| Citation |
RAG.781.022
19 Jul 1781:13 (7/392)
Letters of the late Thomas Lord Lyttleton. From a late
London edition just published. (Concluded from our last.)
Letter XXX.
We all of us grew suddenly tired of our Wiltshire
rustication, and, without a dissentient voice, voted a party
to Bristol, where I eat such excellent turtle, and drank
such execrable wine, that, with the threat [ ] of the
weather into the bargain, I was suddenly taken ill at the
play house, almost to fainting, and was obliged to hurry
into the air for re[ ]. . . [10 lines] But this was not
all. I saw three or four groups of hectic spectres engage
in cotillions; it brought instantly to my mind Holbein's
Dance of Death; and methought I saw the raw-boned scarecrow
piping and tabouring to his victims. . . [19 lines]
Man's feeble race what ills await!
Labour and penury,--the racks of pain;
Disease and Sorrow's mournful train;
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate.
. . . [5 lines of prose]
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