I have no novelties to entertain you with relating to either the _Abbey_ or St. _Paul_’s, for both the choirs continue just as wicked as they were when you left them; some of them daily come reeking hot out of the bawdy-house into the church; and others stagger out of a tavern to afternoon prayers, and hick up over a little of the _Litany_, and so back again. Old _Claret-face_ beats time still upon his cushion stoutly, and sits growling under his purple canopy, a hearty old-fashion’d base that deafens all about him. Beau _Bushy-whig_ preserves his voice to a miracle, charmes all the ladies over against him with his handsome face; and all over head with his singing. Parson _Punch_ make a very good shift still, and lyricks over his part in an anthem very handsomly. So much for the church, and now for the play-houses, which are grown so abominably wicked since the pious society have undertook to reform them, that not a member of the fraternity will sit down to his dinner, till he has repeated over a catalogue of curses upon the crew of sin-sucking hypocrites, as long as a presbyterian grace, then falls to with a good appetite, and damns them as heartily after dinner; nor will they bring a play upon the stage, unless larded with half a dozen of luscious bawdy songs in contempt of the reforming authority, some writ by Mr. _C_---- and set by your friend Dr. _B_----; others writ by Mr. _D_----, and set by your friend Mr. _E_----: you know men of our profession hang between the church and the play-house, as _Mahomet_’s tomb does between the two load-stones, and must equally incline to both, because by both we are equally supported.