Well! suppose it a bounce- -sure a poet may try, 1 To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the Haunch, Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; And he smil'd as he look'd at the Ven'son and me.|| *Lord Clare's nephew. ["There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and Hiff."-First edit.] [Dr. Paul Hiffernan. For an account of this eccentric character, see Life, ch. xx.] $ ["Such dainties to them! It would look like a flirt. Like sending 'em rulls when wanting a shirt."-First edit.] ["A fine-spoken Custom-house officer he, Who smil'd as he gaz'd on the Ven'son and me."--Ibid.] "What have we got hee?-Why, this is good eatirng! "Why, whose shoold it be?" cried I, with a fluunce, "If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. a poor No words-I insist on't-precisely at three: We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there; And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. ["I'll take no denial-you shall and you must."-First edit.] ["No words, my dear Goldsmith! my very good friend!"-Ibid.] See the Letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769. So next day, in due splendor to make my approach, When come to the place where we all were to dine, At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tureen; At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot; In the middle, a place where the Pasty-was not.f Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacor and liver went merrily round; But what vex'd me most was that d-'d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue, And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on! Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." ["Who dabble and write in the papers like you." - First edit.] "In the middle a place where the Ven'son - was not."--Thid "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, But we quickly found out,-for who could mistake her!- And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus -but let similes drop And now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labor misplac'd, "["Your tripe!" quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, I could eat of this tripe seven days in the week."-First edit.] [Lord Clare was a man of parts, a poet, and a facetious companion. Almon observes, that his poems breathe the true Horation fire, but are more than half unknown. A volume of them was published anonymously by Dodsley in 1739, entitled Odes and Epistles." Several other poems of his Lordship are printed in Dodsley's Collection, and in the New Foundling Hospital for Wit. His only daughter married the first Marquis of Buckingham, on whose second son the title of Baron Nugent devolved. He died in 1788. - See Nichols, Lit. Anec, vol. viii p. 2, and Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 123.] |