What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter!—this venison with me to Mile-end; 55
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.

60

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, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendour 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 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 ; 70 '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['re] both of them merry and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.' While thus he describ'd them by trade, and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. 80

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ;

75

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, 85
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 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;

90

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd, 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 seven days in the week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.'

105

'O-Oh!' quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: 100 There's a pasty'-'A pasty!' repeated the Jew, 'I don't 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 thot.' 'We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; 'We'll all keep a corner,' was echoed 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:

ΙΙΟ

115

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 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,
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.

120

EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;

And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow-
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

5

ΙΟ

THE CLOWN'S REPLY

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears?
'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, 5
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.'

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,—
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE LEWES

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,

My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

(Takes off his mask.)
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth,
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosined lightning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:

6 Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !—soft'twas but a dream.'

5

IO

15

20

Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating: 25 If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.