An unknown correspondent [probably Edward Lloyd] to Sir Robert Owen at Clenennau,
- Clenennau letters and papers 1087.
- File
- [? c.1683].
Thanks for two letters received. The writer fancies that Owen has described his house and hill and wood and fountains only to tempt him to write something upon them, which he would certainly do but for admirable Cooper's Hill which nothing can outdo. Worthy Ned is in town and blesses the writer's eyes and ears with the sight of his sweet face and charming tongue. Ned has given Owen the news which the dull town affords. The plot is silent now and all the 'gentlemen peachers' cabal in private at Lord Shaftesbury's, the effects of which will be shown in good time to make them merry with. Owen knows that Shaftesbury is (out of) the Council. The Duke went yesterday to Scotland and the Duke of Buckingham to Holland with a French 'misse' and that is all. There is no new whoring, but for want of variety or through laziness - or want of cash - the old keep constant and 'dully moyle on still'. Little Ned and John Crosbie ... have had many shrewd bouts: the good lad grows weak in the head-piece and they say his drinking fails him, but this we must all come to. The writer has not seen a face of anyone of Owen's acquaintance. Sir Phill is in a little tribulation. The writer is plagued dull and has done just nothing since he saw Owen, otherwise he would have written some doggerel for Owen ... The valiant Cid stayed on some time after Owen left to complete his conquest of Moll ... but he used the wrong rhetoric or thought it not worthy to bestow on stale ware. Their sister poetess is newly equipped, they having made a purse for her which has put a new scabbard on the rusted blade - but still she stinks, for, as the writer's friend the mad lover has it, she may be a princess and stink still: she is much enamoured of Edward ... 'Tis thought she will facilitate her cure for the conquest ... health and a new gown go a long way to atone for a bad face; but the gentleman is still squeamish and so a little cruel. The writer has a rare book for Owen in which he will find great comfort; 'tis called the Count of Gabalis, a learned rosicrusian who tells us fine tales of sylphes, gnomes, nimphs and sallamanders all of which are faire ladys more kind, more desirable and safe than woman kind'. If Owen prays hard he may attain to the conversation of some of these - as good a mistress to entertain a man in the mountains of Wales as could be wished for. Wishes he could send Owen the book for it is very pleasant, witty and new ... Hopes Owen's matrimonial foppery goes not on: were it not for the blood of the Owens, it would be a pity that so excellent a man should be noosed ... but 'tis only exchanging 'the beaux garcons for the bone home' ... Asks for word how it goes ... PS For God's sake Owen must send him some verses to relish his fancy with. Tuesday night: the writer never understood an almanac though he reverences those that do: but tomorrow is Lord Mayor's Day.