I suppose this letter will find thee[150] picking of daisies, or
smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in some
innocent country diversion of the like nature. I have however
orders from the club to summon thee up to town, being all of us
cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company, after
thy conversations with Moll White and Will Wimble. Prithee do not
send us up any more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the
town with spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell
confoundedly of woods and meadows. If thou dost not come up
quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love with one of Sir
Roger's dairymaids. Service to the Knight. Sir Andrew is grown the
cock of the club since he left us, and if he does not return
quickly will make every mother's son of us commonwealth's men[151].
Dear Spec,
Thine eternally,
WILL HONEYCOMB.