In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell,—
"Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well:"
And when his clerkship's out, I wish him herds
Of golden clients for his golden birds.
Our friends the Courtenays have never dined with us since their marriage, because we have never asked them; and we have never asked them, because poor Mrs. Unwin is not so equal to the task of providing for and entertaining company as before this last illness. But this is no objection to the arrival here of a bustard; rather it is a cause for which we shall be particularly glad to see the monster. It will be a handsome present to them. So let the bustard come, as the Lord Mayor of London said of the hare, when he was hunting—let her come, a' God's name: I am not afraid of her.
Adieu, my dear cousin and caterer. My eyes are terribly bad; else, I had much more to say to you.
Ever affectionately yours,
W. C.
TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.
Weston, Feb. 5, 1793.
In this last revisal of my work (the Homer) I have made a number of small improvements, and am now more convinced than ever, having exercised a cooler judgment upon it than before I could, that the translation will make its way. There must be time for the conquest of vehement and long-rooted prejudice; but, without much self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest will be made; and am certain that I should be of the same opinion, were the work another man's. I shall soon have finished the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the corrected copy of both to Johnson.
Adieu!
W. C.