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THANKS, my lord, for your ven’son, for finer or
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter ;
gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
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
z'd on the haunch,
when. There's H–d, and Cmy, and H-rth, and H—ff, I think they love ven’son~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.
Lord Clare's nephew.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
eating! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?" “Why, whose should it be?” cry'd 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."
" If that be the case then,” cry'd he, very gay, « I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, To-morrow you
dinner with me; No words I insist on 't-precisely at three : We 'll have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be
take a poor
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
Here, porter—this ven'son with me to Mile End;
Left alone to reflect, having empty'd my shelf,
When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not
come ; “ For I knew it,” he cry'd; “ both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ;
* See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland and lady Grosvenor, 12mo, 1769.
But no matter, I 'll warrant we 'll make
the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ’d them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. 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 bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vext 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 ;