poem. I don't see why.

"I have had another from my poor dear Augusta, who is in a sad fuss
about my late illness; do, pray, tell her (the truth) that I am
better than ever, and in importunate health, growing (if not grown)
large and ruddy, and congratulated by impertinent persons on my
robustious appearance, when I ought to be pale and interesting.

"You tell me that George Byron has got a son, and Augusta says, a
daughter; which is it?--it is no great matter: the father is a good
man, an excellent officer, and has married a very nice little
woman, who will bring him more babes than income; howbeit she had a
handsome dowry, and is a very charming girl;--but he may as well
get a ship.

"I have no thoughts of coming amongst you yet awhile, so that I can
fight off business. If I could but make a tolerable sale of
Newstead, there would be no occasion for my return; and I can
assure you very sincerely, that I am much happier (or, at least,
have been so) out of your island than in it.

"Yours ever.

"P.S. There are few English here, but several of my acquaintance;
amongst others, the Marquis of Lansdowne, with whom I dine
to-morrow. I met the Jerseys on the road at Foligno--all well.

"Oh--I forgot--the Italians have printed Chillon, &c. a
_piracy_,--a pretty little edition, prettier than yours--and
published, as I found to my great astonishment on arriving here;