As I am far from having been better since I wrote to you last, my postchaise points more and more to Naples.  Yet Strawberry, like a mistress, As oft as I descend the hill of health, Washes my hold away.  Your company would have made me decide much faster, but I see I have little hopes of that, nor can I blame you; I don’t use so rough a word with regard to myself, but to your pursuing your amusement, which I am sure the journey Would be.  I never doubted your kindness to me one moment; the affectionate manner in which you offered, three weeks ago, to accompany me to Bath, Will never be forgotten.  I do not think my complaint very serious:  for how can it be so, when it has never confined me a whole day?  But my mornings are so bad, and I have had so much more pain this last week, with restless nights, that I am convinced it must not be trifled with.  Yet I think Italy would be the last thing I would try, if it were ’not to avoid politics:  yet I hear nothing else.  The court and opposition both grow more violent every day from the same cause; the victory of the former.  Both sides torment me with their affairs, though it is so plain I do not care a straw about either.  I wish I -were great enough to say, as a French officer on the stage at Paris said to the pit, “Accordez vous, canaille!” Yet to a man without ambition or interestedness, politicians are canaille.  Nothing appears to me more ridiculous in my life than my having ever loved their squabbles, and that at an age when I loved better things too!  My poor neutrality, which thing I signed with all the world, subjects me, like other insignificant monarchs on parallel occasions, to affronts.  On Thursday I was summoned to Princess Emily’s loo.  Loo she called it, politics it was.  The second thing she said to me was, “How were you the two long days?” “Madam, I was only there the first.”  “And how did you vote!” “Madam, I went away.”  “Upon my word, that was carving well.”  Not a very pleasant apostrophe to one who certainly never was a time-server!  Well, we sat down.  She said, “I hear Wilkinson is turned out, and that Sir Edward Winnington is to have his place; who is he?” addressing herself to me, who sat over against her.  “He is the late Mr. Winnington’s heir, Madam.”  “Did you like that Winnington?” “I can’t but say I did, Madam.”  She shrugged her shoulders, and continued; “Winnington originally was a great Tory; what do you think he was when he died?” “Madam, I believe what all people are in place.”  Pray, Mr. Montagu, do you perceive any thing rude or offensive in this?  Hear then:  she flew into the most outrageous passion, Coloured like scarlet, and said, “None of your wit; I don’t understand joking on those subjects; what do you think your father would have said if he had heard you say so?  He Would have murdered you, and you would have deserved it.”  I was quite Confounded and amazed; it was impossible to explain myself across a loo-table, as she is so deaf:  there was no making a reply