The author of a new Grub Street poem, I see, allows me a great share of feeling, at the same time that he relates facts of me, which, if they were true, would, besides making me ridiculous, call very much into question what he asserts with any reasonable man. I do not know if you have received this performance. If I thought you had not, paltry as it is, I should send it to you. The work I mean is called "The Diaboliad."(138) This hero is Lord Ernham. Lord Hertford and Lord Beauchamp are the chief persons whom he loads with his invectives. Lord Lyttleton (and) his cousin Mr. Ascough are also treated with not much lenity; Lord Pembroke with great familiarity, as well as C. Fox; and Fitzpatrick, although painted in colours bad enough at present, is represented as one whom in time the Devil will lose for his disciple. I am only attacked upon that trite and very foolish opinion concerning le pene e le Delitte (ed i delitted), acknowledging (it) to proceed from an odd and insatiable curiosity, and not from a mauvais coeur. In some places I think there is versification, and a few good lines, and the piece seems to be wrote by one not void of parts, but who, with attention, might write much better.(139) I forgive him his mention of me, because I believe that he does it without malice, but, if I had leisure to think of such things, I must own the frequent repetition of the foolish stories would make me peevish. Alas! I have no time to be peevish. Quand on a le coeur gros, et serre, comme je l'ai souvent a cette heure, il est rare que l'on a de l'humeur; l'ame est trop serieusement attaquee et touchee pour preter attention a de petites choses; chez moi, je suis triste, je soupire, mais je ne gronde plus, je ne m'emporte pas. Richard, I hear, goes in about a fortnight. Fish Craufurd thinks, as I am told, that Lord O(ssory?) should pay his debts; that is, give him 40,000 pounds from his own children, pour le delivrer des Juifs. He pays already to one of them out of his 300 pounds a year, which he meant to have paid to his brother for a more comfortable maintenance. I dined on Sunday at the French Ambassador's; a splendid and wretched dinner, but good wine; a quantity of dishes which differed from one another only in appearance; they had all the same taste, or equally wanted it. The middle piece, the demeurant, as it is called, a fine Oriental arcade, which reached from one end of the table to the other, fell in like a tremblement de terre. The wax, which cemented the composing parts, melted like Icarus's wings, and down it fell. Seventy bougies occasioned this, with the number of persons all adding to the heat of the room. I had a more private and much better dinner yesterday at Devonshire House. (138) "The Diaboliad, a poem dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty's Dominion," London, G. Kearsley, 1777.