Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too—with angry phrases stored,
As "Dam'me, Sir." and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lessoned for awhile, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here comes the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense--for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.*

* This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy, (now Bishop of Dromore ;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

A POETICAL EPISTLE, TO LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765.

THANKS my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never 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 regretting,

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu;
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 pronounce,
This 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.*
To go on with my tale-
e—as "I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch,

* Lord Clare's nephew.

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 a 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,[when
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins---Oh! let him alone,
For 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 centered, [tered;
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, en-
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he siniled 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.

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison 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 venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And

nobody with me at sea but myself;"
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogged with a 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-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine :) · My friend bade we welcome, but struck me quite dumb, [come;

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not "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 thinks he writes Cinna--he owns to Panurge."

* See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry, duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor--12mo. 1769.

While thus he described them by trade and by name, They entered, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; [hot; At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made 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 d- -ed Scottish [brogue;

rogue,

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his And, "madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my A prettier dinner I never set eyes on: [poison, Pray a slice of your liver, though 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 doctor, 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," 66 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;