'To such provoking stimulations I have owed inducement to retouch, for
Mr. Voltaire's use, the characters in his high boasted Merope; and I
have done it on a plan as near his own as I could bring it with a safe
conscience; that is to say, without distaste to English audiences.

This he likewise dedicated to lord Bolingbroke; and was the last he ever
wrote.--There is a melancholy thread of fatal prophecy in the beginning
of it; of his own approaching dissolution.

Cover'd in fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd;
My griefs all silent; and my joys resign'd.
With patient eye life's evening gloom survey:
Nor shake th'out-hast'ning sands; nor bid 'em stay--
Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly,
Fain wou'd my mind's weak offspring shun to die.
Fain wou'd their hope some light through time explore;
The name's kind pasport--When the man's no more.

From about the time he was solliciting the bringing on this play, an
illness seized him; from the tormenting pains of which he had scarce an
hour's intermission; and after making trial of all he thought could be
of service to him in medicine; he was desirous to try his native air of
London (as that of Plaistow was too moist a one) but he was then past
all recovery, and wasted almost to a skeleton, from some internal cause,
that had produced a general decay (and was believed to have been an
inflamation in the kidneys; which his intense attachment to his studies
might probably lay the foundation of.--When in town, he had the comfort
of being honoured with the visits of the most worthy and esteemed among
his friends; but he was not permitted many weeks to taste that blessing.
[Transcriber's note: closing brackets missing in original.]