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"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,

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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 fry'd liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made

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 damn'd Scottish

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his


And, "madam", quoth he,

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"A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

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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 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; "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


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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-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.


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