Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there; And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'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, nounce, 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.1 1 Lord Clare's Nephew. VARIATIONS. The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy! |