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Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Tho'clogg'd with à coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, 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 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 ; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, 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 Snarler, 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 serv'd as they came.

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 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 what vex'd me most was that I'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'm ready to burst.” “ The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the docter, 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 pasty"_" a pasty! repeated the Jew; I don't care, if I keep a corner for’t too.” “ What the de'el, mon, a pasty ! re-echo'd the Scot, Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” - We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cry'd out; “ We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, 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 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;
You've got an odd something--a kind of discerning-
A relish -a taste--sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,

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.






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;
And still, as darker grows the right,

Emits a brighter ray.

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O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

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