CHASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire, No foreign beauty tempts to false desire; The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, The simple plumage, or the glossy down Prompt not their loves:—the patriot bird pursues 5 His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues. Hence through their tribes no mix’d polluted flame, No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame; But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true, Thinks black alone is beauty’s favourite hue. 10 The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest; While the dark owl to court its partner flies, And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE 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 5 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 _virtù_; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: 10 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 a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try, 15 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.