Lady Masham is not yet brought to bed; but we expect it daily.  I dined with her to-day.  Lord Bolingbroke returned about two months ago, and Prior about a week; and goes back (Prior I mean) in a few days.  Who told you of my snuff-box and pocket?  Did I?  I had a letter to-day from Dr. Coghill,[2] desiring me to get Raphoe for Dean Sterne, and the deanery for myself.  I shall indeed, I have such obligations to Sterne.  But however, if I am asked who will make a good bishop, I shall name him before anybody.  Then comes another letter, desiring I would recommend a Provost,[3] supposing that Pratt (who has been here about a week) will certainly be promoted; but I believe he will not.  I presented Pratt to Lord Treasurer, and truly young Molyneux[4] would have had me present him too; but I directly answered him I would not, unless he had business with him.  He is the son of one Mr. Molyneux of Ireland.  His father wrote a book;[5] I suppose you know it.  Here is the Duke of Marlborough going out of England (Lord knows why), which causes many speculations.  Some say he is conscious of guilt, and dare not stand it.  Others think he has a mind to fling an odium on the Government, as who should say that one who has done such great services to his country cannot live quietly in it, by reason of the malice of his enemies.  I have helped to patch up these people[6] together once more.  God knows how long it may last.  I was to-day at a trial between Lord Lansdowne and Lord Carteret, two friends of mine.  It was in the Queen’s Bench, for about six thousand a year (or nine, I think).  I sat under Lord Chief-Justice Parker, and his pen falling down I reached it up.  He made me a low bow; and I was going to whisper him that I had done good for evil; for he would have taken mine from me.[7] I told it Lord Treasurer and Bolingbroke.  Parker would not have known me, if several lords on the bench, and in the court, bowing, had not turned everybody’s eyes, and set them a whispering.  I owe the dog a spite, and will pay him in two months at furthest, if I can.  So much for that.  But you must have chat, and I must say every sorry thing that comes into my head.  They say the Queen will stay a month longer at Windsor.  These devils of Grub Street rogues, that write the Flying Post and Medley in one paper,[8] will not be quiet.  They are always mauling Lord Treasurer, Lord Bolingbroke, and me.  We have the dog under prosecution, but Bolingbroke is not active enough; but I hope to swinge him.  He is a Scotch rogue, one Ridpath.[9] They get out upon bail, and write on.  We take them again, and get fresh bail; so it goes round.  They say some learned Dutchman has wrote a book, proving by civil law that we do them wrong by this peace; but I shall show by plain reason that we have suffered the wrong, and not they.  I toil like a horse, and have hundreds of letters