I cannot but with the last degree of sorrow and anguish, inform you of our present wretched condition; we have even tired our palms, and our ribs at slappaty-pouch; and if it had not been for some gentlemen that came from the coasts of _Italy_, I had almost forgot to handle my sculls. There came a sneaking ghost here, some a day or two or three ago, and he surpriz’d me with an account, (I may call it indeed a terrible one) that you have had a maiden-sessions in your metropolis. Was it then possible that _Newgate_ should be without a rogue, or our patron, the most worshipful Sir _Senseless Lovel_ without any execution in his mouth? You talk of having hang’d _Tyburn_ in mourning: Why cousin _Catch_, upon my sincerity, and for fear you should question my veracity, by the thickest mud in _Acheron_, I swear, it is almost high time that my boat was in mourning. What, he upon the bench and no man hang’d! Well, as assuredly as the blood of the horses will rise up in judgment against our friend _Whitney_: this maiden-sessions shall rise up in judgment against him. Such shoals as I have had from time to time, meer sacrifices to his avarice or his malice, that unless his conscience begins to fly in his face, I cannot comprehend what should occasion this calm at the _Old-Baily_: For give me leave, dear cousin, to tell you, that formerly he never sav’d any man for his money, but hang’d another in his room; trading was then pretty good, cousin, and there was a penny to be got; but indeed, on your side it is very dull: nay, in _Flanders_ too, that fertile soil of blood and wounds, there has not one leg nor one arm been brought us all this summer. Prithee be you _Charon_, and let me be recorder, I’ll warrant you somewhat more to do. _From Sir_ BARTHOLOMEW---- _to the Worshipful Serjeant_ S----. _By the same Hand._