"What have we got hee?-Why, this is good eating!
Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting ?"

"Why, whose shoold it be?" cried I, with a fluunce,
"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:

We'll have Johnson 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 sinner!
We wanted this Ven'son to make out a dinner.
What say you a pasty ?-it shall, and it must,*
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter!-this Ven'son with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear friend !"
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and estibles follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself,"

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good Ven'son pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.

["I'll take no denial-you shall and you must."-First edit.]
["No words, my dear Goldsmith! my very good friend!"—Ibid.]

See the Letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769.

So next day, in due splendor 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,
(A 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;
"For I knew it," he cried, "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 Scotchman, the other a Jew,

6

They 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 fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing 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 bacor and liver went merrily round;
But what vex'd me most was that d-'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."

["Who dabble and write in the papers like you."-First edit.]

"In the middle a place where the Ven'son-was not"-Ibid.]

"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."
"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;

There's a Pasty

"a Pasty!" repeated the Jew,

"I don'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 cried out;
While thus we resolv'd, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage 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; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labor misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste:†

["Your tripe!" quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak,

I could eat of this tripe seven days in the week."-First edit.]

+ [Lord Clare was a man of parts, a poet, and a facetious companion. Almon observes, that his poems breathe the true Horation fire, but are more than half unknown. A volume of them was published anonymously by Dodsley in 1739, entitled Odes and Epistles." Several other poems of his Lordship are printed in Dodsley's Collection, and in the New Foundling Hospital for Wit. His only daughter married the first Marquis of Buckingham, on whose second son the title of Baron Nugent devolved. He died in 1788.-See Nichols, Lit. Anec., vol. viii. p. 2, and Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 123.]

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.

THE CAPTIVITY.

AN ORATORIO.*

[Written in 1764, and now printed from the original manuscript, in Goldsmith's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Murray.-See LIFE, ch. xiv.]