Paid bells, and musicians,

Drugs, nurse, and physicians,

Balls, raffles, subscriptions, and chairs;
Wigs, gowns, skins, and trimming,
Good books for the women,

Plays, concerts, tea, negus, and prayers.

Paid the following schemes,

Of all who it seems

Make charity-bus'ness their care:

A gamester decay'd,

And a prudish old maid

By gaiety brought to despair:

A fiddler of note,

Who, for lace on his coat,
To his tailor was much in arrears:
An author of merit,

Who wrote with such spirit

The pillory took off his ears.

A sum, my dear mother, far heavier yet, Captain Cormorant won when I learn'd lansquenet; Two hundred I paid him, and five am in debt: For the five I had nothing to do but to write, For the Captain was very well-bred and polite,

And took, as he saw my expences were great,
My bond, to be paid on the Clodpole estate;
And asks nothing more while the money is lent
Than interest paid him at twenty per cent.

But I'm shock’d to relate what distresses befall Miss Jenny, my sister, and Tabby and all. Miss Jenny, poor thing, from this Bath expedition, Was in hopes very soon to have chang'd her condition: But rumour has brought certain things to her ear, Which I ne'er will believe, yet am sorry to hear; That the Captain, her lover, her dear Romeo, Was banish'd the army a great while ago: That his friends and his foes he alike can betray, And picks up a scandalous living by play.'

But if e'er I could think that the Captain had cheated, Or my dear cousin Jenny unworthily treated,

By all that is sacred I swear, for his pains

I'd cudgel him first, and then blow out his brains,
For the man I abhor like the devil, dear mother,
Who one thing conceals, and professes another.

O how shall we know the right way to pursue? Do the ills of mankind from religion accrue? Religion design'd to relieve all our care,

Has brought my poor sister to grief and despair:

Now she talks of damnation, and screws up her face; Then prates about Roger, and spiritual grace;

Her senses, alas! seem at once gone astray

No pen can describe it, no letter convey.

But the man without sin, that Moravian Rabbi, Has perfectly cured the Chlorosis of Tabby;

And, if right I can judge, from her shape and her face, She soon may produce him an infant of

grace.

Now they say that all people in our situation,
Are very fine subjects for regeneration;

But I think, my dear mother, the best we can do,
Is to pack up our all, and return back to you.

Farewell then, ye streams,

Ye poetical themes!

Sweet fountains for curing the spleen!
I'm griev'd to the heart

Without cash to depart,

And quit this adorable scene!

Where gaming and grace

Each other embrace,
Dissipation and piety meet:

May all who've a notion

Of cards or devotion,

Make Bath their delightful retreat!

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON;

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

[GOLDSMITH.]

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;

Well, suppose 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 sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.

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 venison-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 seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd 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 pleas'd to be kind-but I hate ostentation.'