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HAUNCH OF VENISON.
Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
Ne’er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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
regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtů: As in some Irish houses, where things are só 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 pro
1 Lord Clare's nephew. :
But hang itto poets who seldom can eat,
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
ter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smild as he look'd at the ven’son and me. “What have we got here?-Why this is good eat
ing! Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting?” « Why whose should it be?"cry'd I with a flounce; “I get these things often”_but that was a bounce: “Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na
tion, Are pleas'd to be kind—but I hate ostentation.”
“ If that be the case then,” cry'd 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;