ripe enough for the production of the song in question."

A reviewer of my little publication in the _Athenaeum_ (Nov. 8, 1846) makes
the following remark:

"Let us observe, in conclusion, that Dr. Rimbault is better read in
Jack Wilson than Ben Jonson, or we should never have seen Mr.
Shakspeare's 'Rime' at the 'Mitre,' in Fleet Street, seriously referred
to as a genuine composition. It is a mere clumsy adaptation, from Ben's
interesting epigram 'Inviting a Friend to Supper.'"

It is really too bad to be charged with ignorance _unjustly_. I have on my
shelves the works of glorious Ben, three times over: in folio 1616-31; in
folio, 1692; and in nine volumes octave (Gifford's edition), 1816; all of
which I will freely give to the "reviewer," if he can prove that _one line_
of "Shakspeare's Rime at the Mytre" is taken from the aforesaid epigram. I
heartily agree with him in admiration of Jonson's spirited imitation of
Martial, which I have transcribed as a pleasant relish towards digesting
these rambling remarks:

"INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.

"To-night, grave Sir, both my poor house and I
Do equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seem
Something, which else could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad,
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of for our money;
And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit if we can;
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book to us,
Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And I'll profess no verses to repeat;
To this if aught appear, which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my muse and me,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,
Which is the Mermaid's now