From Sir Simon Darnford to Mr. B.

SIR,

Little did I think I should ever have Occasion to make a formal Complaint against a Person very dear to you, and who I believe deserves to be so; but don't let them be so proud and so vain of obliging and pleasing you, as to make them not care how they affront every body else.

The Person is no other than the Wife of your Bosom, who has taken such Liberties with me as ought not to be taken, and sought to turn my own Child against me, and make a dutiful Girl a Rebel.

If People will set up for Virtue, and all that, let ‘em be uniformly virtuous, or I would not give a Farthing for their Pretences to it.

Here I have been plagued with Gouts, Rheumatisms, and nameless Disorders, ever since you left us, which have made me call for a little more Attendance than ordinary; and I had Reason to think myself slighted, where an indulgent Father can least bear to be slighted, that is, where he most loves; and that by young Upstarts, who are growing up to the Injoyment of those Pleasures which have run away from me, fleeting Rascals as they are! before I was willing to part with them. And I rung and rung, and, Where's Polly? (for I honour the Slut with too much of my Notice) Where's Polly? was all my Cry, to every one who came up to ask what I rung for. And at last in burst the pert Slut, with an Air of Assurance, as if she thought all must be well the Moment she appeared, with, Do you want me, Papa?

Do I want you, Confidence! Yes, I do. Where have you been these two Hours, and never came near me, when you knew ‘twas my Time to have my Foot rubbed, which gives me mortal Pain? For you must understand, Mr. B. that nobody's Hand's so soft as Polly’s.

She gave me a saucy Answer, as I was disposed to think it, because I had just then a Twinge, that I could scarce bear; for Pain is a plaguy thing to a Man of my lively Spirits.