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His roses nipt in every page,
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
Come, bind the victim,—there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes This venerable dust I lay, From manuscripts just swept away.
The goblet in my hand I take, (For the libation's yet to make) A health to poets ! all their days May they have bread as well as praise ; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fillid with party-rage. But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses, make them poor again,
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade With which my tuneful pens are made. I strike the scales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red,
How like the son of Jove I stand,
prints before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays, Or Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your work till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, (That only way you please the Nive) But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey do.
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin I hang the scales that brac'd it in: I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down:
“This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. Here ignorance and hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; Here ignorance and hunger fell, Two foes in one, I sent to hell. Ye poets, who my labours see, Come sbare the triumph all with me!
Ye critics! born to vex the Muse,
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning.
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations,
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink?
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.
Combin'd with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
Phæbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
shine With equal grace below.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THANKS, my lord, for your ven’son, for finer or
fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd on a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The white was so white, and the red 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 shown to my friends as a piece of vertù : 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 pro
nounce, This tale of the bacon 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. Barne *
• Lord Clare's nepbew.
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunchi,
the when. There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and
HiffI think they love ven’son~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, that seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them, it would look like a flirt, Like sending 'em ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, Au acquaintance, a friend (as he call'd himself) enAn under-bred, fine-spokeu fellow was he, [ter'd; Who smild as he gaz'd at the ven’son 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, sir? cried I with a
flounce; ' I get 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 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: