While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-

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 :

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 oftentation."


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• If that be the case 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 insist on't-precisely at three :
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ak 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 venison with me to Mile-end ;
Noftirring-I beg-my dear friend---my dear friend!”
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

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Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And “nobody with me at sea but my felf;"* Tho'I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pafty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though 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.

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

dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

come ; • For I knew it,” he cried, “ both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make

up 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 authors like you ; The one writes the Sqarler, the other the Scourge; Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was ferv'd as they came.

the party,

At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ;

# See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor 12° 1769.


At the sides 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, So there I fatfuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me molt, was that d'd Scottish

fögue, 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 ; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curit, 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 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 pafty"_" 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; Though splitting, I'll ftill keep a corner for that." We'll'all keep a corner, the lady cried out;" We'll all keep a corner was echo'd about.” While thus we resolv'd, and the party delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;

A virage



A visage so fad, and so 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 some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let fimilies drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relisha tafte—ficken'd over by learning ;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly 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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The wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, ftill op hope relies ;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;
And fill, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.


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