Volume 3 / Book 15 — POETICAL FRAGMENTS

There is a certain hospitable air In a friend's house, that tells me I am welcome: The porter opens to me with a smile; The yard dog wags his tail, the servant runs, Beats up the cushion, spreads the couch, and says— "Sit down, good Sir!" e'er I can say I'm weary.—Cumberland.

I write these precepts for immortal Greece, That round a table delicately spread, Or three, or four, may sit in choice repast, Or five at most. Who otherwise shall dine, Are like a troop marauding for their prey.—D'Israeli.

Faith! but you quaff The grape's pure juice to a most merry tune, And cram your hungry maw most rav'nously. And pay for't—not a doit. But mark me, Sirrah! You come not here invited, as a friend. Your appetite is gross;—your god's your belly;— Your mind, your very, soul, incorpsed with gluttony, Till you have lost all shame.—J. Bailey.

For the Athenian people neither love Harsh crabbed bards, nor crabbed Pramnian wines, Which pinch the face up and the belly too; But mild, sweet-smelling, nectar-dropping cups.—Walsh.

Oh! friend to the wise, to the children of song, Take me with thee, thou wisest and sweetest, along; To the humble, the lowly, proud thoughts dost thou bring, For the wretch who has thee is as blythe as a king: From the brows of the sage, in thy humorous play, Thou dost smooth every furrow, every wrinkle away; To the weak thou giv'st strength, to the mendicant gold, And a slave warm'd by thee as a lion is bold.—J. A. St. John.

Three cups of wine a prudent man may take; The first of these for constitution's sake; The second to the girl he loves the best; The third and last to lull him to his rest, Then home to bed! but if a fourth he pours, That is the cup of folly, and not ours; Loud noisy talking on the fifth attends; The sixth breeds feuds and falling-out of friends; Seven beget blows and faces stain'd with gore; Eight, and the watch-patrole breaks ope the door; Mad with the ninth, another cup goes round, And the swill'd sot drops senseless to the ground.—Cumberland.

A. After sacrifice, then came feasting. B. Beautiful, by Jupiter! A. After feasting drink we merrily. B. Charming! I do truly think. A. After drinking, follow'd revelry: after revelry, the whole hog: After the whole hog, the justice: after that the sentence dire: After which, chains, fetters, fines,—all that, and all that, and all that.—J. Bailey.

The goblet's sweet compulsion moves The soften'd mind to melting loves. The hope of Venus warms the soul, Mingling in Bacchus' gifted bowl; And buoyant lifts in lightest air The soaring thoughts of human care. Who sips the grape, with single blow Lays the city's rampire low; Flush'd with the vision of his mind He acts the monarch o'er mankind. His bright'ning roofs now gleam on high, All burnish'd gold and ivory: Corn-freighted ships from Egypt's shore Waft to his feet the golden ore: Thus, while the frenzying draught he sips, His heart is bounding to his lips.—Elton.

Thirsty comrade! wouldst thou know All the raptures that do flow From those sweet compulsive rules Of our ancient drinking schools— First, the precious draught shall raise Amorous thoughts in giddy maze, Mingling Bacchus' present treasure With the hopes of higher pleasure. Next, shall chase through empty air All th' intolerant host of Care; Give thee conquest, riches, power; Bid thee scale the guarded tower; Bid thee reign o'er land and sea With unquestion'd sov'reignty. Thou thy palace shalt behold, Bright with ivory and gold; While each ship that ploughs the main, Fill'd with Egypt's choicest grain, Shall unload her pon'drous store, Thirsty comrade! at thy door.

How I delight To spring upon the dainty coverlets; Breathing the perfume of the rose, and steep'd In tears of myrrh!—J. A. St. John.

Mean my husband is, and poor, And my blooming days are o'er. Children have we two,—a boy, Papa's pet and mamma's joy; And a girl, so tight and small, With her nurse;—that's five in all: Yet, alas! alas! have we Belly timber but for three! Two must, therefore, often make Scanty meal on barley-cake; And sometimes, when nought appears On the board, we sup on tears. My good man, once so strong and hale, On this fare grows very pale; For our best and daintiest cheer, Through the bright half of the year, Is but acorns, onions, peas, Ochros, lupines, radishes, Vetches, wild pears nine or ten, With a locust now and then. As to figs, the Phrygian treat, Fit for Jove's own guests to eat, They, when happier moments shine,— They, the Attic figs, are mine. —J. A. St. John.

A. I pray, you, Sir, (for I perceive you learn'd In these grave matters,) let my ignorance suck Some profit from your courtesy, and tell me What are your wise philosophers engaged in, Your Plato, Menedemus and Speusippus? What mighty mysteries have they in projection? What new discoveries may the world expect From their profound researches? I conjure you, By Earth, our common mother, to impart them! B. Sir, you shall know at our great festival I was myself their hearer, and so much As I there heard will presently disclose, So you will give it ears, for I must speak Of things perchance surpassing your belief, So strange they will appear; but so it happen'd, That these most sage Academicians sate In solemn consultation—on a cabbage. A. A cabbage! what did they discover there? B. Oh, Sir, your cabbage hath its sex and gender, Its provinces, prerogatives and ranks, And, nicely handled, breeds as many questions As it does maggots. All the younger fry Stood dumb with expectation and respect, Wond'ring what this same cabbage should bring forth: The Lecturer eyed them round, whereat a youth Took heart, and breaking first the awful silence, Humbly craved leave to think—that it was round: The cause was now at issue, and a second Opined it was an herb.—A third conceived With due submission it might be a plant. The difference methought was such, that each Might keep his own opinion and be right; But soon a bolder voice broke up the council, And, stepping forward, a Sicilian quack Told them their question was abuse of time,— It was a cabbage, neither more nor less, And they were fools to prate so much about it. Insolent wretch! amazement seized the troop, Clamour and wrath and tumult raged amain, Till Plato, trembling for his own philosophy, And calmly praying patience of the court, Took up the cabbage and adjourn'd the cause. —Cumberland.

Bright wanderer through the eternal way, Has sight so sad as that which now Bedims the splendour of thy ray, E'er bid the streams of sorrow flow? Here, side by side, in death are laid Two darling boys, their mother's care; And here their sister, youthful maid, Near her who nursed and thought them fair. —J. A. St. John.

A bore it is to take pot-luck, with welcome frank and hearty, All at the board round which is placed a downright family-party. Old daddy seizes first the cup, and so begins his story, And lectures on, with saws and jokes—a Mentor in his glory. The mother next, and grandam too, confound you with their babble; And worse and worse, the grandam's sire will mump, and grunt, and gabble; His daughter with her toothless gums, lisps out, "The dear old fellow!" And round and round the dotard nods, as fast as he grows mellow.— Anon.

From family repasts, Where all the guests claim kin,—nephews and uncles, And aunts and cousins to the fifth remove! First you've the sire, a goblet in his hand, And he deals out his dole of admonition;— Then comes my lady-mother, a mere homily Reproof and exhortation!—at her heels The aunt slips in a word of pious precept. The grandsire last—a bass voice among trebles, Thunder succeeding whispers, fires away. Each pause between, his aged partner fills With "lack-a-day!" "good sooth!" and "dearest dear!" The dotard's head meantime for ever nods, Encouraging her drivelling.—Anon.

There is no kind of fig, Whether little or big, Save the Spartan, which here does not grow; But this, though quite small, Swells with hatred and gall, A stern foe to the Demos, I trow.—J. A. St. John.

Many a yellow quince was there Piled upon the regal chair, Many a verdant myrtle-bough, Many a rose-crown featly wreathed, With twisted violets that grow Where the breath of spring has breathed. —J. A. St. John.

O where is the maiden, sweeter far Than the ruddy fruits of Ephyrè are, When the winds of summer have o'er them blown, And their cheeks with autumn's gold have been strown! —J. A. St. John.

A. 'Twould be absurd to speak of what's to eat, As if you thought of such things; but, fair maid, Take of these apples. B. Oh, how beautiful! A. They are, indeed, since hither they but lately Have come from the great king. B. By Phosphoros! I could have thought them from the Hesperian bowers, Where th' apples are of gold. A. There are but three. B. The beautiful is nowhere plentiful. —J. A. St. John.

Then every soul of them sat open-mouth'd, Like roasted oysters gaping in a row. —J. H. Frere.

For mussels you must go to Ænos; oysters You'll find best at Abydos. Parion Rejoices in its urchins; but if cockles Gigantic and sweet-tasted you would eat, A voyage must be made to Mitylene, Or the Ambracian Gulf, where they abound With many other dainties. At Messina, Near to the Faro, are pelorian conchs, Nor are those bad you find near Ephesos; For Tethyan oysters, go to Chalcedon; But for the Heralds, may Zeus overwhelm them Both in the sea and in the agora! Aye, all except my old friend Agathon, Who in the midst of Lesbian vineyards dwells. —J. A. St. John.

Master Cook. Behold in me a pupil of the school Of the sage Epicurus. Friend. Thou a sage! M. C. Ay! Epicurus too was sure a cook, And knew the sovereign good. Nature his study, While practice perfected his theory. Divine philosophy alone can teach The difference which the fish Glociscus shows In winter and in summer: how to learn Which fish to choose, when set the Pleiades, And at the solstice. 'Tis change of seasons Which threats mankind, and shakes their changeful frame. This dost thou comprehend? Know, what we use In season, is most seasonably good! Friend. Most learned cook, who can observe these canons? M. C. And therefore phlegm and colics make a man A most indecent guest. The aliment Dress'd in my kitchen is true aliment; Light of digestion easily it passes; The chyle soft-blending from the juicy food Repairs the solids. Friend. Ah! the chyle! the solids! Thou new Democritus! thou sage of medicine! Versed in the mysteries of the Iatric art! M. C. Now mark the blunders of our vulgar cooks. See them prepare a dish of various fish, Showering profuse the pounded Indian grain, An overpowering vapour, gallimaufry, A multitude confused of pothering odours! But, know, the genius of the art consists To make the nostrils feel each scent distinct; And not in washing plates to free from smoke. I never enter in my kitchen, I! But sit apart, and in the cool direct, Observant of what passes, scullions' toil. Friend. What dost thou there? M. C. I guide the mighty whole; Explore the causes, prophesy the dish. 'Tis thus I speak: "Leave, leave that ponderous ham; Keep up the fire, and lively play the flame Beneath those lobster patties; patient here, Fix'd as a statue, skim, incessant skim. Steep well this small Glociscus in its sauce, And boil that sea-dog in a cullender; This eel requires more salt and marjoram; Roast well that piece of kid on either side Equal; that sweetbread boil not over much." 'Tis thus, my friend, I make the concert play. Friend. O man of science! 'tis thy babble kills! M. C. And then no useless dish my table crowds; Harmonious ranged, and consonantly just. Friend. Ha! what means this? M. C. Divinest music all! As in a concert instruments resound, My order'd dishes in their courses chime. So Epicurus dictated the art Of sweet voluptuousness, and ate in order, Musing delighted o'er the sovereign good! Let raving Stoics in a labyrinth Run after virtue; they shall find no end. Thou, what is foreign to mankind, abjure.—D'Israeli.

Father. Thou hast destroy'd the morals of my son, And turn'd his mind, not so disposed, to vice, Unholy pedagogue! With morning drams, A filthy custom, which he caught from thee, Clean from his former practice, now he saps His youthful vigour. Is it thus you school him? Sophist. And if I did, what harms him? Why complain you? He does but follow what the wise prescribe, The great voluptuous law of Epicurus, Pleasure, the best of all good things on earth; And how but thus can pleasure be obtained? Father. Virtue will give it him. Sophist. And what but virtue Is our philosophy? When have you met One of our sect flush'd and disguised with wine? Or one, but one of those you tax so roundly, On whom to fix a fault? Father. Not one, but all, All, who march forth with supercilious brow High arch'd with pride, beating the city-rounds, Like constables in quest of rogues and outlaws, To find that prodigy in human nature, A wise and perfect man! What is your science But kitchen-science? wisely to descant Upon the choice bits of a savoury carp, And prove by logic that his summum bonum Lies in his head; there you can lecture well, And, whilst your grey-beards wag, the gaping guest Sits wondering with a foolish face of praise. —Cumberland.

O, what a fool is he, Who dreams about stability, or thinks, Good easy dolt! that aught in life's secure! Security!—either a loan is ask'd; Then house and all that it contains are gone At one fell sweep—or you've a suit to meet, And Law and Ruin ever are twin-brothers.— Art named to a general's post? fines, penalties, And debts upon the heels of office follow. Do the stage-charges fall upon you? good: The chorus must go clad in spangled robes, Yourself may pace in rags. Far happier he Who's named a trierarch:—he buys a halter And wisely balks at once th' expensive office.— Sleeping or waking, on the sea or land, Among your menials or before your foes, Danger and Insecurity are with you. The very table, charged with viands, is Mere mock'ry oft;—gives promise to the eye, And breaks it to the lip. Is there nought safe then? Yes, by the gods,—that which has pass'd the teeth, And is in a state of deglutition: reckon Yourself secure of that, and that alone: All else is fleet, precarious, insecure. —Mitchell.

A. I must have all accounted for: Item by item, charge by charge; or look ye:— There's not a stiver to be had from me. B. 'Tis but a fair demand. A. What hoa! within there! [Calls to his servant.] My style and tablets. (Style and tablets are brought.) Now, Sir, to your reckoning. B. To salt a herring—price—two farthings— A. Good. [Writes.] B. To mussels—three— A. No villany as yet. [Writes.] B. Item, to eels—one obol— A. Still you're guiltless. [Writes.] B. Next came the radishes; yourselves allow'd— A. And we retract not—they were delicate And good. B. For these I touch two obols. A. [Aside.] Tush! The praise is in the bill—better our palates Had been less riotous—onward. B. To a rand Of tunny-fish—this charge will break a sixpence. A. Dealst on the square? no filching?—no purloining?— B. No, not a doit—thou'rt green, good fellow, green; And a mere novice yet in market-prices. Why, man, the palmer-worms have fix'd their teeth Upon the kitchen-herbs. A. Ergo, salt fish Bears twice its usual price—call you that logic? B. Nay, if you've doubts—to the fishmonger straight,— He lives and will resolve them.—To a conger-eel— Ten obols. A. I have nothing to object: Proceed. B. Item, broil'd fish—a drachma. A. Fie on't!— I was a man, and here's the fever come With double force. B. There's wine too in the bill, Bought when my masters were well half-seas over— Three pitchers, at ten obols to the pitcher.—Mitchell.

The feast, for cookery's various cates renown'd, By Attic host bestow'd, O Muse! resound. There too I went, with hunger in my train, And saw the loaves by hundreds pour'd amain, Beauteous to view, and vast beyond compare, Whiter than snow, and sweet as wheaten fare. * * * * * * Then all to pot-herbs stretch'd their hands in haste, But various viands lured my nicer taste; Choice bulbs, asparagus, and, daintier yet, Fat oysters help my appetite to whet. * * * * * * Like Thetis' self, the silver-footed dame— Great Nereus' daughter, curly cuttle came; Illustrious fish! that sole amid the brine With equal ease can black and white divine; There too I saw the Tityus of the main, Huge conger—countless plates his bulk sustain. And o'er nine boards he rolls his cumbrous train! * * * * * * Right up stairs, down stairs, over high and low, The cook, with shoulder'd dishes marches slow, And forty sable pots behind him go. * * * * * * With these appear'd the Salaminian bands, Thirteen fat ducklings borne by servile hands; Proudly the cook led on the long array, And placed them where the Athenian squadrons lay. * * * * * * When now the rage of hunger was represt, And the pure lymph had sprinkled every guest, Sweet lilied unguents brought one blooming slave, And one from left to right fresh garlands gave; With Lesbian wine the bowl was quick supplied, Man vied with man to drain the racy tide; Then groan'd the second tables laden high, Where grapes and cool pomegranates please the eye, The lusty apple, and the juicy pear— Yet nought I touch'd, supinely lounging there; But when the huge round cake of golden hue, Ceres best offspring, met my raptured view, No more these hands their eager grasp restrain, How should such gift celestial tempt in vain? —D. K. Sandford.

How fertile in new tricks is Chærephon, To sup scot-free and everywhere find welcome! Spies he a broker's door with pots to let? There from the earliest dawn he takes his stand, To see whose cook arrives; from him he learns Who 'tis that gives the feast,—flies to the house, Watches his time, and, when the yawning door Gapes for the guests, glides in among the first. —J. A. St. John.

Soup-ladle, flesh-hook, mortar, spit, Bucket and haft, with tool to fit, Such knives as oxen's hides explore, Add dishes, be they three or more. —Mitchell.

Nay, my good friend, but hear me! I confess Man is the child of sorrow, and this world, In which we breathe, hath cares enough to plague us; But it hath means withal to soothe these cares, And he, who meditates on other's woes, Shall in that meditation lose his own: Call then the tragic poet to your aid, Hear him, and take instruction from the stage: Let Telephus appear; behold a prince, A spectacle of poverty and pain, Wretched in both.—And what if you are poor? Are you a demi-god? are you the son Of Hercules? begone! complain no more. Doth your mind struggle with distracting thoughts? Do your wits wander? are you mad? Alas! So was Alcmæon, whilst the world adored His father as their God. Your eyes are dim; What then? the eyes of Œdipus were dark, Totally dark. You mourn a son; he's dead; Turn to the tale of Niobe for comfort, And match your loss with hers. You're lame of foot; Compare it with the foot of Philoctetes, And make no more complaint. But you are old, Old and unfortunate; consult Oëneus; Hear what a king endured, and learn content. Sum up your miseries, number up your sighs, The tragic stage shall give you tear for tear, And wash out all afflictions but its own.—Cumberland.

Bid me say anything rather than this; But on this theme Demosthenes himself Shall sooner check the torrent of his speech Than I—Demosthenes! that angry orator, That bold Briareus, whose tremendous throat, Charged to the teeth with battering-rams and spears, Beats down opposers; brief in speech was he, But, crost in argument, his threat'ning eyes Flash'd fire, whilst thunder vollied from his lips. —Cumberland.

I once believed the Gorgons fabulous: But in the agora quickly changed my creed, And turn'd almost to stone, the pests beholding Standing behind the fish stalls. Forced I am To look another way when I accost them, Lest if I saw the fish they ask so much for, I should at once grow marble. —J. A. St. John.

I must confess that hitherto I deem'd The Gorgons a mere fable, but just now I stepp'd into the fish-market, and there I saw, at once, the dread reality; And I was petrified, indeed, so much, That, to converse with them, I turn'd my back For fear of being turn'd to stone; they ask'd A price so high and so extravagant For a poor despicable paltry fish.—Anon.

The general of an army is at least A thousand times more easy of access, And you may get an answer quicker too Than from these cursed fishmongers: ask them The price of their commodity, they hold A wilful silence, and look down with shame, Like Telephus; with reason good; for they Are, one and all, without exception, A set of precious scoundrels. Speak to one, He'll measure you from top to toe, then look Upon his fish, but still no answer give. Turn o'er a polypus, and ask another The price, he soon begins to swell and chafe, And mutters out half-words between his teeth, But nothing so distinct that you may learn His real meaning—so many oboli; But then the number you are still to guess, The syllable is wilfully suppress'd, Or left half utter'd. This you must endure, And more, if you attend the fish-market. —Anon.

Ten thousand times more easy 'tis to gain Admission to a haughty general's tent, And have discourse of him, than in the market Audience to get of a cursed fishmonger. If you draw near and say, How much, my friend, Costs this or that?—No answer. Deaf you think The rogue must be, or stupid; for he heeds not A syllable you say, but o'er his fish Bends silently, like Telephos (and with good reason, For his whole race he knows are cut-throats all). Another minding not, or else not hearing, Pulls by the legs a polypus. A third With saucy carelessness replies: "Four oboli, That's just the price. For this no less than eight. Take it or leave it!" —J. A. St. John.

When our victorious gen'rals knit their brows, Assume a higher tone and loftier gait Than common men, it scarcely moves my wonder— Indeed 'tis natural that the commonwealth Should give to public virtue just rewards— They who have risk'd their lives to serve the state Deserve its highest honours in return, Place and precedence too above their fellows: But I am choked with rage when I behold These saucy fishmongers assume such airs, Now throw their eyes disdainful down, and now Lift their arch'd brows and wrinkle up their fronts— "Say, at what price you sell this brace of mullets?" "Ten oboli," they answer. "Sure you joke; Ten oboli indeed! will you take eight?" "Yes, if you choose but one."—"Come, come, be serious, Nor trifle with your betters thus."—"Pass on, And take your custom elsewhere." 'Tis enough To move our bile to hear such insolence.—Anon.

However, this is still endurable. But when a paltry fishfag will look big, Cast down his eyes affectedly, or bend His eyebrows upwards like a full-strain'd bow, I burst with rage. Demand what price he asks For—say two mullets; and he answers straight "Ten obols."—"Ten? That's dear: will you take eight?" "Yes, if one fish will serve you."—"Friend, no jokes; I am no subject for your mirth."—"Pass on, Sir! And buy elsewhere."—Now tell me, is not this Bitterer than gall?—J. A. St. John.

I once believed the fishmongers at Athens Were rogues beyond all others. 'Tis not so; The tribe are all the same, go where you will, Deceitful, avaricious, plotting knaves, And rav'nous as wild-beasts. But we have one Exceeds the rest in baseness, and the wretch Pretends that he has let his hair grow long In rev'rence to the gods. The varlet lies. He bears the marks of justice on his forehead, Which his locks hide, and therefore they are long. Accost him thus—"What ask you for that pike?" "Ten oboli," he answers—not a word About the currency—put down the cash, He then objects, and tells you that he meant The money of Ægina. If there's left A balance in his hands, he'll pay you down In Attic oboli, and thus secures A double profit by the exchange of both.—Anon.

Troth, in my greener days I had some notion That here at Athens only, rogues sold fish; But everywhere, it seems, like wolf or fox The race is treacherous by nature found. However, we have one scamp in the agora Who beats all others hollow. On his head A most portentous fell of hair nods thick And shades his brow. Observing your surprise, He has his reasons pat; it grows forsooth To form, when shorn, an offering to some god! But that's a feint; 'tis but to hide the scars Left by the branding-iron upon his forehead. But, passing that, you ask perchance the price Of a sea-wolf—"Ten oboli"—very good. You count the money. "Oh, not those," he cries, "Æginetan I meant." Still you comply. But if you trust him with a larger piece, And there be change to give; mark how the knave Now counts in Attic coin, and thus achieves A two-fold robbery in the same transaction! —J. A. St. John.

Poets indeed! I should be glad to know Of what they have to boast. Invention—no! They invent nothing, but they pilfer much, Change and invert the order, and pretend To pass it off for new. But fishmongers Are fertile in resources, they excel All our philosophers in ready wit And sterling impudence. The law forbids, And strictly too, to water their stale fish— How do they manage to evade the fine? Why thus—when one of them perceives the board Begins to be offensive, and the fish Look dry and change their colour, he begins A preconcerted quarrel with his neighbour. They come to blows;—he soon affects to be Most desperately beaten, and falls down, As if unable to support himself, Gasping for breath;—another, who the while (Knowing the secret) was prepared to act, Seizes a jar of water, aptly placed, And scatters a few drops upon his friend, Then empties the whole vessel on the fish, Which makes them look so fresh that you would swear They were just taken from the sea, —Anon.

Commend me for invention to the rogue Who sells fish in the agora. He knows,— In fact there's no mistaking,—that the law Clearly and formally forbids the trick Of reconciling stale fish to the nose By constant watering. But if some poor wight Detect him in the fact, forthwith he picks A quarrel, and provokes his man to blows. He wheels meanwhile about his fish, looks sharp To catch the nick of time, reels, feigns a hurt: And prostrate falls, just in the right position. A friend placed there on purpose, snatches up A pot of water, sprinkles a drop or two, For form's sake, on his face, but by mistake, As you must sure believe, pours all the rest Full on the fish, so that almost you might Consider them fresh caught.—J. A. St. John.

What miserable wretched things are fish! They are not only doom'd to death, to be Devour'd, and buried in the greedy maw Of some voracious glutton, but the knaves Who sell them leave them on their board to rot, And perish by degrees, till having found Some purblind customer, they pass to him Their dead and putrid carcases; but he, Returning home, begins to nose his bargain, And soon disgusted, casts them out with scorn.—Anon.

The rich Aristonicus was a wise And prudent governor; he made a law To this intent, that every fishmonger, Having once fix'd his price, if after that He varied, or took less, he was at once Thrown into prison, that the punishment Due to his crimes, still hanging o'er his head, Might be a check on his rapacity, And make him ask a just and honest price, And carry home his stale commodities. This was a prudent law, and so enforced, That youth or age might safely go to market And bring home what was good at a fair price. —Anon.

I still maintain that fish do hold with men, Living or dead, perpetual enmity. For instance, now, a ship is overset, As sometimes it may happen,—the poor wretches Who might escape the dangers of the sea Are swallow'd quick by some voracious fish. If, on the other hand, the fishermen Enclose the fish, and bring them safe to shore, Dead as they are they ruin those who buy them, For they are sold for such enormous sums That our whole fortune hangs upon the purchase, And he who pays the price becomes a beggar.—Anon.

If one that's poor, and scarcely has withal To clothe and feed him, shall at once buy fish, And pay the money down upon the board, Be sure that fellow is a rogue, and lives By depredation and nocturnal plunder. Let him who has been robb'd by night, attend The fish-market at early dawn, and when He sees a young and needy wretch appear, Bargain with Micion for the choicest eels, And pay the money, seize the caitiff straight, And drag him to the prison without fear.—Anon.

Mark you a fellow who, however scant In all things else, hath still wherewith to purchase Cod, eel, or anchovies, be sure i' the dark He lies about the road in wait for travellers. If therefore you've been robb'd o'ernight, just go At peep of dawn to th' agora and seize The first athletic, ragged vagabond Who cheapens eels of Mikion. He, be sure, And none but he's the thief: to prison with him! —J. A. St. John.

We have a notable good law at Corinth, Where, if an idle fellow outruns reason, Feasting and junketing at furious cost, The sumptuary proctor calls upon him, And thus begins to sift him:—You live well, But have you well to live? You squander freely, Have you the wherewithal? Have you the fund For these out-goings? If you have, go on! If you have not, we'll stop you in good time, Before you outrun honesty; for he, Who lives we know not how, must live by plunder; Either he picks a purse, or robs a house, Or is accomplice with some knavish gang, Or thrusts himself in crowds to play th' Informer, And put his perjured evidence to sale: This a well-order'd city will not suffer: Such vermin we expel.—And you do wisely: But what is this to me?—Why, this it is: Here we behold you every day at work, Living forsooth! not as your neighbours live, But richly, royally, ye gods!—Why, man, We cannot get a fish for love or money, You swallow the whole produce of the sea: You've driven our citizens to browze on cabbage: A sprig of parsley sets them all a-fighting, As at the Isthmian games: if hare or partridge, Or but a simple thrush comes to the market, Quick at the word you snap him. By the gods! Hunt Athens through, you shall not find a feather But in your kitchen; and for wine, 'tis gold— Not to be purchased: we may drink the ditches. —Cumberland.

Wee have in Corinth this good Law in use; If wee see any person keepe great cheere, We make inquirie, Whether he doe worke, Or if he have Revenues coming in? If either, then we say no more of him. But if the Charge exceed his Gaine or Rents, He is forbidden to run on his course: If he continue it, he pays a fine: If he want wherewithal, he is at last Taken by Sergeants and in prison cast. For to spend much, and never to get ought, Is cause of much disorder in the world. One in the night-time filcheth from the flocks; Another breaks a house or else a shop; A third man gets a share his mouth to stop. To beare a part in this good fellowship, One feignes a suit his neighbor to molest, Another must false witness beare with him: But such a crue we utterly detest, And banish from our citie like the pest. —Molle.

Believe me, my good friend, such is the law Long held at Corinth; when we see a man Spending large sums upon the daintiest fish, And living at a great expense, we ask The means by which he can maintain the splendour. If it appears that his possessions yield A fund proportion'd to this costly charge, 'Tis well, he's not molested, and proceeds T' enjoy that kind of life which he approves. But if we find that he exceeds his means, We first admonish him; if he persists, We then proceed to punishment by fine. If one who has no fortune to supply E'en common wants, lives thus expensively, Him we deliver to the common beadle For corporal punishment.—Anon.

We cannot get the smallest fish for money; And for a bunch of parsley we must fight, As 'twere the Isthmian games: then, should a hare Make its appearance, 'tis at once caught up; A partridge or a lark, by Jupiter! We can't so much as see them on the wing, And all on your account: then as for wine, You've raised the price so high we cannot taste it. —Anon.

It grieves me much to see the world so changed, And men of worth, ingenious and well-born, Reduced to poverty, while cunning knaves; The very scum of the people, eat their fish, Bought for two oboli, on plates of silver, Weighing at least a mina; a few capers, Not worth three pieces of brass-money, served In lordly silver-dish, that weighs, at least, As much as fifteen drachmas. In times past A little cup presented to the Gods Was thought a splendid offering; but such gifts Are now but seldom seen,—and reason good, For 'tis no sooner on the altar placed, Than rogues are watching to purloin it thence. —Anon.

I'm ready, at the slightest call, to sup With those who may think proper to invite me. If there's a wedding in the neighbourhood, I smell it out, nor scruple to be there Sans invitation; then, indeed, I shine, And make a full display of all my wit, 'Till the guests shake with laughter; I take care To tickle well the master of the feast; Should any strive to thwart my purpose, I At once take fire, and load him with reproach And bitter sarcasm; 'till at length, well fed, And having drunk my fill, I stagger home. No nimble link-boy guides my giddy steps, But "through the palpable obscure, I grope My uncouth way;" and if by chance I meet, In their nocturnal rounds, the watch, I hail them With soft and gentle speech; then thank the gods That I've escaped so well, nor felt the weight Of their hard fists, or their still harder staves. At length, unhurt, I find myself at home, And creep to my poor bed, where gentle sleep, And pleasant dreams, inspired by generous wine, Lock up my senses.—Anon.

When I'm invited to a great man's board, I do not feast my eyes by looking at The costly hangings, painted ceiling, or The rich Corinthian vases, but survey, And watch with curious eye, the curling smoke That rises from the kitchen. If it comes In a strong current, straight, direct, and full, I chuckle at the sight, and shake myself For very joy; but if, oblique and small, It rises slowly in a scanty volume, I then exclaim, Sad meagre fare for me! A lenten supper, and a bloodless meal.—Anon.

Makes some rich squire A banquet, and am I among the guests? Mark me: I cast no idle eye of observation On mouldings or on fretted roof: I deign not With laudatory breath to ask, if hands From Corinth form'd and fashion'd the wine-coolers: These trouble not my cap.—I watch and note (And with most deep intensity of vision), What smoke the cook sends up: mounts it me full And with alacrity and perpendicular? All joy and transport I: I crow and clap My wings for very ecstasy of heart! Does it come sidelong, making wayward angles, Embodied into no consistency? I know the mournful signal well, and straight Prepare me for a bloodless feast of herbs.—Mitchell.

Mark now, and learn of me the thriving arts By which we parasites contrive to live: Fine rogues we are, my friend, (of that be sure,) And daintily we gull mankind.—Observe! First I provide myself a nimble thing To be my page, a varlet of all crafts; Next two new suits for feasts and gala-days, Which I promote by turns, when I walk forth To sun myself upon the public square: There, if perchance I spy some rich dull knave, Straight I accost him, do him reverence, And, saunt'ring up and down, with idle chat Hold him awhile in play; at every word Which his wise worship utters, I stop short And bless myself for wonder; if he ventures On some vile joke, I blow it to the skies, And hold my sides for laughter.—Then to supper, With others of our brotherhood to mess In some night-cellar on our barley-cakes, And club invention for the next day's shift.—Cumberland.

Of how we live, a sketch I'll give, If you'll attentive be; Of parasites, (we're thieves by rights,) The flower and chief are we. Now first we've all a page at call, Of whom we're not the owners, But who's a slave to some young brave, Whom we flatter to be donors. Two gala dresses each possesses, And puts them on in turn; As oft as he goes forth to see Where he his meal can earn. The Forum I choose, my nets to let loose, It's there that I fish for my dinner; The wealthy young fools I use as my tools, Like a jolly good harden'd old sinner. Whenever I see a fool suited for me, In a trice at his side I appear, And ne'er loose my hold, till by feeding or gold, He has paid for my wants rather dear. If he chance aught to speak, though stupid and weak, Straightway it is praised to the skies; His wit I applaud, treat him as my lord, Win his heart by a good set of lies. Ere comes our meal, my way I feel, My patron's mind I study: And as each knows, we choose all those Whose brains are rather muddy. We understand our host's command, To make the table merry; By witty jokes, satiric pokes, To aid the juicy berry. If we're not able, straight from the table We're sent, elsewhere to dine; You know poor Acastor incurr'd this disaster, By being too free o'er his wine. A dreadful joke scarce from him broke, When for the slave each roars, To come and fetch th' unhappy wretch, And turn him out of doors. On him was put, like any brute, Round his throat an iron necklace; And he was handed, to be branded, To Œneus rough and reckless.—L. S.

A. There are two sorts of parasites; the one Of middle station, like ourselves, who are Much noticed by the comic poets—— B. Ay, But then the other sort, say, what of them? A. They are of higher rank, and proud pretensions, Provincial governors, who claim respect By sober and grave conduct; and though sprung From th' very dregs o' th' people, keep aloof, Affect authority and state and rule, And pride themselves on manners more severe Than others, on whose beetling brow there sits An awful frown, as if they would command At least a thousand talents—all their boast! These Nausinicus, you have seen, and judge My meaning rightly. B. I confess I do. A. Yet they all move about one common centre; Their occupations and their ends the same, The sole contention, which shall flatter most. But, as in human life, some are depress'd, Whilst others stand erect on Fortune's wheel, So fares it with these men; while some are raised To splendid affluence, and wallow in Luxurious indolence, their fellows starve, Or live on scraps, and beg a scanty pittance, To save their wretched lives.—Anon.

Think you that I can hear the parasite Abused? believe me, no; I know of none Of greater worth, more useful to the state. Whatever act is grateful to a friend, Who is more ready to stand forth than he? Are you in love, he'll stretch a point to serve you. Whate'er you do, he's ready at your call, To aid and to assist, as 'tis but just, He thinks, to do such grateful service for The patron who provides his daily meal. And then he speaks so warmly of his friend! You say for this he eats, and drinks scot-free; Well, and what then? what hero or what god Would disapprove a friend on such conditions? But why thus linger out the day, to prove That parasites are honour'd and esteem'd? Is't not enough, they claim the same reward That crowns the victor at the Olympic games, To be supported at the public charge? For wheresoe'er they diet at free cost, That may be justly call'd the Prytaneum.—Anon.

If duly weigh'd, this will, I think, be found The parasite's true state and character, The ready sharer of your life and fortunes. It is against his nature to rejoice At the misfortunes of his friends—his wish Is to see all successful, and at ease; He envies not the rich and the luxurious, But kindly would partake of their excess, And help them to enjoy their better fortune. Ever a steady and a candid friend, Not quarrelsome, morose, or petulant, And knows to keep his passions in due bounds. If you are cheerful, he will laugh aloud; Be amorous, be witty, or what else Shall suit your humour, he will be so too, And valiant, if a dinner's the reward.—Anon.

If I'm at once forbid to eat or drink, I'm a Tithymallus or Philippides. If to drink water only, I'm a frog— To feed on leaves and vegetable diet, I am at once a very caterpillar— Forbid the bath, I quarrel not with filth— To spend the winter in the open air, I am a blackbird; if to scorch all day, And jest beneath the hot meridian sun, Then I become a grasshopper to please you; If neither to anoint with fragrant oil, Or even to behold it. I am dust— To walk with naked feet at early dawn, See me a crane; but if forbid at night To rest myself and sleep, I am transform'd At once to th' wakeful night owl.—Anon.

So gaunt they seem, that famine never made Of lank Philippides so mere a shade: Of salted tunny-fish their scanty dole; Their beverage, like the frog's, a standing pool, With now and then a cabbage, at the best The leavings of the caterpillar's feast: No comb approaches their dishevell'd hair, To rout the long establish'd myriads there; On the bare ground their bed, nor do they know A warmer coverlid than serves the crow: Flames the meridian sun without a cloud? They bask like grasshoppers, and chirp as loud: With oil they never even feast their eyes; The luxury of stockings they despise, But bare-foot as the crane still march along, All night in chorus with the screech-owl's song. —Cumberland.

For famishment direct, and empty fare, I am your Tithymallus, your Philippides, Close pictured to the life: for water-drinking, Your very frog. To fret, and feed on leeks, Or other garden-stuff, your caterpillar Is a mere fool to me. Would ye have me abjure All cleansing, all ablution? I'm your man— The loathsom'st scab alive—nay, filth itself, Sheer, genuine, unsophisticated filth. To brave the winter with his nipping cold, A houseless tenant of the open air, See in me all the ousel. Is't my business, In sultry summer's dry and parched season, To dare the stifling heat, and prate the while Mocking the noontide blaze? I am at once The grasshopper: to abhor the mother'd oil? I am the very dust to lick it up And blind me to its use: to walk a-mornings Barefoot? the crane: to sleep no wink? the bat. —Bailey.

In bearing hunger and in eating nothing, I can assure you, you may reckon me A Tithymallus or Philippides; In drinking water I'm a very frog; In loving thyme and greens—a caterpillar; In hating Bagnios—a lump of dirt; In living out of doors all winter-time— A blackbird; in enduring sultry heat, And chattering at noon—a grasshopper; In neither using oil, nor seeing it— A cloud of dust; in walking up and down Bare-footed at the dawn of day—a crane; In sleeping not one single jot—a bat.—Walsh.

He that invented first the scheme of sponging On other men for dinner, was a sage Of thorough democratic principles. But may the wretch who asks a friend or stranger To dine, and then requests he'll pay his club, Be sent without a farthing into exile.—Walsh.

I wish to show how highly dignified This office of the parasite was held, How sanction'd by the laws, of origin Clearly divine; while other useful arts Are but th' inventions of the human mind, This stands preeminent the gift of gods, For Jupiter the friend first practised it. Whatever door was open to receive him, Without distinction, whether rich or poor, He enter'd without bidding; if he saw The couch well spread, the table well supplied, It was enough, he ate and drank his fill, And then retired well satisfied, but paid No reckoning to his host. Just so do I. If the door opens, and the board is spread, I step me in, though an unbidden guest, Sit down with silent caution, and take care To give no trouble to the friend that's near me; When I have eat, and fill'd my skin with wine, Like Jupiter the friend, I take my leave. Thus was the office fair and honourable, As you will freely own, by what succeeds. Our city, which was ever used to pay Both worship and respect to Hercules, When sacrifices were to be prepared, Chose certain parasites t' officiate, In honour of the god, but did not make This choice by lot, nor take the first that offer'd, But from the higher ranks, and most esteem'd Of all the citizens, they fix'd on twelve, Of life and manners irreproachable, Selected for this purpose. Thus at length The rich, in imitation of these rites, Adopted the same custom, chose them out From th' herd of parasites, such as would suit Their purpose best, to nourish and protect. Unluckily, they did not fix upon The best and most respectable, but on Such wretches as would grossly flatter them, Ready to say or swear to anything; And should their patrons puff their fetid breath, Tainted with onions, or stale horseradish, Full in their faces, they would call't a breeze From new-born violets, or sweet-scented roses; And if still fouler air came from them, 'twas A most delicious perfume, and inquiries From whence it was procured.—Such practices Have brought disgrace upon the name and office, And what was honest and respectable Is now become disgraceful and ignoble.—Anon.

I'd have you better know this trade of ours: 'Tis a profession, sirs, to ravish admiration: Its nursing-father is the Law; its birth Derives from heaven. All other trades bear stamp Of frail humanity upon them, mix'd, I grant, with show of wisdom—but your parasite Is sprung from Jove: and tell me, who in heaven Is Jove's compeer? 'Tis he that under name Of Philian, enters ev'ry mansion—own it Who will, gentle or simple, prince or artisan: Be't room of state or poverty's mean hovel, He stands upon no points:—the couch is spread, The table furnish'd—on't a goodly show Of tempting dishes: what should he ask more? He drops into a graceful attitude, Calls like a lord about him, gorges greedily The daintiest dish, washes it down with wine, Then bilks his club, and quietly walks home. I too am pieced with him in this respect, And by the god my prudent course is fashion'd. Is there a gala-day, and feast on foot, With open door that offers invitation? In walk I, silence for my only usher: I fall into a chair with sweet composure, (Why should my neighbour's peace be marr'd by noise?) I dip my finger in whate'er's before me, And having feasted ev'ry appetite Up to a surfeit, I walk home with purse Untouch'd—hath not a god done so before me? —Mitchell.

A. You say you've pass'd much of your time in Cyprus. B. All; for the war prevented my departure. A. In what place chiefly, may I ask? B. In Paphos; Where I saw elegance in such perfection, As almost mocks belief. A. Of what kind, pray you? B. Take this for one—The monarch, when he sups, Is fann'd by living doves. A. You make me curious How this is to be done; all other questions I will put by to be resolved in this. B. There is a juice drawn from a Syrian tree, To which your dove instinctively is wedded With a most loving appetite; with this The king anoints his temples, and the odour No sooner captivates the silly birds, Than straight they flutter round him, nay, would fly A bolder pitch, so strong a love-charm draws them, And perch, O horror! on his sacred crown, If that such profanation were permitted Of the bystanders, who, with reverend care, Fright them away, till thus, retreating now, And now advancing, they keep such a coil With their broad vans, and beat the lazy air Into so quick a stir, that in the conflict His royal lungs are comfortably cool'd, And thus he sups as Paphian monarchs should.—Cumberland.

I sigh'd for ease, and, weary of my lot, Wish'd to exchange it: in this mood I stroll'd Up to the citadel three several days; And there I found a bevy of preceptors For my new system, thirty in a group; All with one voice prepared to tutor me— Eat, drink, and revel in the joys of love! For pleasure is the wise man's sovereign good.—Cumberland.

What art, vocation, trade or mystery, Can match with your fine Parasite?—The Painter? He! a mere dauber: a vile drudge the Farmer: Their business is to labour, ours to laugh, To jeer, to quibble, faith, Sirs! and to drink, Aye, and to drink lustily. Is not this rare? 'Tis life, my life at least: the first of pleasures Were to be rich myself; but next to this I hold it best to be a Parasite, And feed upon the rich. Now mark me right! Set down my virtues one by one: Imprimis. Good-will to all men—would they were all rich, So might I gull them all: malice to none; I envy no man's fortune, all I wish Is but to share it: would you have a friend, A gallant steady friend? I am your man: No striker I, no swaggerer, no defamer, But one to bear all these and still forbear: If you insult, I laugh, unruffled, merry, Invincibly good-humour'd still I laugh: A stout good soldier I, valorous to a fault, When once my stomach's up and supper served: You know my humour, not one spark of pride, Such and the same for ever to my friends: If cudgell'd, molten iron to the hammer Is not so malleable; but if I cudgel, Bold as the thunder: is one to be blinded? I am the lightning's flash: to be puff'd up? I am the wind to blow him to the bursting: Choked, strangled? I can do 't and save a halter: Would you break down his doors? behold an earthquake: Open and enter them? a battering-ram: Will you sit down to supper? I'm your guest, Your very Fly to enter without bidding: Would you move off? you'll move a well as soon: I'm for all work, and though the job were stabbing, Betraying, false-accusing, only say, Do this! and it is done: I stick at nothing; They call me Thunder-bolt for my despatch; Friend of my friends am I: let actions speak me; I'm much too modest to commend myself.—Cumberland.

The days of Plutus were the days of gold; The season of high feeding, and good cheer: Rivers of goodly beef and brewis ran Boiling and bubbling through the streaming streets, With islands of fat dumplings, cut in sops And slippery gobbets, moulded into mouthfuls, That dead men might have swallow'd; floating tripes, And fleets of sausages, in luscious morsels, Stuck to the banks like oysters: here and there, For relishers, a salt-fish season'd high Swam down the savoury tide: when soon behold! The portly gammon, sailing in full state Upon his smoking platter, heaves in sight, Encompass'd with his bandoliers like guards, And convoy'd by huge bowls of frumenty, That with their generous odours scent the air. —You stagger me to tell of these good days, And yet to live with us on our hard fare, When death's a deed as easy as to drink. If your mouth waters now, what had it done, Could you have seen our delicate fine thrushes Hot from the spit, with myrtle-berries cramm'd, And larded well with celandine and parsley, Bob at your hungry lips, crying—Come eat me! Nor was this all; for pendent over-head The fairest choicest fruits in clusters hung; Girls too, young girls just budding into bloom, Clad in transparent vests, stood near at hand To serve us with fresh roses, and full cups Of rich and fragrant wine, of which one glass No sooner was despatch'd, than straight behold! Two goblets, fresh and sparkling as the first, Provoked us to repeat the increasing draught. Away then with your ploughs, we need them not, Your scythes, your sickles, and your pruning-hooks! Away with all your trumpery at once! Seed-time and harvest-home and vintage wakes— Your holidays are nothing worth to us. Our rivers roll with luxury, our vats O'erflow with nectar, which providing Jove Showers down by cataracts; the very gutters From our house-tops spout wine, vast forests wave, Whose very leaves drop fatness, smoking viands Like mountains rise.—All nature's one great feast. —Cumberland.

How strong is my desire 'fore earth and heaven, To tell how daintily I cook'd his dinner 'Gainst his return! By all Athena's owls! 'Tis no unpleasant thing to hit the mark On all occasions. What a fish had I— And ah! how nicely fried! Not all bedevill'd With cheese, or brown'd atop, but though well done, Looking alive, in its rare beauty dress'd. With skill so exquisite the fire I temper'd, It seem'd a joke to say that it was cook'd. And then, just fancy now you see a hen Gobbling a morsel much too big to swallow; With bill uplifted round and round she runs Half-choking; while the rest are at her heels Clucking for shares. Just so 'twas with my soldiers; The first who touch'd the dish upstarted he Whirling round in a circle like the hen, Eating and running; but his jolly comrades, Each a fish worshipper, soon join'd the dance, Laughing and shouting, snatching some a bit, Some missing, till like smoke the whole had vanish'd. Yet were they merely mud-fed river dabs: But had some splendid scaros graced my pan, Or Attic glaucisk, or, O saviour Zeus! Kapros from Argos, or the conger-eel, Which old Poseidon exports to Olympus, To be the food of gods, why then my guests Had rivall'd those above. I have, in fact, The power to lavish immortality On whom I please, or, by my potent art, To raise the dead, if they but snuff my dishes! —J. A. St. John.

A. I know it, my good friend, much has been said, And many books been written, on the art Of cookery; but tell me something new, Something above the common, nor disturb My brain with what I've heard so oft before. B. Peace, and attend, you shall be satisfied— For I have raised myself, by due degrees, To the perfection of the art; nor have I pass'd the last two years, since I have worn The apron, with so little profit, but Have given my mind to study all its parts, T' apply that knowledge to its proper use; So as to mark the different sorts of herbs; By proper seas'ning, to give fish the best And highest relish; and of lentils too, To note the several sorts. But to the point: When I am call'd to serve a funeral supper, The mourners just return'd, silent and sad, Clothed in funereal habits—I but raise The cover of my pot, and every face Assumes a smile, the tears are wash'd away; Charm'd with the grateful flavour, they believe They are invited to a wedding feast—— A. What, and give such effect, from a poor dish Of miserable fish, and lentils?—— B.Ay; But this the prelude only, not worth noting; Let me but have the necessary means, A kitchen amply stored, and you shall see, That, like enchantment, I will spread around A charm as powerful as the siren's voice; That not a creature shall have power to move Beyond the circle, forcibly detain'd By the delicious odour; and should one Attempt to draw yet nearer, he will stand Fix'd like a statue, with his mouth wide open, Inhaling with each breeze the precious steam, Silent and motionless; till some good friend, In pity to his fate, shall stop his nostrils, And drag him thence by force—— A. You are indeed A master of the art—— B. You know not yet The worth of him you speak to—look on those Whom you see seated round, not one of them But would his fortune risk to make me his.—Anon.

'Tis not my custom to engage myself, Till first I know how I'm to be employ'd, And whether plenty is to crown the board. I first inquire by whom the feast is given, Who are the guests, and what the kind of fare; For you must know I keep a register Of different ranks, that I may judge at once Whom to refuse, and where to offer service. For instance now, with the seafaring tribe. A captain just escaped from the rough sea, Who, fearing shipwreck, cut away his mast, Unshipp'd his rudder, or was forced to throw Part of his loading overboard, now comes To sacrifice on his arrival; him I cautiously avoid: and reason good; No credit can be gain'd by serving him, For he does nothing for the sake of pleasure, But merely to comply with custom; then His habits are so economical, He calculates beforehand the expense. And makes a nice division of the whole Between himself and his ship's company, So that each person eats but of his own. Another, just three days arrived in port, Without or wounded mast or shatter'd sail, With a rich cargo from Byzantium; He reckons on his ten or twelve per cent. Clear profit of adventure, is all joy, All life, all spirits, chuckles o'er his gain, And looks abroad, like a true sailor, for Some kind and tender-hearted wench, to share His happy fortunes, and is soon supplied By the vile pimps that ply about the port. This is the man for me; him I accost, Hang on his steps, and whisper in his ear, "Jove the preserver," nor withdraw my suit, Till he has fairly fix'd me in his service. This is my practice.—If I see some youth Up to the ears in love, who spends his time In prodigality and wild expense, Him I make sure of.—But the cautious man, Who calls a meeting at a joint expense, Collects the symbols, and deposits them Safe in his earthen pot; he may call loud, And pull my robe, he'll not be heard, I pay No heed to such mean wretches, for no gain But blows can be obtain'd by serving them; Though you work hard to please them night and day, If you presume to ask such fellow for The wages you have earn'd, he frowns, and cries, "Bring me the pot, you varlet;" then bawls out, "The lentils wanted vinegar;"—again Demand your money, "Wretch," he loudly cries, "Be silent, or I'll make you an example For future cooks to mend their manners by." More I could tell, but I have said enough. B. You need not fear the service I require, 'Tis for a set of free and easy girls, Who live hard by, and wish to celebrate Gaily the feast of their beloved Adonis. She who invites is a right merry lass, And nothing will be spared: therefore be quick, Tuck up your robe, and come away with me. —Anon.

Talk not to me of schools and trim academies, Of music or sage meetings held at Pylus— I'll hear no more of them: mere sugar'd words Which melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cup And pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper. This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius— Feast it with high delights, and mark it be not Too sad—I know no pleasure but the belly; 'Tis kin, 'tis genealogy to me: I own no other sire nor lady-mother. For virtue—'tis a cheat: your embassies— Mere toys: office and army sway—boy's rattles. They are a sound—a dream—an empty bubble; Our fated day is fix'd, and who may cheat it? Nought rests in perpetuity; nor may we Call aught our own, save what the belly gives A local habitation: for the rest— What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod. And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.

Of all fish-eaters None sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus. 'Twas a prodigious twist! At Syracuse Fate threw him on the fish call'd "Many-feet." He purchased it and drest it; and the whole, Bate me the head, form'd but a single swallow. A crudity ensued—the doctor came, And the first glance inform'd him things went wrong. And "Friend," quoth he, "if thou hast aught to set In order, to it straight;—pass but seven hours, And thou and life must take a long farewell." "I've nought to do," replied the bard: "all's right And tight about me—nothing's in confusion— Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind me Of healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd, A credit to their years;—not one among them Without a graceful chaplet on his head:— These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath, (We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with them Be Bacchus and fair Venus in commission.— Thus far, Sir, for my testament:—for respite, I look not for it, mark, at Charon's hand, (Take me, I would be understood to mean Timotheus' Charon,—him in the Niobe:) I hear his voice this moment—"Hip! halloo! To ship, to ship," he cries: the swarthy Destinies (And who must not attend their solemn bidding?) Unite their voices.—I were loth, howe'er, To troop with less than all my gear about me;— Good doctor, be my helper then to what Remains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.

Lords and ladies, for your ear, We have a petitioner. Name and lineage would you know?— 'Tis Apollo's child, the crow; Waiting till your hands dispense Gift of barley, bread or pence. Be it but a lump of salt; His is not the mouth to halt. Nought that's proffer'd he denies; Long experience makes him wise. Who to-day gives salt, he knows, Next day fig or honey throws.— Open, open gate and door: Mark! the moment we implore, Comes the daughter of the squire, With such figs as wake desire.— Maiden, for this favour done May thy fortunes, as they run, Ever brighten—be thy spouse Rich and of a noble house; May thy sire in aged ease Nurse a boy who calls thee mother: And his grandam on her knees Rock a girl who calls him brother;— Kept as bride in reservation For some favour'd near relation.— But enough now: I must tread Where my feet and eyes are led; Dropping at each door a strain, Let me lose my suit or gain. Then search, worthy gentles, the cupboard's close nook: To the lord, and still more to the lady we look: Custom warrants the suit—let it still then bear sway; And your crow, as in duty most bounden, shall pray. —Mitchell.

Good people, a handful of barley bestow On the bearers about of the sable crow— Apollo's daughter she— But if the barley-heap wax low, Still kindly let your bounty flow, And of the yellow grains that grow On the wheaten stalk be free. Or a well-kneaded loaf or an obolos give, Or what you will, for the crow must live. If the gods have been bountiful to you to-day, Oh, say not to her for whom we sing, Say not, we implore you, nay, To the bird of the cloudy wing. A grain of salt will please her well, And whoso this day that bestows, May next day give (for who can tell?) A comb from which the honey flows. But come, come, what need we say more? Open the door, boy, open the door, For Plutus has heard our prayers. And see, through the porch, a damsel, as sweet As the winds that play round the flowery feet Of Ida, comes the crow to meet, And a basket of figs she bears. Oh, may this maiden happy be, And from care and sorrow free; Let her all good fortune find, And a husband rich and kind. And when her parents have grown old, Let her in her father's arms Place a boy as fair as she, With the ringlets all of gold, And, upon her mother's knee, A maiden deck'd with all her charms. But I from house to house must go, And wherever my eyes by my feet are borne, To the muse at night and morn For those who do or don't bestow, The mellow words of song shall flow. Come then, good folks, your plenty share; O give, my prince! and maiden fair, Be bountiful to-day. Sooth, custom bids ye all to throw Whole handfulls to the begging crow; At least give something; say not, No, And we will go our way. —J. A. St. John.

The swallow is come, and with her brings A year with plenty overflowing; Freely its rich gifts bestowing, The loveliest of lovely springs. She is come, she is come, To her sunny home; And white is her breast as a beam of light, But her back and her wings are as black as night. Then bring forth your store, Bring it out to the door, A mass of figs, or a stoop of wine, Cheese, or meal, or what you will, Whate'er it be we'll not take it ill: Even an egg will not come amiss, For the swallow's not nice When she wishes to dine. Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be? For we will not go, Though time doth flee, Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No. But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate, And thy pretty wife we'll bear away; She is small, and of no great weight. Open, open, then we say. Not old men, but boys are we, And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.

The swallow, the swallow has burst on the sight, He brings us gay seasons of vernal delight; His back it is sable, his belly is white. Can your pantry nought spare, That his palate may please, A fig—or a pear— Or a slice of rich cheese? Mark, he bars all delay: At a word, my friend, say, Is it yes,—is it nay? Do we go?—do we stay?— One gift and we're gone: Refuse, and anon On your gate and your door All our fury we pour. Or our strength shall be tried On your sweet little bride: From her seat we will tear her; From her home we will bear her: She is light, and will ask But small hands to the task.— Let your bounty then lift A small aid to our mirth; And whatever the gift, Let its size speak its worth. The swallow, the swallow Upon you doth wait: An almsman and suppliant He stands at your gate: Set open, set open Your gate and your door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,— We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.

The swallow's come, winging His way to us here! Fair hours is he bringing, And a happy new year! White and black Are his belly and back. Give him welcome once more, With figs from your store, With wine in its flasket, And cheese in its basket, And eggs,—ay, and wheat if we ask it. Shall we go or receive? yes, we'll go, if you'll give; But, if you refuse us, we never will leave. We'll tear up the door, And the lintel and floor; And your wife, if you still demur— She is little and light—we will come to-night And run away e'en with her. But if you will grant The presents we want, Great good shall come of it, And plenty of profit! Come, throw open free Your doors to the swallow! Your children are we, Not old beggars, who follow.—E. B. C.

Carian! time well thy ambidextrous part, Nor always filch. It was but yesterday, Blundering, they nearly caught thee in the fact; None of thy balls had livers, and the guests, In horror, pierced their airy emptiness. Not even the brains were there, thou brainless hound! If thou art hired among the middling class, Who pay thee freely, be thou honourable! But for this day, where now we go to cook, E'en cut the master's throat for all I care; "A word to th' wise," and show thyself my scholar! There thou may'st filch and revel; all may yield Some secret profit to thy sharking hand. 'Tis an old miser gives a sordid dinner, And weeps o'er every sparing dish at table; Then if I do not find thou dost devour All thou canst touch, e'en to the very coals, I will disown thee! Lo! old Skin-flint comes; In his dry eyes what parsimony stares!—D'Israeli.

A. If you consider well, my Demylus, Our art is neither low nor despicable; But since each rude and untaught blockhead dares Present himself as cook profess'd, the art Has sunk in estimation, nor is held In that respect and honour as of old.— Imagine to yourself a cook indeed, Versed from his infancy in all the arts And mysteries of his trade; a person, too, Of shining talents, well instructed in The theory and practice of his art; From such a one you will be taught to prize And value as you ought, this first of arts. There are but three of any character Now living: Boidion is one, and then Chariades, and, to crown all, myself; The rest, depend upon it, are beneath Your notice. B. How is that? A. Believe me, truth; We three are the supporters of the school Of Sicyon; he, indeed, was prince of cooks, And as a skill'd professor, taught us first The motion of the stars, and the whole scheme And science of astrology; he then Inform'd us of the rules of architecture, And next instructed us in physics, and The laws of motion, and th' inventions rare Of natural philosophy; this done, He lectured in the military art. Having obtain'd this previous knowledge, he Began to lead us to the elements Of cookery. B. Can what you say be truth, Or do you jest? A. Most certainly 'tis true; And while the boy is absent at the market, I will just touch upon the subject, which, As time shall serve hereafter, we may treat More largely at our ease. B. Apollo, lend Thy kind assistance, for I've much to hear. A. First, then, a perfect and accomplish'd cook Should be well skill'd in meteorology; Should know the motions of the stars, both when They rise, and when again they set; and how The planets move within their several orbits; Of the sun's course, when he prolongs the day, Or sets at early hour, and brings in night; His place i' the Zodiac; for as these revolve All aliments are savour'd, or to please And gratify the taste, or to offend And pall the appetite: he who knows this Has but to mind the season of the year, And he may decorate his table with The choicest viands, of the highest relish. But he who, ignorant of this, pretends To give directions for a feast, must fail. Perhaps it may excite your wonder, how The rules of architecture should improve The art of cookery? B. I own it does. A. I will convince you, then. You must agree, That 'tis a most important point to have The chimney fix'd just in its proper place; That light be well diffused throughout the kitchen; That you may see how the wind blows, and how The smoke inclines, which, as it leans to this Or t' other quarter, a good cook knows well To take advantage of the circumstance, And make it favourable to his art. Then military tactics have their use; And this the learn'd professor knows, and like A prudent general, marshals out his force In proper files, for order governs all; He sees each dish arranged upon the board With due decorum, in its proper place, And borne from thence in the same order, too; No hurry, no confusion; his quick eye Discovers at a glance if all is right; Knows how to suit the taste of every guest, If such a dish should quickly be removed, And such another occupy its place. To one serves up his food quite smoking hot, And to another moderately warm, Then to a third quite cold, but all in order, And at the moment, as he gives the word. This knowledge is derived, as you perceive, From strict attention to the rules of art And martial discipline.—Would you know more? B. I am quite satisfied, and so farewell. —Anon.

Such lore, he said, was requisite For him who thought beside his spit; And undeterr'd by noise or heat, Could calmly con each new receipt: Star knowledge first, for meats are found With rolling months to go the round; And, as the sunshine's short or long, Yield flavours exquisite or strong: Fishes, 'tis known, as seasons vary, Are delicate, or quite 'contrary;' The tribes of air, like those of fin, Change with each sign the sun goes in: So that who only knows what cheer, Not when to buy's no cook, 'tis clear. A cook who would his kitchen show, Must also architecture know; And see, howe'er it blows without, His fire, like Vesta's, ne'er goes out; Nor soot unsightly smudge the dish, And spoil the vol au vent, or fish. Nor only to the chimney looks Our true Mageiros, king of cooks; Beside the chimney, that his eye May clearly view the day's supply, He opes his window, in that spot Where Sol peeps in, to show what's what: The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor, What cupboard, shelves, and where the door Are his to plan; and if he be The man I mean, to each he'll see. Lastly, to marshal in array The long-drawn line of man and tray: The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bear Their glittering lances through the air; And then the hoplitic troop to goad, Who bend beneath their chargers' load, And, empty dishes ta'en away, Place solid flank for new assay; While heavy tables creak and groan Under the χῶρος λοπάδων. All this demands such skill, as wields The veteran chief of hard-won fields! Who rules the roast might rule the seas, Or baste his foes with equal ease; And cooks who're equal to a rout, Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.

Cook. Our art is not entirely despicable, If you examine it, good Demylus; But the pursuit has been run down, and all Almost, however stupid, say they're cooks; And by such cheats as these the art is ruin'd. For, if you take a veritable cook, Well brought up to his business from a boy, And skilful in the properties of things, And knowing all the usual sciences; Then the affair will seem quite different. We are the only three remaining ones— Chariades, and Bœdion, and I. A fico for the rest! Gent. What's that you say? Cook. What, I? 'Tis we that keep up Sicon's school, Who was the head and founder of the art. He used to teach us first of all astronomy; Next after that directly, architecture; Confining all he said to natural science. Then, to conclude, he lectured upon tactics. All this he made us learn before the art. Gent. Dear sir, d'ye mean to worry me to death? Cook. No; while the slave is coming back from market, I'll rouse your curiosity a little Upon the subject, that we thus may seize This most convenient time for conversation. Gent. By Phœbus, but you'll find it a hard matter! Cook. Listen, good sir. Firstly, the cook must know "Astronomy,"—the settings and the risings Of all the stars, and when the sun comes back Both to the longest and the shortest day, And through what constellations he is passing. For nearly every kind of meat and food Deceives, they say, a varying gout within it During the revolution of the system. So he that knows all this, will see the season, And use each article just as he ought; But he that does not, will be justly thump'd. Again, perhaps, you wonder as to "architecture," How it can aid the art of cookery? Gent. I know it. 'Tis most strange. Cook. Yet I'll explain it. To plan the kitchen rightly and receive As much light as you want, and see from whence The draught is, does good service in the business. The driving of the smoke, now here, now there, Makes a material difference when you're boiling. Why should I, then, go on to prove that "tactics" Are needful to the Cook? Good order's good In every station and in every art; In ours, it almost is the leading point. The serving up, and the removing all things In order, and the seeing when's the time Either to introduce them quick or slowly, And how the guests may feel inclined for eating, And, as regards the dishes too, themselves, When is the proper time to serve some hot, Some warm, some cooling, some completely cold, Is all discuss'd in the Tactician's science. Gent. Then, as you've pointed out to me what's needful, Go, get you gone, and rest yourself a bit.—Anon.

A. You surely must confess that, in most arts, The pleasure that results from the perfection Is not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mind The rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands 'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use it Perhaps partake a larger portion still. B. As I'm a stranger, pray inform me how? A. For instance, to prepare a sumptuous feast, We must provide a tolerable cook; His work once done, his function's at an end. Then, if the guests for whom it is prepared Come at the proper moment, all is well, And they enjoy a most delicious treat. If they delay, the dishes are all cold, And must be warm'd again; or what has been Kept back, is now too hastily despatch'd, And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thus The act itself of its due merit.—Anon.

I have had many pupils in my time, But you, my Lycus, far exceed them all In clear and solid sense, and piercing judgment. Young as you are, with only ten months' study, I send you forth into the world, a cook, Complete and perfect in the rules of art. Agis of Rhodes alone knew how to broil A fish in due perfection; Nereus, too, Of Chios, for stew'd congers had no equal; For from his hands, it was a dish for th' gods. Then for white thrion, no one could exceed Chariades of Athens; for black broth, Th' invention and perfection's justly due To Lamprias alone; while Aponètus Was held unrivall'd for his sausages. For lentils, too, Euthynus beat the world; And Aristion above all the rest Knew how to suit each guest, with the same dish Served up in various forms, at those repasts Where each man paid his share to deck the board.— After the ancient Sophists, these alone Were justly deem'd the seven wise men of Greece.—Anon.

I've harbour'd a he-sphinx and not a cook, For, by the gods! he talk'd to me in riddles, And coin'd new words that pose me to interpret. No sooner had he enter'd on his office, Than eyeing me from head to foot, he cries— "How many mortals hast thou bid to supper?" Mortals! quoth I, what tell you me of mortals? Let Jove decide on their mortality; You're crazy sure! none by that name are bidden. "No table usher? no one to officiate As master of the courses?"—No such person; Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus, These are my guests and friends, and amongst these You'll find no table-decker, as I take it. "Gods! is it possible?" cried he;—Most certain, I patiently replied: he swell'd and huff'd, As if, forsooth! I'd done him heinous wrong, And robb'd him of his proper dignity; Ridiculous conceit!—"What offering mak'st thou To Erysichthon?" he demanded: None— "Shall not the wide-horn'd ox be fell'd?" cries he: I sacrifice no ox—"Nor yet a wether?" Not I, by Jove! a simple sheep perhaps: "And what's a wether but a sheep?" cries he. I'm a plain man, my friend, and therefore speak Plain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does; And sure a cook may use like privilege And more than a blind poet."—Not with me; I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house! So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted. —Cumberland.

I like to see the faces of my guests, To feed them as their age and station claim. My kitchen changes, as my guests inspire The various spectacle; for lovers now, Philosophers, and now for financiers, If my young royster be a mettled spark, Who melts an acre in a savoury dish To charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs, And all the shelly race, with mixture due Of cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich. For such a host, my friend! expends much more In oil than cotton; solely studying love! To a philosopher, that animal, Voracious, solid ham and bulky feet; But to the financier, with costly niceness, Glociscus rare, or rarity more rare. Insensible the palate of old age, More difficult than the soft lips of youth To move, I put much mustard in their dish; With quickening sauces make their stupor keen, And lash the lazy blood that creeps within. —D'Israeli.

"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespoke Aspiring to prepare, with prescient zeal Should know the tastes and humours of the guests; For if he drudges through the common work, Thoughtless of manner, careless what the place And seasons claim, and what the favouring hour Auspicious to his genius may present, Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men, Call we this plodding fricasseer a Cook? Oh, differing far! and one is not the other! We call indeed the general of an army Him who is charged to lead it to the war; But the true general is the man whose mind, Mastering events, anticipates, combines; Else he is but a leader to his men! With our profession thus: the first who comes May with a humble toil, or slice, or chop, Prepare the ingredients, and around the fire Obsequious, him I call a fricasseer! But ah! the cook a brighter glory crowns! Well skill'd is he to know the place, the hour, Him who invites, and him who is invited, What fish in season makes the market rich, A choice delicious rarity! I know That all, we always find; but always all, Charms not the palate, critically fine. Archestratus, in culinary lore Deep for his time, in this more learned age Is wanting; and full oft he surely talks Of what he never ate. Suspect his page, Nor load thy genius with a barren precept. Look not in books for what some idle sage So idly raved; for cookery is an art Comporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an art Still changing, and of momentary triumph! Know on thyself thy genius must depend. All books of cookery, all helps of art, All critic learning, all commenting notes, Are vain, if, void of genius, thou wouldst cook!" The culinary sage thus spoke; his friend Demands, "Where is the ideal cook thou paint'st?" "Lo, I the man!" the savouring sage replied. "Now be thine eyes the witness of my art! This tunny drest, so odorous shall steam, The spicy sweetness so shall steal thy sense, That thou in a delicious reverie Shalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.

A. The wretch on whom you lavish so much praise, I swear, by all the gods, but ill deserves it— The true professor of the art should strive To gratify the taste of every guest; For if he merely furnishes the table, Sees all the dishes properly disposed, And thinks, having done this, he has discharged His office, he's mistaken, and deserves To be consider'd only as a drudge, A kitchen-drudge, without or art or skill, And differs widely from a cook indeed, A master of his trade.—He bears the name Of General, 'tis true, who heads the army; But he whose comprehensive mind surveys The whole, who knows to turn each circumstance Of time, and place, and action, to advantage,— Foresees what difficulties may occur, And how to conquer them,—this is the man Who should be call'd the general; the other The mere conductor of the troops, no more: So in our art it is an easy thing To boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee, To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire; But a professor of the art regards The time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest; And when the market is well stored with fish, Knows to select, and to prefer such only As are in proper season, and, in short, Omits no knowledge that may justly lead To the perfection of his art. 'Tis true, Archestratus has written on the subject, And is allow'd by many to have left Most choice receipts, and rare inventions Useful and pleasing; yet in many things He was profoundly ignorant, and speaks Upon report, without substantial proof Or knowledge of his own. We must not trust, Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus; For in our art we only can depend On actual practice and experiment. Having no fix'd and settled laws by which We may be govern'd, we must frame our own, As time and opportunity may serve, Which if we do not well improve, the art Itself must suffer by our negligence. B. You are indeed a most renown'd professor; But still you have omitted to point out The properties of that most skilful cook Who furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease. A. Give but the word, and you shall see me dress A thrion in such style! and other dainties To furnish out a full and rich repast, That you may easily conceive the rest; Nay, you will think yourself in Attica, From the sweet fragrance, and delicious taste; And then the whole so various, and well-dress'd, You shall be puzzled where to fix your choice, From the stored viands of so rich a board. —Anon.

Dost know whom thou'rt to sup with, friend?—I'll tell thee; With gladiators, not with peaceful guests; Instead of knives we're arm'd with naked swords, And swallow firebrands in the place of food: Daggers of Crete are served us for confections, And for a plate of pease a fricassee Of shatter'd spears: the cushions we repose on Are shields and breastplates, at our feet a pile Of slings and arrows, and our foreheads wreath'd With military ensigns, not with myrtle. —Cumberland.

Know'st thou with whom thou hast to deal? On sharpen'd swords we make our meal; The dripping torch, snapdragon-wise, Our burning beverage supplies; And Cretic shafts, as sweetmeats stored, Form the dessert upon our board, With tid-bits of split javelin: Pillow'd on breastplates we recline; Strew'd at our feet are slings and bows, And crown'd with catapults our brows.—Wrangham.

Herken my word: wote thou, leve brother min, Thou shulde in certaine thys daie wyth us din. Bright swerdes and eke browne our vittaile been; Torches we glot for sowle, that fyerie bren. Eftsone the page doth sette upon our bord, Yfette fro Crete, kene arwes long and broad; No fetches do we ete, but speres shente, That gadred ben fro blood ydrenched bente. The silver targe, and perced habergeon, Been that, whan sonne is set, we lig upon. On bowes reste our fete whan that we slepe, With katapultes crownde, so heie hem clepe.—W. W.

To be bow'd by grief is folly; Nought is gain'd by melancholy; Better than the pain of thinking Is to steep the sense in drinking. —Bland.

A. A thing exists which nor immortal is, Nor mortal, but to both belongs, and lives As neither god nor man does. Every day 'Tis born anew and dies. No eye can see it, And yet to all 'tis known. B. A plague upon you! You bore me with your riddles. A. Still, all this Is plain and easy. B. What then can it be? A. Sleep—that puts all our cares and pains to flight. —J. A. St. John.

Nor mortal fate, nor yet immortal thine, Amalgam rare of human and divine; Still ever new thou comest, soon again To vanish, fleeting as the phantom train; Ever invisible to earthly eye, Yet known to each one most familiarly.—F. Metcalfe.

A. What is it that, while young, is plump and heavy, But, being full grown, is light, and wingless mounts Upon the courier winds, and foils the sight? B. The Thistle's Beard; for this at first sticks fast To the green seed, which, ripe and dry, falls off Upon the cradling breeze, or, upwards puff'd By playful urchins, sails along the air.—J. A. St. John.

There is a female which within her bosom Carries her young, that, mute, in fact, yet speak, And make their voice heard on the howling waves, Or wildest continent. They will converse Even with the absent, and inform the deaf. —J. A. St. John.

Know'st thou the creature, that a tiny brood Within her bosom keeps securely mew'd? Though voiceless all, beyond the ocean wide To distant realms their still small voices glide. Far, far away, whome'er t' address they seek Will understand, yet no one hears them speak. —F. Metcalfe.

A thing whose match, or in the depths profound Of ocean, or on earth, can ne'er be found; Cast in no mortal mould its growth of limb Dame Nature orders by the strangest whim. 'Tis born, and lo! a giant form appears; Toward middle age a smaller size it wears; And now again, its day of life nigh o'er, How wonderful gigantic as before. —F. Metcalfe.

We're sisters twain, one dying bears the other: She too expires, and so brings forth her mother. —F. Metcalfe.