"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 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
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 damn'd Scottish
rogue

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his

brogue;

And, "madam", quoth he,

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 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

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-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 END.