LETTER 45.[1]
LONDON, April 24, 1712.
I had your twenty-eighth two or three days ago. I can hardly answer it now.
Since my last I have been extremely ill. 'Tis this day just a month since I
felt a small pain on the tip of my left shoulder, which grew worse, and spread
for six days; then broke all out by my collar and left side of my neck in
monstrous red spots inflamed, and these grew to small pimples. For four days
I had no rest, nor nights, for a pain in my neck; then I grew a little better;
afterward, where my pains were, a cruel itching seized me, beyond whatever I
could imagine, and kept me awake several nights. I rubbed it vehemently, but
did not scratch it: then it grew into three or four great sores like
blisters, and run; at last I advised the doctor to use it like a blister, so I
did with melilot[2] plasters, which still run: and am now in pain enough, but
am daily mending. I kept my chamber a fortnight, then went out a day or two,
but then confined myself again. Two days ago I went to a neighbour to dine,
but yesterday again kept at home. To-day I will venture abroad a little, and
hope to be well in a week or ten days. I never suffered so much in my life.
I have taken my breeches in above two inches, so I am leaner, which answers
one question in your letter. The weather is mighty fine. I write in the
morning, because I am better then. I will go and try to walk a little. I
will give DD's certificate to Tooke to-morrow. Farewell, MD MD MD, ME ME, FW
FW ME ME.
