When I have either too much business or want of health, to write to you, I count my time is lost, or at least my conscience accuses me that I spend it ill. At this time my head is full of cares, and my body ill at ease. My book is printing,[184] and my bookseller makes no hast. I had last night at bed-time an unwelcome fit of vomiting; and my sonn, Charles, lyes sick upon his bed with the colique, which has been violent upon him for almost a week. With all this, I cannot but remember that you accus’d me of barbarity, I hope in jeast onely, for mistaking one sheriff for another, which proceeded from my want of heareing well. I am heartily sorry that a chargeable office is fallen on my cousin Stuart.[185] But my Cousin Driden comforts me, that it must have come one time or other, like the small-pox; and better have it young than old. I hope it will leave no great marks behind it, and that your fortune will no more feel it than your beauty, by the addition of a year’s wearing. My cousine, your mother, was heer yesterday, to see my wife, though I had not the happiness to be at home.--Both the “Iphigenias” have been play’d with bad success;[186] and being both acted one against the other in the same week, clash’d together, like two rotten ships which could not endure the shock, and sunk to rights. The King’s proclamation against vice and profaneness is issued out in print;[187] but a deep disease is not to be cur’d with a slight medicine. The parsons, who must read it, will find as little effect from it, as from their dull sermons: ’tis a scare-crow, which will not fright many birds from preying on the fields and orchards. The best news I heare is, that the land will not be charg’d very deep this yeare: let that comfort you for your shrievalty, and continue me in your good graces, who am, fair cousin, Your most faithfull oblig’d servant, JO. DRYDEN. _For Mrs Stuart,_ _Att Cotterstock, near Oundle,_ _in Northamptonshyre, These._ _To be left with the Postmaster of Oundle._ LETTER XLV. TO MRS ELIZABETH THOMAS, JUN. MADAM, Friday, Dec. 29, 1699. I have sent your poems back again, after having kept them so long from you; by which you see I am like the rest of the world, an impudent borrower, and a bad pay-master. You take more care of my health than it deserves; that of an old man is always crazy, and, at present, mine is worse than usual, by a St Anthony’s fire in one of my legs; though the swelling is much abated, yet the pain is not wholly gone, and I am too weak to stand upon it. If I recover, it is possible I may attempt Homer’s Iliad. A specimen of it (the first book) is now in the press, among other poems of mine, which will make a volume in folio, of twelve shillings’ price; and will be published within this month. I desire, fair author, that you will be pleas’d to continue me in your good graces, who am, with all sincerity and gratitude, Your most humble servant, and admirer, JOHN DRYDEN.