"Till quite dejected with my scorn, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid— "Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wondering fair one turned to chide'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear- "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign; And shall we never, never part, "No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too." THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, To go on with my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunchSo I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undressed, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose: 'T was 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 Howard, and Colley, and Hogarth, and Hiff, I think they love venison-I know they love beef. There's my countryman, Higgins-Oh, let him alone An acquaintance-a friend, as he called himself-entered; And he smiled as he looked at the venison 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. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself;" Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, When come to the place where we all were to dine; (A chair-lumbered 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, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinach, 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 vexed me most was that damned 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 cursed, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, 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 doctor, eats nothing at all." "Oh-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 dont care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot, "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner,'" was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked 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 similes drop And now that I think on 't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste;; You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning, A relish a taste-sickened over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think 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. |