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But hold-let me paufe-don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, fuppofe it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,
So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd beft,

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the

when.

There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venifon-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it to poets who feldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like fending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en

ter'd ;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venison and me.

* Lord Clare's nephew.

" What

"What have we got here?--Why this is good eating! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?"

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Why whofe should it be?" cried I with a flounce; "I get these things often-but that was a bounce: Some lords, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind—but I hate oftentation.'

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"If that be the cafe then, cried he, very gay,
I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words-I infift on't-precisely at three :

We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there;

My acquaintance is flight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner!
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.
What say you-a pasty, it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft.
Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end;
No ftirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear
friend !"

Thus fnatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venifon pafty, Were

* See the letters that paffed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grofvenor-12mo. 1769.

Were things that I never diflik'd in my life,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due fplendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber'd clofet just twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

come;

For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, The one with his fpeeches, and t'other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty, The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They both of them merry, and author's like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.' While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was ferv'd as they came.

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At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a fwinging tureen; At the fides there was fpinnage and pudding made

hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty—was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter averfion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian,

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So there I fat ftuck, like a horfe in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most was that d'd Scottish

rogue,

With his long-winded fpeeches, his fmiles and his

brogue,

And, madam,' quoth he, "may this bit be my poifon, A prettier dinner I never fet eyes on;

may

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Pray a flice of your liver, tho' I be curft, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst.” "The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe feven days in a week: I like these here dinners fo pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O-ho! quoth my friend he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for fomething that's nice: There's a pafty"-" a pafty! repeated the Jew; I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'el, mon, a pasty! re-echo'd the Scot, Tho' fplitting, I'll fill keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we refolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A vifage fo fad, and fo pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her? That she came with fome terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out, for that negligent floven,

Had fhut out the pafty on fhutting his oven.

Sad

Sad Philomel thus-but let fimilies drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may ftop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To fend fuch good verfes to one of your taste;
You've got an odd fomething-a kind of difcerning-
A relish-a tafte-ficken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very flightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

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