Dear George, You show me in the prettiest manner how much you like Petronius Arbiter; I have heard you commend him, but I am more pleased with your tacit approbation of writing like him, prose interspersed with verse:  I shall send you soon in return some poetry interspersed with prose; I mean the Cambridge congratulation with the notes, as you desired.  I have transcribed the greatest part of what was tolerable at the coffee-houses; but by most of what you will find, you will hardly think I have left any thing worse behind.  There is lately come out a new piece, called A Dialogue between Philemon and Hydaspes on false religion, by one Mr. Coventry,(151) A.M., and fellow, formerly fellow-commoner, of Magdalen.  He is a young man, but ’tis really a pretty thing.  If you cannot get it in town, I will send it with the verses.  He accounts for superstition in a new manner, and I think a Just One; attributing it to disappointments in love.  He don’t resolve it all into that bottom; ascribes it almost wholly as the source of female enthusiasm; and I dare say there’s ne’er a girl from the age of fourteen to four-and-twenty, but will subscribe to his principles, and own, if the dear man were dead that she loves, she would settle all her affection on heaven, whither he was gone.

Who would not be an Artemisia, and raise the stately mausoleum to her lord; then weep and watch incessant over it like the Ephesian matron!

I have heard of one lady, who had not quite so great a veneration for her husband’s tomb, but preferred lying alone in one, to lying on his left hand; perhaps she had an aversion to the German custom of left-handed wives.  I met yesterday with a pretty little dialogue on the subject of constancy tis between a traveller and a dove

Le passant. 
Que fais tu dans ce bois, plaintive Tourturelle?

La ToURTURELLE. 
Je g`emis, j’ai perdu ma compagne fidelle.

Le passant. 
Ne crains tu pas que l’oiseleur
Ne te fasse mourir comme elle?

La Tourturelle. 
Si ce n’est lui, ce sera ma douleur.

’Twould have been a little more apposite, if she had grieved for her lover.  I have ventured to turn it into that view, lengthened it, and spoiled it, as you shall see.

P.-Plaintive turtle, cease your moan;
Hence away;
In this dreary wood alone
Why d’ye stay?

T.-These tears, alas! you see flow
For my mate! 
P.-Dread you not from net or bow
His sad fate?

T.-If, ah! if they neither kill,
Sorrow will.

You will excuse this gentle nothing, I mean mine, when I tell you, I translated it out of pure good-nature for the use of a disconsolate wood-pigeon in our grove, that was made a widow by the barbarity of a gun.  She coos and calls me so movingly, ’twould touch your heart to hear her.  I protest to you it grieves me to pity her.  She is so allicholy as any thing.  I’ll warrant you now she’s as sorry as one of us would be.  Well, good man, he’s gone, and he died like a lamb.  She’s an unfortunate woman, but she must have patience; tis what we must all come to, and so as I was saying, Dear George, good bye t’ye, Yours sincerely.