Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
"I was 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 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, 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, enter'd:
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'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?" 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:

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
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 eatables 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 Venʼson pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour 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,

They both of them merry, and authors like you:
The one writes the 'Snarler,' the other the 'Scourge: '
Some thinks he writes Cinna'. he owns to 'Panurge.'

While thus he decrib'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 spinnage, 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 bacon 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.'

"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

་

“0

your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all."

- 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 to."

"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 cry'd out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.
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 labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste:

You've got an odd something - a kind of discerning
A relish a taste sick'ned 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.

SCENE.

THE CAPTIVITY;

AN

ORATORIO.

THE PERSONS.

FIRST JEWISH PROPHET.
SECOND JEWISH PROPHET.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.

FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEst.

SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.

CHALDEAN WOMAN.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.

ISRAELITES sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates.
First PROPHET.

Recitative.

YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep,
Where flows Euphrates, murmuring to the deep;
Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.

First PROPHET.

Air.

Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
Second PROPHET.

And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;

We'll make his temple in our breast,

And offer up a tear.

[The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS. Second PROPHET.

Recitative.

That strain once more: it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:

These hills how sweet! those plains how wond'rous fair!
But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there.

Air.

O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Hence, intruder, most distressing,

Seek the happy and the free;

The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.

First PROPHET.

Recitative.

Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?