Pray, Madam, continue your waters; and, if possible, wash away that original sin, the gout.  What would one give for a little rainbow to tell one one should never have it again!  Well, but then one should have a burning fever—­for I think the greatest comfort that good-natured divines give us is, that we are not to be drowned any more, in order that we may be burned.  It will not at least be this summer. here is nothing but haycocks swimming round me.  If it should cease raining by Monday se’nnight, I think of’ dining with your ladyship at Old Windsor; and if Mr. Bateman presses me mightily, I may take a bed there.

As I have a waste of paper before me, and nothing more to say, I have a mind to fill it with a translation of a tale that I found lately in the Dictionnaire d’Anecdotes, taken from a German author.  The novelty of it struck me, and I put it into verse—­ ill enough; but as the old Duchess of Rutland used to say of a lie, it will do for news into the country.

“From Time’s usurping power, I see,
Not Acheron itself is free. 
His wasting hand my subjects feel,
Grow old, and wrinkle though in Hell. 
Decrepit is Alecto grown,
Megaera worn to skin and bone;
And t’other beldam is so old,
She has not spirits left to scold. 
Go, Hermes, bid my brother Jove
Send three new Furies from above.” 
To Mercury thus Pluto said: 
The winged deity obey’d.

It was about the self same season
That Juno, with as little reason,
Rung for her abigail; and, you know,
Iris is chambermaid to Juno. 
“Iris, d’ye hear?  Mind what I say;
I want three maids—­inquire—­No, stay! 
Three virgins—­Yes, unspotted all;
No characters equivocal. 
Go find me three, whose manners pure
Can Envy’s sharpest tooth endure.” 
The goddess curtsey’d, and retired;
>From London to Pekin inquired;
Search’d huts and palaces in vain;
And tired, to Heaven came back again. 
“Alone! are you return’d alone? 
How wicked must the world be grown! 
What has my profligate been doing? 
On earth has he been spreading ruin? 
Come, tell me all.”—­Fair Iris sigh’d,
And thus disconsolate replied:—­
“’Tis true, O Queen! three maids I found—­
The like are not on Christian ground—­
So chaste, severe, immaculate,
The very name of man they hate: 
These—­but, alas!  I came too late;
For Hermes had been there before—­
In triumph off to Pluto bore
Three sisters, whom yourself would own
The true supports of Virtue’s throne.” 
“To Pluto!—­Mercy!” cried the Queen,
“What can my brother Pluto mean? 
Poor man! he doats, or mad he sure is! 
What can he want them for?”—­“Three Furies.”

You will say I am an infernal poet; but every body cannot write as they do aux Champs Elys`ees.  Adieu, Madam!