(993) The story here alluded to is told, in the Noble Authors, of Edward Howard, eighth Earl of Suffolk.  But Mr. Zouch had probably apprised Mr. Walpole, that a similar story had been told of Lord Rochester.  The Earl is represented as having sent for " a gentleman well known in the literary world,” (Mallet,) upon whom he inflicted the hearing of some of his verses; but coming to the description of a beautiful woman, he suddenly stopped, and said, “Sir, I am not like most poets; I do not draw from ideal mistresses; I always have my subject before me;” and ringing the bell, be said to a footman, “Call up Fine Eyes.”  A woman of the town appeared—­“Fine Eyes,” said the Earl, “look full on this gentleman.”  She did, and retired.  Two or three others of the seraglio were summoned in their turns, and displayed their respective charms for which they had been distinguished by his lordship’s pencil.-C.

(994) Dr. John Burton was a physician and antiquary of Yorkshire, who died in 1771.  His principal work, here alluded to, is entitled “Monasticon Eboracense.”  This work was never completed, the first volume only having appeared in folio.  Some imputations on the Doctor’s loyalty in 1745, diminished, it is said, his means and materials for continuing the Work.-C.

(995) The two first volumes appeared from the press at Strawberry Hill in 1762.-C.

473 Letter 299 To The Hon. H. S. Conway.  Arlington Street, Jan. 19, 1759.

I hope the treaty of Sluys advances rapidly.(996) Considering that your own court is as new to you as Monsieur de Bareil and his, you cannot be very well entertained:  the joys of a Dutch fishing town and the incidents of a cartel will not compose a very agreeable history.  In the mean time you do not lose much:  though the Parliament is met, no politics are come to town:  one may describe the House of Commons like the price of stocks; Debates, nothing done.  Votes, under par.  Patriots, no price.  Oratory, books shut.  Love and war are as much at a stand; neither the Duchess of Hamilton nor the expeditions are gone off yet.  Prince Edward has asked to go to Quebec, and has been refused.  If I was sure they would refuse me, I would ask to go thither too.  I should not dislike about as much laurel as I could stick in my window at Christmas.

We are next week to have a serenata at the Opera-house for the King of Prussia’s birthday:  it is to begin, “Viva Georgio, e Federico viva!” It will, I own, divert me to see my Lord Temple whispering for this alliance, on the same bench on which I have so often seen him whisper against all Germany.  The new opera pleases universally, and I hope will yet hold up its head.  Since Vanneschi is cunning enough to make us sing the roast Beef of old Germany, I am persuaded it will revive:  politics are the only lhotbed for keeping such a tender plant as Italian music alive in England.