Two hundred years ago, or more,
An heir possess'd a miser's store;
Rejoiced to find his father dead,
Till then on thrifty viands fed;
Unnumber'd dishes crown'd his board,
With each unwholesome trifle stored.
He ate--and long'd to eat again,
But sigh'd for appetite in vain:
His food, though dress'd a thousand ways,
Had lost its late accustom'd praise;
He relish'd nothing--sickly grew--
Yet long'd to taste of something new.
It chanced in this disastrous case,
One morn betimes he join'd the chase:
Swift o'er the plain the hunters fly,
Each echoing out a joyous cry;
A forest next before them lay;
He, left behind, mistook his way,
And long alone bewildered rode,
He found a peasant's poor abode;
But fasting kept, from six to four,
Felt hunger, long unfelt before;
The friendly swain this want supplied,
And Joan some eggs and bacon fried.
Not dainty now, the squire in haste
Fell to, and praised their savory taste;
Nay, said his meal had such a _gout_
He ne'er in tarts and olios knew.
Rejoiced to think he'd found a dish,
That crown'd his long unanswer'd wish,
With gold his thankful host he paid,
Who guides him back from whence he stray'd;
But ere they part, so well he dined,
His rustic host the squire enjoin'd
To send him home next day a stock
Of those same eggs and charming hock.
He hoped this dish of savory meat
Would prove that still 'twas bliss to eat;
But, ah! he found, like all the rest,
These eggs were tasteless things at best;
The bacon not a dog would touch,
So rank--he never tasted such!
He sent express to fetch the clown,
And thus address'd him with a frown:
"These eggs, this bacon, that you sent,
For Christian food were never meant;
As soon I'll think the moon's a cheese,
As those you dress'd the same with these.
Little I thought"--"Sir," says the peasant,
"I'm glad your worship is so pleasant:
You joke, I'm sure: for I can swear,
The same the fowls that laid them are!
And know as well that all the bacon
From one the self-same flitch was taken:
The air, indeed, about our green
Is known to make the stomach keen."
"Is that the case?" the squire replied;
"That air shall be directly tried."
He gave command--a house he hired,
And down he goes with hope inspired,
And takes his cooks--a favorite train;
But still they ply their art in vain.
Perhaps 'twas riding did the feat:
He rides,--but still he cannot eat.
At last a friend, to physic bred,
Perceived his case, and thus he said:
"Be ruled by me, you soon shall eat,
With hearty gust, the plainest meat;
A pint of milk each rising morn,
Procure from cow of sable horn;
Shake in three drops of morning dew
From twig of ever-verdant yew;
It must by your own hand be done,
Your face turn'd westward from the sun.
With this, ere half an hour is past,
Well crumb'd with biscuit, break your fast;
Which done, from food (or all is vain)
For twice three hours and one abstain--
Then dine on one substantial dish,
If plainly dress'd, of flesh or fish."
Grave look'd the doctor as he spake--
The squire concludes th' advice to take,
And, cheated into temperance, found
The bliss his former luxury drown'd.
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