Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 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 seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so 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 something that's nice : There's a pasty”—“ A pasty!” repeated the Jew; I don't care, if I keep a corner for 't too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot; σε Though splitting, I'll still 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 resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrify'd, enter'd the maid; Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, (for who could mistake her?) Sad Philomel thus-but let similies drop And now that I think on 't, the story may stop. You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. F ADVERTISEMENT. Dr. Goldsmith, and some of his friends, occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house.-One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and, at their next meeting, produced the following Poem. |