* * * * *

ARISTOPHANES. (Book i. § 55, p. 50.)

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.

* * * * *

DIPHILUS. (Book ii. § 2, p. 58.)

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.

* * * * *

EUBULUS. (Book ii. § 3, p. 59.)

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.

* * * * *

EPICHARMUS. (Book ii. § 3, p. 59.)

_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.

* * * * *

BACCHYLIDES. (Book ii. § 10, p. 65.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

EPHIPPOS. (Book ii. § 30, p. 79.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book ii. § 44, p. 90.)

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.

* * * * *

EPICRATES. (Book ii. § 54, p. 98.)

_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.

* * * * *

EURIPIDES. (Book ii. § 57, p. 101.)

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.

* * * * *

MENANDER. (Book ii. § 86, p. 119.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ARISTOPHANES. (Book iii. § 7, p. 126.)

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.

* * * * *

STESICHORUS. (Book iii. § 21, p. 136.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTIGONUS. (Book iii. § 22, p. 137.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book iii. § 27, p. 140.)

_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.

* * * * *

ARISTOPHANES. (Book iii. § 33, p. 145.)

Then every soul of them sat open-mouth'd,

Like roasted oysters gaping in a row.—J. H. FRERE.

* * * * *

ARCHESTRATUS. (Book iii. § 44, p. 154.)

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.

* * * * *

DAMOXENUS. (Book iii. § 60, p. 170.)

_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.

* * * * *

BATO.[146] (Book iii. § 61, p. 171.)

_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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book iii. § 62, p. 172.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book iii. § 86, p. 194.)

_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.

* * * * *

MATRON.[147] (Book iv. § 13, p. 220.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book iv. § 58, p. 264.)

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.

* * * * *

ANAXIPPUS. (Book iv. § 68, p. 271.)

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.

* * * * *

TIMOCLES. (Book vi. § 2, p. 354.)

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.

* * * * *

_From the same._ (Book vi. § 3, p. 355.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book vi. § 3, p. 355.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

AMPHIS. (Book vi. § 5, p. 356.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book vi. § 5, p. 356.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

DIPHILUS. (Book vi. §6, p. 356.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

XENARCHUS. (Book vi. § 6, p. 357.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book vi. § 7, p. 357.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book vi. § 8, p. 358.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book VI. § 10, p. 359.)

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.

_From the same._ (Book vi. § 12, p. 359.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

DIPHILUS. (Book vi. § 12, p. 360.)

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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

PHILIPPIDES. (Book vi. § 17, p. 363.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book vi. § 28, p. 372.)

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.

* * * * *

DIPHILUS. (Book vi. § 29, p. 372.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

EUPOLIS. (Book vi. § 30, p. 373.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book vi. § 31, p. 374.)

_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.

* * * * *

TIMOCLES. (Book vi. § 32, p. 374.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book vi. § 33, p. 375.)

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.

* * * * *

ARISTOPHON. (Book vi. § 34, p. 376.)

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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

EUBULUS. (Book vi. § 35, p. 376.)

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.

* * * * *

DIODORUS OF SINOPE. (Book vi. § 36, p. 377.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book vi. § 71, p. 404.)

_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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book vi. § 72, p. 405.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES.

(Book vi. § 73, p. 405; § 33, p. 375; and § 35, p. 376.)

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.

* * * * *

PHERECRATES. (Book vi. §§ 96, 97, pp. 423, 424.)

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.

* * * * *

PHILEMON. (Book vii. § 32, p. 453.)

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.

* * * * *

HEGESIPPUS. (Book vii. § 36, p. 455.)

_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.

* * * * *

DIPHILUS. (Book vii. § 39, p. 458.)

'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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book viii. § 15, p. 532.)

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.

* * * * *

MACHON. (Book viii. § 26, p. 538.)

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.

* * * * *

PHŒNIX. (Book viii. § 59, p. 566.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

CLEOBULUS. (Book viii. § 60, p. 567.)

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 same._

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 same._

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.

* * * * *

EUPHRON. (Book ix. § 21, p. 595.)

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.

* * * * *

SOSIPATER. (Book ix. § 22, p. 595.)

_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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

_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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book ix. § 23, p. 596.)

_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.

* * * * *

EUPHRON. (Book ix. § 24, p. 597.)

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.

* * * * *

STRATO. (Book ix. § 29, p. 601.)

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.

* * * * *

ANTHIPPUS. (Book ix. § 68, p. 637.)

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.

* * * * *

DIONYSIUS. (Book ix. § 69, p. 638.)

"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.

_The same._

_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.

* * * * *

MNESIMACHUS. (Book x. § 18, p. 663.)

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.

_The same._

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

ALCÆUS. (Book x. § 35, p. 679.)

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.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book x. § 71, p. 709.)

_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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

EUBULUS. (Book x. § 71, p. 710.)

_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.

* * * * *

ANTIPHANES. (Book x. § 73, p. 711.)

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.

_The same._

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.

* * * * *

THEODECTES. (Book x. § 75, p. 713.)

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.

* * * * *

THEODECTES. (Book x. § 75, p. 713.)

We're sisters twain, one dying bears the other:

She too expires, and so brings forth her mother.—F. METCALFE.

* * * * *

XENOPHANES. (Book xi. § 7, p. 729.)

The ground is swept, and the triclinium clean,

The hands are purified, the goblets too

Well rinsed, each guest upon his forehead bears

A wreathed flow'ry crown; from slender vase

A willing youth presents to each in turn

A sweet and costly perfume; while the bowl,

Emblem of joy and social mirth, stands by,

Fill'd to the brim; another pours out wine

Of most delicious flavour, breathing round

Fragrance of flowers, and honey newly made;

So grateful to the sense, that none refuse;

While odoriferous gums fill all the room.

Water is served too, cold, and fresh, and clear;

Bread, saffron tinged, that looks like leaves of gold.

The board is gaily spread with honey pure,

And savoury cheese. The altar, too, which stands

Full in the centre, crown'd with flow'ry wreaths;

The house resounds with music and with song,

With songs of grateful praise, such as become

The wise and good to offer to the gods,

In chaste and modest phrase. They humbly ask,

Pouring their free libations, to preserve

A firm and even mind; to do no wrong,

But equal justice to dispense to all;

A task more easy, more delightful far,

Than to command, to slander, or oppress.

At such repasts each guest may safely drink

As much as suits his sober appetite,

Then unattended seek his home, unless

His feeble age requires assistance. Him

Above all others let us praise, who while

The cheerful cup goes round, shall charm the guests

With free recital of acts worthy praise,

And fit to be remember'd; that inspire

The soul to valour, and the love of fame,

The meed of virtuous action. Far from us

The war of Titans; or the bloody strife

Of the seditious Centaurs; such examples

Have neither use nor profit—wiser far

To look to brighter patterns that instruct,

And lead the mind to great and good pursuits.—ANON.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xi. § 9, p. 731.)

Do you not know that by the term call'd life,

We mean to give a softer tone to ills

That man is heir to? Whether I judge right

Or wrong in this, I'll not presume to say—

Having reflected long and seriously,

To this conclusion I am brought at last,

That universal folly governs all;

For in this little life of ours, we seem

As strangers that have left their native home.

We make our first appearance from the realms

Of death and darkness, and emerge to light,

And join th' assembly of our fellow-men—

They who enjoy themselves the most, and drink,

And laugh, and banish care, or pass the day

In the soft blandishments of love, and leave

No joy untasted, no delight untried

That innocence and virtue may approve,

And this gay festival afford, depart

Cheerful, like guests contented, to their home.—ANON.

* * * * *

SAPPHO. (Book xi. § 9, p. 731.)

Come, Venus, come!

Hither with thy golden cup,

Where nectar-floated flowerets swim!

Fill, fill the goblet up!

These laughing lips shall kiss the brim—

Come, Venus, come!—ANON.

* * * * *

PYTHEAS. (Book xi. § 14, p. 734.)

Here jolly Pytheas lies,

A right honest man, and wise,

Who of goblets had very great store,

Of amber, silver, gold,

All glorious to behold,

In number ne'er equall'd before.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

AUTHOR OF THE THEBAIS. (Book xi. § 14, p. 735.)

Then Polyneices of the golden locks,

Sprung from the gods, before his father placed

A table all of silver, which had once

Been Cadmus's, next fill'd the golden bowl

With richest wine. At this old Œdipus,

Seeing the honour'd relics of his sire

Profaned to vulgar uses, roused to anger,

Pronounced fierce imprecations, wish'd his sons

Might live no more in amity together,

But plunge in feuds and slaughters, and contend

For their inheritance: and the Furies heard.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

(Book xi. § 19, p. 738.)

Troy's lofty towers by Grecians sack'd behold!

Parrhasios' draught, by Mys engraved in gold.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

SOPATER. (Book xi. § 28, p. 742.)

'Tis sweet in early morn to cool the lips

With pure fresh water from the gushing fount,

Mingled with honey in the Baucalis,

When one o'er night has made too free with wine,

And feels sharp thirst.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xi. § 30, p. 743.)

_A._ But let me first describe the cup; 'twas round,

Old, broken-ear'd, and precious small besides,

Having indeed some letters on't.

_B._ Yes, letters;

Eleven, and all of gold, forming the name

Of Saviour Zeus.

_A._ Tush! no, some other god.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

DAMOXENUS. (Book xi. § 35, p. 747.)

_A._ If this hold not enough, see, the boy comes

Bearing the Elephant!

_B._ Immortal gods!

What thing is that?

_A._ A double-fountain'd cup,

The workmanship of Alcon; it contains

Only three gallons.—J. A. ST. JOHN.

* * * * *

PHERECRATES. (Book xi. § 62, p. 767.)

Remark, how wisely ancient art provides

The broad-brimm'd cup with flat expanded sides;

A cup contrived for man's discreeter use,

And sober portions of the generous juice:

But woman's more ambitious thirsty soul

Soon long'd to revel in the plenteous bowl;

Deep and capacious as the swelling hold

Of some stout bark she shaped the hollow mould,

Then turning out a vessel like a tun,

Simp'ring exclaim'd—Observe! I drink but one.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

ARCHILOCHUS. (Book xi. § 66, p. 771.)

Come then, my friend, and seize the flask,

And while the deck around us rolls,

Dash we the cover from the cask,

And crown with wine our flowing bowls.

While the deep hold is tempest-tost,

We'll strain bright nectar from the lees:

For, though our freedom here be lost,

We drink no water on the seas.—C. MERIVALE.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xii. § 1, p. 818; iv. § 59, p. 265, &c.)

You, Sir, a Cyrenean, as I take you,

Look at your sect of desperate voluptuaries;

There's Diodorus—beggary is too good for him—

A vast inheritance in two short years,

Where is it? Squander'd, vanish'd, gone for ever:

So rapid was his dissipation.—Stop!

Stop! my good friend, you cry; not quite so fast!

This man went fair and softly to his ruin;

What talk you of two years? As many days,

Two little days, were long enough to finish

Young Epicharides; he had some soul,

And drove a merry pace to his undoing—

Marry! if a kind surfeit would surprise us,

Ere we sit down to earn it, such prevention

Would come most opportune to save the trouble

Of a sick stomach and an aching head:

But whilst the punishment is out of sight,

And the full chalice at our lips, we drink,

Drink all to-day, to-morrow fast and mourn,

Sick, and all o'er oppress'd with nauseous fumes;

Such is the drunkard's curse, and Hell itself

Cannot devise a greater. Oh that nature

Might quit us of this overbearing burthen,

This tyrant-god, the belly! take that from us,

With all its bestial appetites, and man,

Exonerated man, shall be all soul.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

ANAXILAS. (Book xiii. § 6, p. 893.)

Whoever has been weak enough to dote,

And live in precious bondage at the feet

Of an imperious mistress, may relate

Some part of their iniquity at least.

In fact, what monster is there in the world

That bears the least comparison with them!

What frightful dragon, or chimera dire,

What Scylla, what Charybdis, can exceed them?

Nor sphinx, nor hydra, nay, no winged harpy,

Nor hungry lioness, nor poisonous adder,

In noxious qualities, is half so bad.

They are a race accursed, and stand alone

Preeminent in wickedness. For instance,

Plangon, a foul chimera; spreading flames,

And dealing out destruction far and near,

And no Bellerophon to crush the monster.

Then Sinope, a many-headed hydra,

An old and wrinkled hag—Gnathine, too,

Her neighbour—Oh! they are a precious pair.

Nanno's a barking Scylla, nothing less—

Having already privately dispatch'd

Two of her lovers, she would lure a third

To sure destruction, but the youth escaped,

Thanks to his pliant oars, and better fortune.

Phryne, like foul Charybdis, swallows up

At once the pilot and the bark. Theano,

Like a pluck'd siren, has the voice and look

Of woman, but below the waist, her limbs

Wither'd and shrunk in to the blackbird's size.

These wretched women, one and all, partake

The nature of the Theban Sphinx; they speak

In doubtful and ambiguous phrase, pretend

To love you truly, and with all their hearts,

Then whisper in your ear, some little want—

A girl to wait on them forsooth, a bed,

Or easy-chair, a brazen tripod too—

Give what you will they never are content;

And to sum up their character at once,

No beast that haunts the forest for his prey

Is half so mischievous.—ANON.

_The same._

Away, away with these female friends!

He whose embraces have encircled one,

Will own a monster has been in his arms;

Fell as a dragon is, fire-spouting like

Chimæra, like the rapid ocean-portent,

Three-headed and dog-snouted!—

Harpies are less obscene in touch than they:

The tigress robb'd of her first whelps, more merciful:

Asps, scorpions, vipers, amphisbenæ dire,

Cerastes, Ellops, Dipsas, all in one!—

But come, let's pass them in review before us,

And see how close the parallels will hold.

And first for Plangon: where in the scale place _her_?

E'en rank her with the beast whose breath is flame.

Like her she deals combustion round; and foreigners

By scores have perish'd in her conflagrations.

One only 'scaped the fair incendiary,

And that by virtue of his nimble steed.

_He_ back'd his baggage, and turn'd tail upon her.—

Have commerce with Sinope, and you'll find

That Lerna's monster was no tale; for like

The hydra she can multiply her members,

And fair Gnathæna is the present offshoot:

_Her_ morning charms for beauties in the wane

Compensate—but—the dupe pays doubly for't.

There's Nanno too:—Nanno and Scylla's pool

Bear close similitude: two swains have made

Already shipwreck in that gulf; a third

Had shared their fortunes, but the wiser boy

Plied well his oars, and boldly stood to sea-ward.

If Nanno's Scylla, Phryne is Charybdis:

Woe to the wretch who comes within her tide!

Engulf'd in whelming waves, both bark and mariner

Are suck'd into th' abyss of quick perdition!

And what's Theano? bald, and bare, and peel'd,

With whom but close-pluck'd sirens ranks she? woman

In face and voice; but in her feet—a blackbird.

But why enlarge my nomenclature? Sphinx is

A common name for all: on her enigma

Is moulded all their speech: love, fealty,

Affection,—these are terms drop clear enough

From them, but at their heels comes a request,

Wrapt up in tortuous phrase of nice perplexity.

(_Mimics._)—"A four-foot couch perchance would grace

their chamber!

Their needs forsooth require a chair—three-footed,

Or, for the nonce, two-footed—'twould content them."

He that is versed in points and tricks, like Œdipus,

Hears, and escapes perchance with purse uninjured;

The easy fool gapes, gazes, and—hey! presto!

Both purse and person's gone!—MITCHELL.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xiii. § 7, p. 894.)

What abject wretches do we make ourselves

By giving up the freedom and delights

Of single life to a capricious woman!

Then, if she brings an ample fortune too,

Her pride, and her pretensions are increased,

And what should be a benefit, becomes

A bitter curse, and grievous punishment.

The anger of a man may well be borne,

'Tis quick, and sudden, but as soon subsides;

It has a honied sweetness when compared

To that of woman. If a man receives

An injury, he may resent at first,

But he will quickly pardon. Women first

Offer the injury, then to increase

Th' offence, instead of soothing, they inflict

A deeper wound by obstinate resentment—

Neglect what's fit and proper to be done,

But eagerly pursue the thing they should not;—

And then they grow fantastical withal,

When they are perfectly in health complain

In faint and feeble tone, "they're sick, they die."—ANON.

* * * * *

ARISTOPHON. (Book xiii. § 8, p. 894.)

A man may marry once without a crime,

But cursed is he who weds a second time.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

MENANDER. (Book xiii. § 8, p. 895.)

_A._ While prudence guides, change not, at any rate,

A life of freedom for the married state:

I ventured once to play that desperate game,

And therefore warn you not to do the same.

_B._ The counsel may be sage which you advance,

But I'm resolved to take the common chance.

_A._ Mild gales attend that voyage of your life,

And waft you safely through the sea of strife:

Not the dire Libyan, nor Ægean sea,

Where out of thirty ships scarce perish three;

But that, where daring fools most dearly pay,

Where all that sail are surely cast away.—FAWKES.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xiii. § 13, p. 899.)

As slowly I return'd from the Piræus,

My mind impress'd with all the various pains,

And pungent griefs, that torture human life,

I thus began to reason with myself.

The painters and the sculptors, who pretend

By cunning art to give the form of Love,

Know nothing of his nature, for in truth

He's neither male nor female, god or man,

Nor wise, nor foolish, but a compound strange,

Partaking of the qualities of each,

And an epitome of all in one.

He has the strength and prowess of a man,

The weak timidity of helpless woman;

In folly furious, yet in prudence wise

And circumspect. Mad as an untamed beast,

In strength and hardihood invincible,

Then for ambition he's a very demon.

I swear by sage Minerva and the gods,

I do not know his likeness, one whose nature

Is so endued with qualities unlike

The gentle name he bears.—ANON.

_The same._

One day as slowly sauntering from the port,

A thousand cares conflicting in my breast,

Thus I began to commune with myself—

Methinks these painters misapply their art,

And never knew the being which they draw;

For mark! their many false conceits of Love.

Love is nor male nor female, man nor god,

Nor with intelligence nor yet without it,

But a strange compound of all these, uniting

In one mix'd essence many opposites;

A manly courage with a woman's fear,

The madman's phrenzy in a reasoning mind,

The strength of steel, the fury of a beast,

The ambition of a hero—something 'tis,

But by Minerva and the gods I swear!

I know not what this nameless something is.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

EUBULUS. (Book xiii. § 13, p. 899.)

Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love?

Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove:

Love hath no wings, or none that I can see;

If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me!—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

THEOPHILUS. (Book xiii. § 14, p. 900.)

He who affirms that lovers are all mad,

Or fools, gives no strong proof of his own sense;

For if from human life we take the joys

And the delights of love, what is there left

That can deserve a better name than death?

For instance, now, I love a music girl,

A virgin too, and am I therefore mad?

For she's a paragon of female beauty;

Her form and figure excellent; her voice

Melodiously sweet; and then her air

Has dignity and grace. With what delight

I gaze upon her charms! More than you feel

At sight of him who for the public shows

Gives you free entrance to the theatre.—ANON.

_The same._

If love be folly, as the schools would prove,

The man must lose his wits, who falls in love;

Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death,

And then it follows he must lose his breath.

Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid

I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade;

What then? must I defer to pedant rule,

And own that love transforms me to a fool?

Not I, so help me! By the gods I swear,

The nymph I love is fairest of the fair;

Wise, witty, dearer to her poet's sight

Than piles of money on an author's night;

Must I not love her then? Let the dull sot,

Who made the law, obey it! I will not.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

ARISTOPHON. (Book xiii. § 14, p. 901.)

Love, the disturber of the peace of heaven,

And grand fomenter of Olympian feuds,

Was banish'd from the synods of the gods:

They drove him down to earth at the expense

Of us poor mortals, and curtail'd his wings

To spoil his soaring and secure themselves

From his annoyance—Selfish, hard decree!

For ever since he roams th' unquiet world,

The tyrant and despoiler of mankind.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xiii. § 14, p. 901.)

The man who holds true pleasure to consist

In pampering his vile body, and defies

Love's great divinity, rashly maintains

Weak impious war with an immortal god.

The gravest master that the schools can boast

Ne'er train'd his pupils to such discipline,

As Love his votaries, unrivall'd power,

The first great deity—and where is he,

So stubborn and determinedly stiff,

But shall at some time bend the knee to Love,

And make obeisance to his mighty shrine?—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

IBYCUS. (Book xiii. § 17, p. 903.)

Sweetest flower, Euryale!

Whom the maids with tresses fair,

Sister Graces, make their care—

Thee Cythera nourish'd—thee

Pitho, with the radiant brow;

And 'mid bowers where roses blow

Led thy laughing infancy.—BLAND.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xiii. § 18, p. 904.)

Dost thou see any fellow poll'd and shaven,

And askest me from whence the cause should come?

He goes unto the wars to filch and raven,

And play such pranks he cannot do at home.

Such pranks become not those that beards do weare:

And what harm is it if long beards we beare?

For so it is apparent to be scene,

That we are men, not women, by our chin.—MOLLE.

* * * * *

TIMOCLES. (Book xiii. § 22, p. 908.)

Wretch that I am,

She had my love, when a mere caper-gatherer,

And fortune's smiles as yet were wanting to her.

I never pinch'd nor spared in my expenses,

Yet now—doors closely barr'd are all the recompence

That waits on former bounties ill bestow'd.—MITCHELL.

* * * * *

ALEXIS. (Book xiii. § 23, p. 908.)

They fly at all, and, as their funds increase,

With fresh recruits they still augment their stock,

Moulding the young novitiate to her trade;

Form, features, manners, everything so changed,

That not a trace of former self is left.

Is the wench short? a triple sole of cork

Exalts the pigmy to a proper size.

Is she too tall of stature? a low chair

Softens the fault, and a fine easy stoop

Lowers her to standard-pitch.—If narrow-hipt,

A handsome wadding readily supplies

What nature stints, and all beholders cry,

See what plump haunches!—Hath the nymph perchance

A high round paunch, stuft like our comic drolls,

And strutting out foreright? a good stout busk

Pushing athwart shall force the intruder back.

Hath she red brows? a little soot will cure 'em.

Is she too black? the ceruse makes her fair:

Too pale of hue? the opal comes in aid.

Hath she a beauty out of sight? disclose it!

Strip nature bare without a blush.—Fine teeth?

Let her affect one everlasting grin,

Laugh without stint—but ah! if laugh she cannot,

And her lips won't obey, take a fine twig

Of myrtle, shape it like a butcher's skewer,

And prop them open, set her on the bit

Day after day, when out of sight, till use

Grows second nature, and the pearly row,

Will she or will she not, perforce appears.—CUMBERLAND.

* * * * *

EPICRATES. (Book xiii. § 26, p. 911.)