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Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her fampler, and takes up the woman :
The little urchin fmiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere he's got pow'r to cure.
Thus, 'tis with all-their chief and conftant care
Is to feem ev'ry thing-but what they are.

Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who feems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and fwears, with round parade,
Looking, as who fhould fay, dam'me! who's afraid?

Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,

[Mimicking.

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, beftrides the ftate;
Yet, when he deigns his real fhape t' affume.
He turns old woman, and beftrides a broom.
Yon patriot too, who preffes on your fight,
And feems 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, fince the requests it too :

Do you spare her, and l'il for once spare you.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

A

POETIC EPISTLE

то

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLX V.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never rang'd in a foreft, or fioak'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy,
Tho' my ftomach was sharp, I could scarce help
regretting,

To spoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;

As in fome Irish houses, where things are so so,
One

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gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : But, for eating a rafher of what they take pride in, They'd as foon 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, fuppofe 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 proteft in my turn, It's a truth and your Lordship may afk Mr. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trufty and ftaunch ; 1; So I cut it, and fent it to Reynolds undreft, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breaft I had next to difpofe; 'Twas a neck and a breaft that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

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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 venifon-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 feldom 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 shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,

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

And he fmil'd as he look'd at the venifon and me.

What have we got here? why this is good eating Your own I fuppofe or is it in waiting?

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Why whofe fhould it be? cried I, with a flounce,

I get these things often, but that was a bounce : Some lords, my acquaintance, that fettle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation.

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

Lord Clare's nephew.

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To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;

No words-I infift on't-precifely at three:

We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there,
My acquaintance is flight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a finner!

We wanted this venifon to make out the dinner.
What fay you-a pafty, it fhall, and it muft,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruft.
Here, porter-this venifon with me to Mile-end; 55
No ftirring I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!
Thus fnatching 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 fea but my felf ;”*
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hafty
Yet Johnfon and Burke, and a good venifon pafty,
Were things that I never diflik'd in my life,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due fplendor to make my 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 clofet juft twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but ftruck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come, For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail, The one with his fpeeches, and other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

E

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See the letters that paffed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grofvenor-12mo. 1769.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,

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They both of them merry, 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 defcrib'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was ferv'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 fides there was spinnage and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pafty-

was not.

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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 fat ftuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vex'd me moft, was that d-'d Scottish rogue,
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 flice 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 feven days in the week :
I like thefe here-dinners fo 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 fomething that's nice:
There's a pafty-a pafty! repeated the Jew;
I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too.
What the de'il, mon, a pafty! re-echo'd the Scot;
Though fplitting, I'll fill 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.

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