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Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman :
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure.
Thus, 'tis with all their chief and constant care
Is to seem ev'ry thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems l’have robb’d his vizor from the lion ;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam’me! who's afraid ?

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'allume.
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man is black ?
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run ?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then a truce, since the requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

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HANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never rang’d in a forest, or smoak’d in a platter ;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy,

my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help

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 1;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,

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 try'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-fure a poet may try, 15 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

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But, my lord, 'tis 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 truliy and staunch; So I cut it, and sent 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 ; 'Tw

'was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 25 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.

30 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 fending them ruffles, when wanting a fhirt. While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

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

40 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 oftentation.

If that be the case then, cried he very gay, 45 I'm glad I've taken this house in my way.

* Lord Clare's nephew.

Tomorrow 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 there,
My acquaintance is flight, or I'd ask ny lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you-a pafty, it shall, and it muft,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft.
Here, porter-this venison with nie to Mile-erd; 55
No ftirring—I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!
Thus snatching his hat, he brusht off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my fhelf,
And “ nobody with me at sea but myself ;" *
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never difik'd in my life,
Tho'clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendor to make ng approach, 65
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 closet just twelve feet by nine :)
My friend bade me welcome, but itruck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnfon and Burke would not come,
For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail, 71
The one with his speeches, and i'other with Thrale ;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make


party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.


See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cuinberland, and lady Grosvenor--12mu. 1769.

was not.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,

75 They both of them nierry, and authors 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 serv'd as they came. 80

At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pastyNow, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion,

85 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 vex'd 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 ; 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, 95 I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week: I like these here-dinners so pretty and finall; But

your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all. O-oh! quoth my friend, he'll come in on a trice, He's keeping a corner for foniething that's nice: There's a pasty-mona party ! 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 till keep a corner for that. We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out; 105 We'll all keep a corner was echo'd about.

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