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My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come; "For I knew it," he cry'd; "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 Scotsman, 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.
At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;

At the sides there was spinage 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 vext me most, was that d......'d Scottish


With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his


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 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." "Oh ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in à trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty"...." A pasty!" repeated the Jew; "I do'n't care, if I keep a corner for't too."

"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot;

Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out;

“We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.

While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd,

With looks that quite petrify'd, enter'd the maid;

A vissage 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:

And so it fell out, that the negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.

Sad Philomel thus....but let similies 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.




After the Death of the Author.

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