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At Billiards or at Bowls your Prowess try,
Whate'er I say, the City and the Court
Farmorerenown'd than those old-fashion'dHorns "With which each Squire his rural Hall adorns ;
And sure, the Produce of Weft-Indian Seas, • So dear, so far-fetch'd, every Tafte must pleafe ;
Besides, an Oven for this Feast was made, • And the same Ship a Negro-Cook convey’d.'
Say, how does Instinct to your Taste proclaim That from fam'd Thanet's Ine thefe Lobsters came? Or that those Flounders, in Fleet-market bought, Were off the Tower, at five this Morning, caught?
You figh for Venison in a Foreit bred, And Mutton loath, though ev'n at Bansted fed ; Red Mullets, Wheat-ears are most dainty Fare, And Pyes of Perigord are good -- and rare : Your Taste no Fruits but Pine-apples can pleafe, No Greens, but Winter 'Sparagus and Pease : Why? but because what our cold Soil denies, At vaft Expence a Hot-house Stove supplies ? Ev'n Turkey-pouts, if hatch'd in Nature's spite, By fage Reaumur, your Palate would delight. 'Give me, says Quin, proportion'd to my Paunch, • And fat as Falstaff, an enormous Haunch! • How does the Sight, the Scent, tranfport my Sout, • When kept a Fortnight, and when cook'd byCole! Oh! may each Nerve, by some propitious Blaft, Or Auguft's Heat, be tainted to his Tafte! While Fat r mains, his Labours never cease, Happier than Hottentots with Guts and Greafe. At length he’s fill’d; and now, methinks, for Smell, A Leg of Lamb quite frech might ferve as well.
And soon, too soon, Gout, Dropsy, Stone, or Age
Of James's Deeds this surely was the chief,
Eliza's Courtiers din'd on boil'd and roast, Her Maidens breakfasted on Sack and Toast. Then no John-Dories were at London bought, Nor every Year such Shoals of Turtles caught. The Sea, 'tis true, an equal Number fed, But safe they rested in their watry Bed ; 'Till a rich Creole, longing to be Mayor, Firft taught the City this luxurious Fare. And now at Almack's should three Lords agree To have a Hedgehog drefs'd in Fricafiee, Cits would prefer it to their favourite Fish, And Hedgehog would be foon the reigning Dish.
Wide is the Diff'rence between nine and nine, And a cold Mess of Scraps with home brew'd Wine. Then each Extreme with prudent Caution fhun, Nor cloy with too much Food, nor ftarve with none,
A fordid Citizen, for Rapine fam'd,
Poor in Appearance as a Highland Chief,
The Wise will to Frugality attend,
Now learn what Blefings Temperance enjoys, And think how hearty were your Meals whenBoys! In Eton's happy Shades, how blithe and gay The Morning Study and the Evening Play! At early Noon how dainty was the Treat, Though Mutton, Mutton was the constant Meat; Nor sigh'd you then for Trifie, Trout, or Tart, Contented with one Dish, and no Desert, Now, since in one promilcuous Mess you join Sweet, fav'ry,four, hot, cold, Cream, Cyder, Wine, What Pains, whatQualms are in yourBowels bred! Hence your distemper'd Frame, and aching Head.
Mark when the Guests from public Dinners rise, How pale their Visage, and how sunk their Eyes ! Who could suppose such Beings born to think, Or inore than tottering Statues fill’d with Drink!
The Reaper in his straw-roof'd Shed all Night Serenely sleeps, and rises with the Light; When hungry dines, and swills his Keg when dry, His Cloth the Grass, his Canopy the Sky. Yet twice a Year he takes a chearful Glass, And featly foots it with some favourite Laís, When Twelfth-Day crowns its temporary Kings, Or when with Harvest-Home the Village rings. But should he, careless of his Sheaves, repair To every Horse-race, Cricket-match, or Fair, And riot all the Week on Cakes and Ale, How could he fhun an Hospital or Jail !
In Gothic Halls our Sires contented din'd On Ribs and Chines, substantial in their Kind; At Christmas feasted every Farmer round, And all their Toils in stout October drown'd: Age, Sickness, Want, went smiling from their Nor needed Workhouses nor Parish Rates. (Gates, Then’midittheir Tenants Lords could pass the Year: Now, new-built Squares unpeople every Shire. Oh! that I then at first had seen the Light, Ere Prudence was a Jeft,' and Vice polite!
Haft thou no Sense of Shame, no virtuous Pride? Rcfect how Chartres liv’d, how Villiers died !