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As in some Irish houses, where things are so fo,
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
* Lord Clare's Nephew.
Why whose should it be? cried I, with a Aounc.
these things often ;-but that was a bounce ; Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate oftentation.
If that be the cafe 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 infilt on't-- precisely at three: We'll have Johnfon, 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 finner ! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What say you-a pasty, it hall
, and it muit, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for cruit. Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end ; No stirring I beg—my dear friendry dear friend! Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd 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 afty, Were things that I never disliked in my life, Tho'clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due fplendor 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. (1 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,
* See the letters that passed between his
royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor 1769.
For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail,
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 averfion, Anil your
bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I fat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that did Scottish' rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his fmiles and his
brogue, And, madam, quoth he, may this bit be niy poison, it prettier dinuer I never fet
eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, tho'may I be curst, But l've eat at your tripe till I'm ready to burst. The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate check, I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : I like these here dinners so pretty and finall ; But
your friend there the doctor, cats nothing at all. Omuh! quoth my friend he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for fuinething that's nice : There's a paity! -- palty' repeated the jew :
While thus we refolv'd, and the pary delay'd,
you think very slightly of all that's your own :