But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. I think they love venison-I know they love beef. Your very good mutton's a very good treat; An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. « What have we got here?—Why this is good eating! Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting?» Why whose should it be?» cried I with a flounce; «< I get these things often»-but that was a bounce: << Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind--but I hate ostentation. >> « If that be the case then, » cried he, very gay, << I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 'Lord Clare's nephew. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there; We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What And say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must, my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And « nobody with me at sea but myself; » 1 1 Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, When The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale; But no matter, The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you: See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.—12mo. 1769. " The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot; With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue, Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, << What the de'il, mon, a pasty!» re-echoed the Scot, We'll all keep a corner,» was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on 't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning, A relish—a taste-sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies ; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, And turning all the past to pain Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, And he who wants each other blessing, |