquires after me.

LET.  LIII.

[Footnote:  This and the following letters are now first published.]

TO LADY ——.

January 13. 1715-16.

I FIND, after all, by your letter of yesterday, that Mrs D——­ is resolved to marry the old greasy curate.  She was always high-church in an excessive degree; and, you know, she used to speak of Sacheveral as an apostolic saint, who was worthy to sit in the same place with St Paul, if not a step above him.  It is a matter, however, very doubtful to me, whether it is not still more the man than the apostle that Mrs D——­ looks to in the present alliance.  Though at the age of forty, she is, I assure you, very far from being cold and insensible; her fire may be covered with ashes, but it is not extinguished.—­Don’t be deceived, my dear, by that prudish and sanctified air.—­Warm devotions is no equivocal mark of warm passions; besides, I know it is a fact, (of which I have proofs in hand, which I will tell you by word of mouth) that our learned and holy prude is exceedingly disposed to use the means, supposed in the primitive command, let what will come of the end.  The curate indeed is very filthy.—­Such a red, spungy (sic), warty nose!  Such a squint!—­In short, he is ugly beyond expression; and, what ought naturally to render him peculiarly displeasing to one of Mrs D——­’s constitution and propensities, he is stricken in years.  Nor do I really know how they will live.  He has