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Contented toil, and hospitable care,
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, m 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, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu; 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 pronounce, 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.
* The white was so while, and the red was so ruddy!