No rouge you wear, nor can a dart
>From Love’s bright quiver wound your heart. 
And thought you, Cupid and his mother
Would unrevenged their anger smother? 
No, no, from heaven they sent the fire
That boasts St. Anthony its sire;
They pour’d it on one peccant part,
Inflamed your cheek, if not your heart. 
In vain-for see the crimson rise,
And dart fresh lustre through your eyes
While ruddier drops and baffled pain
Enhance the white they mean to stain. 
Ah! nymph, on that unfading face
With fruitless pencil Time shall trace
His lines malignant, since disease
But gives you mightier power to please.

Willis is dead, and Pratt is to be chief justice; Mr. Yorke attorney general; solicitor, I don’t know who.  Good night! the watchman cries past one!

(208) Arabella Churchill, sister of the great Duke of Marlborough, was the mistress of James the Second while Duke of York, by whom she had four children; the celebrated Duke of Berwick, the Duke of Albemarle, and two daughters.  She afterwards became the wife of Colonel Charles Godfrey, master of the jewel office, and died in 1714, leaving by him two daughters, Charlotte Viscountess Falmouth, and Elizabeth, wife of Edmund Dunch, Esq.-E.

Letter 108 To George Montagu, Esq.  Arlington Street, Dec. 30, 1761. (page 165)

I have received two more letters from You since I wrote last week, and I like to find by them that you are so well and so happy.  As nothing has happened of change in my situation but a few more months passed, I have nothing to tell you new of myself.  Time does not sharpen my passions or pursuits, and the experience I have had by no means prompts me to make new connexions.  ’Tis a busy world, and well adapted to those who love to bustle in it; I loved it once, loved its very tempests—­now I barely open my windows to view what course the storm takes.  The town, who, like the devil, when one has once sold oneself’ to him, never permits one to have done playing the fool, believe I have a great hand in their amusements; but to write pamphlets, I mean as a volunteer, one must love or hate, and I have the satisfaction of doing neither.  I Would not be at the trouble of composing a distich to achieve a revolution.  ’Tis equal to me what names are on the scene.  In the general view, the prospect is very dark:  the Spanish war, added to the load, almost oversets our most sanguine heroism:  and now we have in opportunity of conquering all the world, by being at war with all the world, we seem to doubt a little of our abilities.  On a survey of our situation, I comfort myself with saying, “Well, what is it to me?” A selfishness that is far from anxious, when it is the first thought in one’s constitution; not so agreeable when it is the last, and adopted by necessity alone.