The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The Gamester too, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor'd,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose,
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place,
On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.*

* This Epilogue was given in M.S. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy; (now Bishop of Dromore;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.

THE

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

POETICAL EPISTLE,

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXV.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

POETICAL EPISTLE,

TO

LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'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

But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's 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. Burn.* To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best,

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose: 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.

There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,
I think they love venison-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 who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-
ter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the yenison and me.

*Lord Clare's nephew.

"What