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At Billiards or at Bowls your Prowess try,
Or with the Sons of Kent at Cricket vye.

Then, squeamish, scorn your Hunger to allay
With Flesh or Fowl, and discontented stay
Till Indian Soy adds Flavour to the Fish,
Or Cayenne Pepper seafons every Dish. .
But now Rump-steaks your Stomach can appease,
Small Beer is Nectar, and Ambrofia, Cheese.
What though your Butler has mislaid the Key,
You want no Vitriol Drops nor Ratafia.
The best Stomachics, Exercise and Air,
Can stamp a Relish on the coarsest Fare :
The Swain, whose constant Appetite proceeds
From constant Toil, nor Sauce nor Bitters needs ;
Amidst his fun-burnt Babes he blithely fings,
And tastes each Day a Bliss unknown to Kings:
While Routs and Revels on the faded Brow
Of courtly Dames their baneful Influence show,
And the rich Noble, puny and polite,
Faints if a Sirl in smokes within his Sight.

Whate'er I say, the City and the Court
Will still prefer good Burgundy to Port,
And still, no Doubt, a striking Difference fee
Between a Calf's Head hash'd and Callipee.
'What though we cannot eat the Shell, all Eyes,
· When hung on high, will wonder at its Size,

Farmorerenown'd than those old-fashion'dHorns "With which each Squire his rural Hall adorns ;




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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
Will cool this Heat, and damp this eating Rage.
Thus He, the mighty Leader of the Choir,
Who struck, with Jubal's Skill, the sacred Lyre,
Like his own Sampson, in Eclipse was left,
At once of Appetite and Eyes bereft.

Of James's Deeds this surely was the chief,
That Knighthood's Honour he bestow'd on Beef;
And ever since, as constant as the Grace,
At Royal Banquets Beef maintains its Place.

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,
In Town, in Country, was the Vulture nam'd:






Poor in Appearance as a Highland Chief,
In Cellars oft he div'd for Shin of Beef.
Mackarel at home afforded a Repast,
Which no Man with a Nose would dare to taste.
At Whitsuntide, his Neighbours he would treat
With Mum and Elder, neither sour nor sweet,
And drench'd his Sallad with such stinking Oil,
As a Grown Gentleman's School-pumps would spoil.

The Wise will to Frugality attend,
Nor weakly hoard his Wealth, nor madly spend :
Though he, for once, forgives a greafy Cloth,
Or even in roasted Mutton Want of Froth,
He lets no filthy Groom at Dinner wait,
Nor will familiar with his Butler prate,
Nor, like proud Seymour, turn the Slave away,
Who dar'd to whisper, ''Tis a rainy Day.'

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 !

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