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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,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round;
But what vext me most, was that d....i'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; 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 or in a 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;
And so it fell out, that the negligent sloven
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,
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.