"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 "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," 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 there; my My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask lord Clare. Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"*. Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, * See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor—12mo. 1769. Were Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, 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 cried, "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale; At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, 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 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, tho' may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'am ready to burst.” "The tripe," quoth the Jew," with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven, Sad Sad Philomel thus-but let similies 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; FROM FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on 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; VOL II. H SONG. |