You ask me, how I spend my time, with whom I am, and who of my present companions are most agreeable to me. Alas! I am weary of myself; I am with all the world, and no-body pleases me enough to engage my attention. We are here, fifteen, or sixteen of us from London, without counting the neighbouring people of fashion, of whom the house is always full. This continual crowd rather distracts than amuses me.

Lord Wilton has a violent passion for the fine arts: He has laboured hard to acquire them, but Nature has denied him the talents which bring them into view, and that taste, which only can give them perfection. With a strong voice, he sings disagreeably; and dances with a bad grace, though industriously exact in the steps. He designs correctly, paints little screens, which are neither pretty nor ugly; and makes detestable verses with great facility. Every day gives birth to a thousand couplets, and madrigals, in which Cupid, Venus, Hebe, all Olympus, find themselves,31 whether they will or no, at the feet of the terrestrial divinities of the castle. – You assume, when you arrive, the name which rhyme is pleased to confer on you. As to the rest, my Lord is a worthy man; I do not believe he has a fault, except that of desiring to be what he is not. Born with simplicity, courtesy, and a moderate understanding, if he had not pretended to superiority, he had escaped the mortification of seeing himself ridiculous. His lady. – But some-body comes. – Who is it? – Ah! who can it be but Sir Harry! – But who has subjected me to Sir Harry's importunities? Why must I suffer them? What right has he to weary me thus? Ah! my dear Henrietta, what enemy to the human race, invented that falshood, which, under the name of politeness, commands our civilities, and forces us to constrain ourselves? – This troublesome creature gets admittance into my closet; insensibly he gains ground; he is always at my side.