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• And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair-one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

* For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex,' he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.

* And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn (she cried) Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside.

“But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

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My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;
And all his ealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.

« To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came, Who prais’d me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd a flame.

* Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth or power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

• The bossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

« The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

* Por still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.

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• Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn

In secret, where he died.

• But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

“And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will l.'

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• Forbid it, Heaven !' the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast : The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide,

'Twas Edwin's self that press’d.

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor'd to love and thee.

• Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign: And shall we never, never part,

My life—my all that's mine?

No, never, from this hour to part,

We'll live, and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

First printed in 1765.

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 virtû : 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. Burne.* 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 undress’d, To paint it, or eat it, just as he likod best ;

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Lord Clare's nephew.

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VOL. XXX.

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

(Hiff There's Cooley, and Williams, and Howard, and I 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, An acquaintance, a friend (as he call d himself) enAn under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, (ter'd; Who smil'd 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 : W'e'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. I'll take no denial :-it shall and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.

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