A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
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hanks, my Lord, for your Ven'son; for finer or fatter,Ne'er ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter.The haunch was a picture for painters to study,The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regrettingTo spoil such a delicate picture by eating:I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,One 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 fried in.But hold—let me pause—Don't I hear you pronounceThis tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?Well! suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.[2]To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the Haunch,I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose—'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:But in parting with these I was puzzled again,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 ven'son—I know they love beef;There's my countryman, Higgins—Oh! let him aloneFor making a blunder, or picking a bone.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 sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.While thus I debated, in reverie centred,An acquaintance—a friend as he call'd himself—enter'd:An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he;And he smiled as he look'd at the Ven'son 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;"I get these things often"—but that was a bounce:"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,Are pleased 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 acquaintance is slight or I'd ask my Lord Clare.And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!We wanted this Ven'son to make out a dinner.What say you—a pasty?—it shall, and it must,And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.Here, porter!—this Ven'son with me to Mile-end;No stirring, 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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