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A Collection Of Poems

By John Whaley

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The GLUTTON;
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


114

The GLUTTON;

A Tale.

Gormando for Gluttony fam'd thro' the Town,
At Supper was sat, (as he lov'd) all alone.
A monstrous huge Sturgeon was served up whole,
Whole? no a miracle repriev'd the Jowl.
His Fists, Knife, and Teeth, he so Manfully plies,
That he fairly has emptied the Dish in a trice.
The Fish it was Eat—but the Devil would have it,
Tho' his Coat he unbutton'd, and unty'd his Cravat;
In spite of warm Water, and Clysters apply'd,
His Belly was bursting, and out of his Side
Blood and Gravy just flowing,—his Friends all in Tears,
Advise him to settle his worldly Affairs.

115

Wrong were it, said he, that I who of late
Fed so well, shou'd now grudge the poor Worms a good Bait.
This then the last Meal I am likely to make,
(Since in the next World none Roast, Boil, or Bake;)
Without whimp'ring, or adding one rascally Pish,
Prithee step, and bring hither the rest of my Fish.