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AIR.COTILLON. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye,
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hų,
Mrs. BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your
merit : Give me the
gay, the men of spirit, Ye travelled tribe, ye macaroni train Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a year To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here: Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
Miss CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed ? Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed
Where are the Cheels? Ah! Ah, I will discern.
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
you. Ye Barristers, so fluent with grimace, « My Lord--your Lordship misconceives the case.” Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, « I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner," Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
For you're always polite and attentive,
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY:
HERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they, who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ? The Moon, says he :--but I affirm the Stage : At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar, and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics, But in this parallel my best pretence is, That mortals visit both to find their senses. To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
* 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
HAUNCH OF VENISON,
FIRST PRINTED, IN M,DCC,LXV.
my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 fry'd in. But hold let me pause don't I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon's a danınable 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 ny turn, It's a truth-and your Lordship may ask Mr. Burn *.
* Lord Clare's nephew.