and Fl, men with whom succeeding Dramatic Writers (Otway alone excepted)
can bear no manner of comparison. Stupid Knox hath noticed none of 'em
among his extracts.

Thursday.--Mrs. C. can scarce guess how she has gratified me by her very
kind letter and sweet little poem. I feel that I _should_ thank her in
rhyme, but she must take my acknowledgment at present in plain honest
prose. The uncertainty in which I yet stand whether I can come or no
damps my spirits, reduces me a degree below prosaical, and keeps me in a
suspense that fluctuates between hope and fear. Hope is a charming,
lively, blue-eyed wench, and I am always glad of her company, but could
dispense with the visitor she brings with her, her younger sister, Fear,
a white-liver'd, lilly-cheeked, bashful, palpitating, awkward hussey,
that hangs like a green girl at her sister's apronstrings, and will go
with her whithersoever _she_ goes. For the life and soul of me I could
not improve those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess, so I
changed them to what you bid me and left 'em at Perry's. I think 'em
altogether good, and do not see why you were sollicitous about _any_
alteration. I have not yet seen, but will make it my business to see,
to-day's _Chronicle_, for your verses on Horne Took. Dyer stanza'd him
in one of the papers t'other day, but I think unsuccessfully. Tooke's
friends' meeting was I suppose a dinner of CONDOLENCE. I am not sorry to
find you (for all Sara) immersed in clouds of smoke and metaphysic. You
know I had a sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you
taught me some smattering of it. I look to become no mean proficient
under your tuition. Coleridge, what do you mean by saying you wrote to
me about Plutarch and Porphyry--I received no such letter, nor remember
a syllable of the matter, yet am not apt to forget any part of your
epistles, least of all an injunction like that. I will cast about for
'em, tho' I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, and both those