MY LORD, OUR weekly friends to-morrow meet At matthew's palace, in Duke Street, To try for once, if they can dine On bacon-ham, and mutton-chine. If wearied with the great affairs, Which Britain trusts to Harley's cares, Thou, humble statesman, mayst descend, Thy mind one moment to unbend, To see thy servant from his soul Crown with thy health the sprightly bowl: Among the guests, which e'er my house Received, it never can produce Of honour a more glorious proof; Though Dorset used to bless the roof. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALL THAT'S PAST by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE FATHER O'FLYNN by ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES LIFE [AND THE FLOWERS] by GEORGE HERBERT FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN THOMAS HOOD by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON MY ONLY TITLE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A PEASANT WOMAN'S SONG by DION BOUCICAULT ON THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |