'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 registerOf different ranks, that I may judge at onceWhom 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 throwPart of his loading overboard, now comesTo sacrifice on his arrival; himI 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; thenHis habits are so economical,He calculates beforehand the expense.And makes a nice division of the wholeBetween 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, forSome kind and tender-hearted wench, to shareHis happy fortunes, and is soon suppliedBy 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 youthUp to the ears in love, who spends his timeIn 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 themSafe in his earthen pot; he may call loud,And pull my robe, he'll not be heard, I payNo heed to such mean wretches, for no gainBut 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 forThe wages you have earn'd, he frowns, and cries,"Bring me the pot, you varlet;" then bawls out,"The lentils wanted vinegar;"—againDemand your money, "Wretch," he loudly cries,"Be silent, or I'll make you an exampleFor 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 celebrateGaily 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.
'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 registerOf different ranks, that I may judge at onceWhom 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 throwPart of his loading overboard, now comesTo sacrifice on his arrival; himI 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; thenHis habits are so economical,He calculates beforehand the expense.And makes a nice division of the wholeBetween 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, forSome kind and tender-hearted wench, to shareHis happy fortunes, and is soon suppliedBy 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 youthUp to the ears in love, who spends his timeIn 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 themSafe in his earthen pot; he may call loud,And pull my robe, he'll not be heard, I payNo heed to such mean wretches, for no gainBut 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 forThe wages you have earn'd, he frowns, and cries,"Bring me the pot, you varlet;" then bawls out,"The lentils wanted vinegar;"—againDemand your money, "Wretch," he loudly cries,"Be silent, or I'll make you an exampleFor 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 celebrateGaily 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.
'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 registerOf different ranks, that I may judge at onceWhom 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 throwPart of his loading overboard, now comesTo sacrifice on his arrival; himI 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; thenHis habits are so economical,He calculates beforehand the expense.And makes a nice division of the wholeBetween 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, forSome kind and tender-hearted wench, to shareHis happy fortunes, and is soon suppliedBy 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 youthUp to the ears in love, who spends his timeIn 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 themSafe in his earthen pot; he may call loud,And pull my robe, he'll not be heard, I payNo heed to such mean wretches, for no gainBut 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 forThe wages you have earn'd, he frowns, and cries,"Bring me the pot, you varlet;" then bawls out,"The lentils wanted vinegar;"—againDemand your money, "Wretch," he loudly cries,"Be silent, or I'll make you an exampleFor 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 celebrateGaily 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.
'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 registerOf different ranks, that I may judge at onceWhom 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 throwPart of his loading overboard, now comesTo sacrifice on his arrival; himI 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; thenHis habits are so economical,He calculates beforehand the expense.And makes a nice division of the wholeBetween 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, forSome kind and tender-hearted wench, to shareHis happy fortunes, and is soon suppliedBy 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 youthUp to the ears in love, who spends his timeIn 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 themSafe in his earthen pot; he may call loud,And pull my robe, he'll not be heard, I payNo heed to such mean wretches, for no gainBut 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 forThe wages you have earn'd, he frowns, and cries,"Bring me the pot, you varlet;" then bawls out,"The lentils wanted vinegar;"—againDemand your money, "Wretch," he loudly cries,"Be silent, or I'll make you an exampleFor 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 celebrateGaily 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.
'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 wordsWhich melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cupAnd pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper.This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius—Feast it with high delights, and mark it be notToo 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 weCall aught our own, save what the belly givesA local habitation: for the rest—What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod.And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.
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 wordsWhich melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cupAnd pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper.This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius—Feast it with high delights, and mark it be notToo 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 weCall aught our own, save what the belly givesA local habitation: for the rest—What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod.And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.
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 wordsWhich melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cupAnd pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper.This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius—Feast it with high delights, and mark it be notToo 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 weCall aught our own, save what the belly givesA local habitation: for the rest—What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod.And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.
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 wordsWhich melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cupAnd pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper.This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius—Feast it with high delights, and mark it be notToo 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 weCall aught our own, save what the belly givesA local habitation: for the rest—What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod.And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.
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-eatersNone sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.'Twas a prodigious twist! At SyracuseFate 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 setIn 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 rightAnd tight about me—nothing's in confusion—Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind meOf healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd,A credit to their years;—not one among themWithout a graceful chaplet on his head:—These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath,(We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with themBe 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 meanTimotheus' 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 whatRemains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.
Of all fish-eatersNone sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.'Twas a prodigious twist! At SyracuseFate 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 setIn 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 rightAnd tight about me—nothing's in confusion—Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind meOf healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd,A credit to their years;—not one among themWithout a graceful chaplet on his head:—These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath,(We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with themBe 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 meanTimotheus' 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 whatRemains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.
Of all fish-eatersNone sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.'Twas a prodigious twist! At SyracuseFate 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 setIn 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 rightAnd tight about me—nothing's in confusion—Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind meOf healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd,A credit to their years;—not one among themWithout a graceful chaplet on his head:—These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath,(We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with themBe 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 meanTimotheus' 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 whatRemains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.
Of all fish-eatersNone sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.'Twas a prodigious twist! At SyracuseFate 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 setIn 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 rightAnd tight about me—nothing's in confusion—Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind meOf healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd,A credit to their years;—not one among themWithout a graceful chaplet on his head:—These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath,(We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with themBe 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 meanTimotheus' 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 whatRemains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.
Of all fish-eaters
None sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.
'Twas a prodigious twist! At Syracuse
Fate threw him on the fish call'd "Many-feet."
He purchased it and drest it; and the whole,
Bate me the head, form'd but a single swallow.
A crudity ensued—the doctor came,
And the first glance inform'd him things went wrong.
And "Friend," quoth he, "if thou hast aught to set
In order, to it straight;—pass but seven hours,
And thou and life must take a long farewell."
"I've nought to do," replied the bard: "all's right
And tight about me—nothing's in confusion—
Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind me
Of healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd,
A credit to their years;—not one among them
Without a graceful chaplet on his head:—
These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath,
(We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with them
Be Bacchus and fair Venus in commission.—
Thus far, Sir, for my testament:—for respite,
I look not for it, mark, at Charon's hand,
(Take me, I would be understood to mean
Timotheus' Charon,—him in the Niobe:)
I hear his voice this moment—"Hip! halloo!
To ship, to ship," he cries: the swarthy Destinies
(And who must not attend their solemn bidding?)
Unite their voices.—I were loth, howe'er,
To troop with less than all my gear about me;—
Good doctor, be my helper then to what
Remains of that same blessed Many-feet!—Mitchell.
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 dispenseGift 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 doneMay thy fortunes, as they run,Ever brighten—be thy spouseRich and of a noble house;May thy sire in aged easeNurse a boy who calls thee mother:And his grandam on her kneesRock a girl who calls him brother;—Kept as bride in reservationFor some favour'd near relation.—But enough now: I must treadWhere 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.
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 dispenseGift 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 doneMay thy fortunes, as they run,Ever brighten—be thy spouseRich and of a noble house;May thy sire in aged easeNurse a boy who calls thee mother:And his grandam on her kneesRock a girl who calls him brother;—Kept as bride in reservationFor some favour'd near relation.—But enough now: I must treadWhere 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.
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 dispenseGift 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 doneMay thy fortunes, as they run,Ever brighten—be thy spouseRich and of a noble house;May thy sire in aged easeNurse a boy who calls thee mother:And his grandam on her kneesRock a girl who calls him brother;—Kept as bride in reservationFor some favour'd near relation.—But enough now: I must treadWhere 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.
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 dispenseGift 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 doneMay thy fortunes, as they run,Ever brighten—be thy spouseRich and of a noble house;May thy sire in aged easeNurse a boy who calls thee mother:And his grandam on her kneesRock a girl who calls him brother;—Kept as bride in reservationFor some favour'd near relation.—But enough now: I must treadWhere 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.
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 bestowOn 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 growOn 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 sweetAs the winds that play round the flowery feetOf 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 armsPlace 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 mornFor 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 throwWhole handfulls to the begging crow;At least give something; say not, No,And we will go our way. —J. A. St. John.
Good people, a handful of barley bestowOn 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 growOn 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 sweetAs the winds that play round the flowery feetOf 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 armsPlace 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 mornFor 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 throwWhole handfulls to the begging crow;At least give something; say not, No,And we will go our way. —J. A. St. John.
Good people, a handful of barley bestowOn 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 growOn 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 sweetAs the winds that play round the flowery feetOf 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 armsPlace 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 mornFor 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 throwWhole handfulls to the begging crow;At least give something; say not, No,And we will go our way. —J. A. St. John.
Good people, a handful of barley bestowOn 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 growOn 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 sweetAs the winds that play round the flowery feetOf 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 armsPlace 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 mornFor 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 throwWhole handfulls to the begging crow;At least give something; say not, No,And we will go our way. —J. A. St. John.
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 bringsA 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 niceWhen she wishes to dine.Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?For we will not go,Though time doth flee,Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No.But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate,And thy pretty wife we'll bear away;She is small, and of no great weight.Open, open, then we say.Not old men, but boys are we,And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.
The swallow is come, and with her bringsA 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 niceWhen she wishes to dine.Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?For we will not go,Though time doth flee,Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No.But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate,And thy pretty wife we'll bear away;She is small, and of no great weight.Open, open, then we say.Not old men, but boys are we,And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.
The swallow is come, and with her bringsA 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 niceWhen she wishes to dine.Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?For we will not go,Though time doth flee,Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No.But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate,And thy pretty wife we'll bear away;She is small, and of no great weight.Open, open, then we say.Not old men, but boys are we,And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.
The swallow is come, and with her bringsA 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 niceWhen she wishes to dine.Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?For we will not go,Though time doth flee,Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No.But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate,And thy pretty wife we'll bear away;She is small, and of no great weight.Open, open, then we say.Not old men, but boys are we,And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. St. John.
The swallow 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 anonOn your gate and your doorAll our fury we pour.Or our strength shall be triedOn your sweet little bride:From her seat we will tear her;From her home we will bear her:She is light, and will askBut small hands to the task.—Let your bounty then liftA small aid to our mirth;And whatever the gift,Let its size speak its worth.The swallow, the swallowUpon you doth wait:An almsman and suppliantHe stands at your gate:Set open, set openYour gate and your door;Neither giants nor grey-beards,—We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.
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 anonOn your gate and your doorAll our fury we pour.Or our strength shall be triedOn your sweet little bride:From her seat we will tear her;From her home we will bear her:She is light, and will askBut small hands to the task.—Let your bounty then liftA small aid to our mirth;And whatever the gift,Let its size speak its worth.The swallow, the swallowUpon you doth wait:An almsman and suppliantHe stands at your gate:Set open, set openYour gate and your door;Neither giants nor grey-beards,—We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.
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 anonOn your gate and your doorAll our fury we pour.Or our strength shall be triedOn your sweet little bride:From her seat we will tear her;From her home we will bear her:She is light, and will askBut small hands to the task.—Let your bounty then liftA small aid to our mirth;And whatever the gift,Let its size speak its worth.The swallow, the swallowUpon you doth wait:An almsman and suppliantHe stands at your gate:Set open, set openYour gate and your door;Neither giants nor grey-beards,—We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.
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 anonOn your gate and your doorAll our fury we pour.Or our strength shall be triedOn your sweet little bride:From her seat we will tear her;From her home we will bear her:She is light, and will askBut small hands to the task.—Let your bounty then liftA small aid to our mirth;And whatever the gift,Let its size speak its worth.The swallow, the swallowUpon you doth wait:An almsman and suppliantHe stands at your gate:Set open, set openYour gate and your door;Neither giants nor grey-beards,—We your bounty implore.—Mitchell.
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, wingingHis way to us here!Fair hours is he bringing,And a happy new year!White and blackAre 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-nightAnd run away e'en with her.But if you will grantThe presents we want,Great good shall come of it,And plenty of profit!Come, throw open freeYour doors to the swallow!Your children are we,Not old beggars, who follow.—E. B. C.
The swallow's come, wingingHis way to us here!Fair hours is he bringing,And a happy new year!White and blackAre 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-nightAnd run away e'en with her.But if you will grantThe presents we want,Great good shall come of it,And plenty of profit!Come, throw open freeYour doors to the swallow!Your children are we,Not old beggars, who follow.—E. B. C.
The swallow's come, wingingHis way to us here!Fair hours is he bringing,And a happy new year!White and blackAre 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-nightAnd run away e'en with her.But if you will grantThe presents we want,Great good shall come of it,And plenty of profit!Come, throw open freeYour doors to the swallow!Your children are we,Not old beggars, who follow.—E. B. C.
The swallow's come, wingingHis way to us here!Fair hours is he bringing,And a happy new year!White and blackAre 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-nightAnd run away e'en with her.But if you will grantThe presents we want,Great good shall come of it,And plenty of profit!Come, throw open freeYour doors to the swallow!Your children are we,Not old beggars, who follow.—E. B. C.
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 yieldSome 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 devourAll 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.
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 yieldSome 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 devourAll 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.
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 yieldSome 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 devourAll 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.
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 yieldSome 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 devourAll 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.
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 daresPresent himself as cook profess'd, the artHas sunk in estimation, nor is heldIn that respect and honour as of old.—Imagine to yourself a cook indeed,Versed from his infancy in all the artsAnd mysteries of his trade; a person, too,Of shining talents, well instructed inThe theory and practice of his art;From such a one you will be taught to prizeAnd value as you ought, this first of arts.There are but three of any characterNow living: Boidion is one, and thenChariades, and, to crown all, myself;The rest, depend upon it, are beneathYour notice.B.How is that?A.Believe me, truth;We three are the supporters of the schoolOf Sicyon; he, indeed, was prince of cooks,And as a skill'd professor, taught us firstThe motion of the stars, and the whole schemeAnd science of astrology; he thenInform'd us of the rules of architecture,And next instructed us in physics, andThe laws of motion, and th' inventions rareOf natural philosophy; this done,He lectured in the military art.Having obtain'd this previous knowledge, heBegan to lead us to the elementsOf 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 treatMore largely at our ease.B.Apollo, lendThy kind assistance, for I've much to hear.A.First, then, a perfect and accomplish'd cookShould be well skill'd in meteorology;Should know the motions of the stars, both whenThey rise, and when again they set; and howThe 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 revolveAll aliments are savour'd, or to pleaseAnd gratify the taste, or to offendAnd pall the appetite: he who knows thisHas but to mind the season of the year,And he may decorate his table withThe choicest viands, of the highest relish.But he who, ignorant of this, pretendsTo give directions for a feast, must fail.Perhaps it may excite your wonder, howThe rules of architecture should improveThe art of cookery?B.I own it does.A.I will convince you, then. You must agree,That 'tis a most important point to haveThe 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 howThe smoke inclines, which, as it leans to thisOr t' other quarter, a good cook knows wellTo 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 likeA prudent general, marshals out his forceIn proper files, for order governs all;He sees each dish arranged upon the boardWith due decorum, in its proper place,And borne from thence in the same order, too;No hurry, no confusion; his quick eyeDiscovers 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 artAnd martial discipline.—Would you know more?B.I am quite satisfied, and so farewell. —Anon.
A.If you consider well, my Demylus,Our art is neither low nor despicable;But since each rude and untaught blockhead daresPresent himself as cook profess'd, the artHas sunk in estimation, nor is heldIn that respect and honour as of old.—Imagine to yourself a cook indeed,Versed from his infancy in all the artsAnd mysteries of his trade; a person, too,Of shining talents, well instructed inThe theory and practice of his art;From such a one you will be taught to prizeAnd value as you ought, this first of arts.There are but three of any characterNow living: Boidion is one, and thenChariades, and, to crown all, myself;The rest, depend upon it, are beneathYour notice.B.How is that?A.Believe me, truth;We three are the supporters of the schoolOf Sicyon; he, indeed, was prince of cooks,And as a skill'd professor, taught us firstThe motion of the stars, and the whole schemeAnd science of astrology; he thenInform'd us of the rules of architecture,And next instructed us in physics, andThe laws of motion, and th' inventions rareOf natural philosophy; this done,He lectured in the military art.Having obtain'd this previous knowledge, heBegan to lead us to the elementsOf 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 treatMore largely at our ease.B.Apollo, lendThy kind assistance, for I've much to hear.A.First, then, a perfect and accomplish'd cookShould be well skill'd in meteorology;Should know the motions of the stars, both whenThey rise, and when again they set; and howThe 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 revolveAll aliments are savour'd, or to pleaseAnd gratify the taste, or to offendAnd pall the appetite: he who knows thisHas but to mind the season of the year,And he may decorate his table withThe choicest viands, of the highest relish.But he who, ignorant of this, pretendsTo give directions for a feast, must fail.Perhaps it may excite your wonder, howThe rules of architecture should improveThe art of cookery?B.I own it does.A.I will convince you, then. You must agree,That 'tis a most important point to haveThe 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 howThe smoke inclines, which, as it leans to thisOr t' other quarter, a good cook knows wellTo 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 likeA prudent general, marshals out his forceIn proper files, for order governs all;He sees each dish arranged upon the boardWith due decorum, in its proper place,And borne from thence in the same order, too;No hurry, no confusion; his quick eyeDiscovers 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 artAnd martial discipline.—Would you know more?B.I am quite satisfied, and so farewell. —Anon.
A.If you consider well, my Demylus,Our art is neither low nor despicable;But since each rude and untaught blockhead daresPresent himself as cook profess'd, the artHas sunk in estimation, nor is heldIn that respect and honour as of old.—Imagine to yourself a cook indeed,Versed from his infancy in all the artsAnd mysteries of his trade; a person, too,Of shining talents, well instructed inThe theory and practice of his art;From such a one you will be taught to prizeAnd value as you ought, this first of arts.There are but three of any characterNow living: Boidion is one, and thenChariades, and, to crown all, myself;The rest, depend upon it, are beneathYour notice.B.How is that?A.Believe me, truth;We three are the supporters of the schoolOf Sicyon; he, indeed, was prince of cooks,And as a skill'd professor, taught us firstThe motion of the stars, and the whole schemeAnd science of astrology; he thenInform'd us of the rules of architecture,And next instructed us in physics, andThe laws of motion, and th' inventions rareOf natural philosophy; this done,He lectured in the military art.Having obtain'd this previous knowledge, heBegan to lead us to the elementsOf 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 treatMore largely at our ease.B.Apollo, lendThy kind assistance, for I've much to hear.A.First, then, a perfect and accomplish'd cookShould be well skill'd in meteorology;Should know the motions of the stars, both whenThey rise, and when again they set; and howThe 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 revolveAll aliments are savour'd, or to pleaseAnd gratify the taste, or to offendAnd pall the appetite: he who knows thisHas but to mind the season of the year,And he may decorate his table withThe choicest viands, of the highest relish.But he who, ignorant of this, pretendsTo give directions for a feast, must fail.Perhaps it may excite your wonder, howThe rules of architecture should improveThe art of cookery?B.I own it does.A.I will convince you, then. You must agree,That 'tis a most important point to haveThe 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 howThe smoke inclines, which, as it leans to thisOr t' other quarter, a good cook knows wellTo 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 likeA prudent general, marshals out his forceIn proper files, for order governs all;He sees each dish arranged upon the boardWith due decorum, in its proper place,And borne from thence in the same order, too;No hurry, no confusion; his quick eyeDiscovers 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 artAnd martial discipline.—Would you know more?B.I am quite satisfied, and so farewell. —Anon.
A.If you consider well, my Demylus,Our art is neither low nor despicable;But since each rude and untaught blockhead daresPresent himself as cook profess'd, the artHas sunk in estimation, nor is heldIn that respect and honour as of old.—Imagine to yourself a cook indeed,Versed from his infancy in all the artsAnd mysteries of his trade; a person, too,Of shining talents, well instructed inThe theory and practice of his art;From such a one you will be taught to prizeAnd value as you ought, this first of arts.There are but three of any characterNow living: Boidion is one, and thenChariades, and, to crown all, myself;The rest, depend upon it, are beneathYour notice.B.How is that?A.Believe me, truth;We three are the supporters of the schoolOf Sicyon; he, indeed, was prince of cooks,And as a skill'd professor, taught us firstThe motion of the stars, and the whole schemeAnd science of astrology; he thenInform'd us of the rules of architecture,And next instructed us in physics, andThe laws of motion, and th' inventions rareOf natural philosophy; this done,He lectured in the military art.Having obtain'd this previous knowledge, heBegan to lead us to the elementsOf 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 treatMore largely at our ease.B.Apollo, lendThy kind assistance, for I've much to hear.A.First, then, a perfect and accomplish'd cookShould be well skill'd in meteorology;Should know the motions of the stars, both whenThey rise, and when again they set; and howThe 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 revolveAll aliments are savour'd, or to pleaseAnd gratify the taste, or to offendAnd pall the appetite: he who knows thisHas but to mind the season of the year,And he may decorate his table withThe choicest viands, of the highest relish.But he who, ignorant of this, pretendsTo give directions for a feast, must fail.Perhaps it may excite your wonder, howThe rules of architecture should improveThe art of cookery?B.I own it does.A.I will convince you, then. You must agree,That 'tis a most important point to haveThe 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 howThe smoke inclines, which, as it leans to thisOr t' other quarter, a good cook knows wellTo 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 likeA prudent general, marshals out his forceIn proper files, for order governs all;He sees each dish arranged upon the boardWith due decorum, in its proper place,And borne from thence in the same order, too;No hurry, no confusion; his quick eyeDiscovers 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 artAnd martial discipline.—Would you know more?B.I am quite satisfied, and so farewell. —Anon.
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 requisiteFor him whothoughtbeside his spit;And undeterr'd by noise or heat,Could calmly con each new receipt:Star knowledgefirst, formeatsare foundWith 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 ofair, like those of fin,Change with each sign the sun goes in:So that who only knowswhatcheer,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 thevol au vent, or fish.Nor only to the chimney looksOur true Mageiros, king of cooks;Beside the chimney, that his eyeMay clearly view the day's supply,He opes his window, in that spotWhere Sol peeps in, to show what's what:The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor,What cupboard, shelves, and where the doorAre his to plan; and if he beThe man I mean, to each he'll see.Lastly, to marshal in arrayThe long-drawn line of man and tray:The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bearTheir glitteringlancesthrough the air;And then the hoplitic troop to goad,Who bend beneath theirchargers'load,And, empty dishes ta'en away,Place solid flank for new assay;While heavy tables creak and groanUnder the χῶÏος λοπάδων.All this demands such skill, as wieldsThe veteran chief of hard-won fields!Who rules the roast might rule the seas,Orbastehis foes with equal ease;And cooks who're equal to arout,Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.
Such lore, he said, was requisiteFor him whothoughtbeside his spit;And undeterr'd by noise or heat,Could calmly con each new receipt:Star knowledgefirst, formeatsare foundWith 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 ofair, like those of fin,Change with each sign the sun goes in:So that who only knowswhatcheer,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 thevol au vent, or fish.Nor only to the chimney looksOur true Mageiros, king of cooks;Beside the chimney, that his eyeMay clearly view the day's supply,He opes his window, in that spotWhere Sol peeps in, to show what's what:The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor,What cupboard, shelves, and where the doorAre his to plan; and if he beThe man I mean, to each he'll see.Lastly, to marshal in arrayThe long-drawn line of man and tray:The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bearTheir glitteringlancesthrough the air;And then the hoplitic troop to goad,Who bend beneath theirchargers'load,And, empty dishes ta'en away,Place solid flank for new assay;While heavy tables creak and groanUnder the χῶÏος λοπάδων.All this demands such skill, as wieldsThe veteran chief of hard-won fields!Who rules the roast might rule the seas,Orbastehis foes with equal ease;And cooks who're equal to arout,Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.
Such lore, he said, was requisiteFor him whothoughtbeside his spit;And undeterr'd by noise or heat,Could calmly con each new receipt:Star knowledgefirst, formeatsare foundWith 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 ofair, like those of fin,Change with each sign the sun goes in:So that who only knowswhatcheer,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 thevol au vent, or fish.Nor only to the chimney looksOur true Mageiros, king of cooks;Beside the chimney, that his eyeMay clearly view the day's supply,He opes his window, in that spotWhere Sol peeps in, to show what's what:The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor,What cupboard, shelves, and where the doorAre his to plan; and if he beThe man I mean, to each he'll see.Lastly, to marshal in arrayThe long-drawn line of man and tray:The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bearTheir glitteringlancesthrough the air;And then the hoplitic troop to goad,Who bend beneath theirchargers'load,And, empty dishes ta'en away,Place solid flank for new assay;While heavy tables creak and groanUnder the χῶÏος λοπάδων.All this demands such skill, as wieldsThe veteran chief of hard-won fields!Who rules the roast might rule the seas,Orbastehis foes with equal ease;And cooks who're equal to arout,Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.
Such lore, he said, was requisiteFor him whothoughtbeside his spit;And undeterr'd by noise or heat,Could calmly con each new receipt:Star knowledgefirst, formeatsare foundWith 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 ofair, like those of fin,Change with each sign the sun goes in:So that who only knowswhatcheer,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 thevol au vent, or fish.Nor only to the chimney looksOur true Mageiros, king of cooks;Beside the chimney, that his eyeMay clearly view the day's supply,He opes his window, in that spotWhere Sol peeps in, to show what's what:The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor,What cupboard, shelves, and where the doorAre his to plan; and if he beThe man I mean, to each he'll see.Lastly, to marshal in arrayThe long-drawn line of man and tray:The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bearTheir glitteringlancesthrough the air;And then the hoplitic troop to goad,Who bend beneath theirchargers'load,And, empty dishes ta'en away,Place solid flank for new assay;While heavy tables creak and groanUnder the χῶÏος λοπάδων.All this demands such skill, as wieldsThe veteran chief of hard-won fields!Who rules the roast might rule the seas,Orbastehis foes with equal ease;And cooks who're equal to arout,Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.
Such lore, he said, was requisite
For him whothoughtbeside his spit;
And undeterr'd by noise or heat,
Could calmly con each new receipt:
Star knowledgefirst, formeatsare 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 ofair, like those of fin,
Change with each sign the sun goes in:
So that who only knowswhatcheer,
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 thevol 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 glitteringlancesthrough the air;
And then the hoplitic troop to goad,
Who bend beneath theirchargers'load,
And, empty dishes ta'en away,
Place solid flank for new assay;
While heavy tables creak and groan
Under the χῶÏος λοπάδων.
All this demands such skill, as wields
The veteran chief of hard-won fields!
Who rules the roast might rule the seas,
Orbastehis foes with equal ease;
And cooks who're equal to arout,
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 allAlmost, 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 littleUpon the subject, that we thus may seizeThis 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 risingsOf all the stars, and when the sun comes backBoth to the longest and the shortest day,And through what constellations he is passing.For nearly every kind of meat and foodDeceives, they say, a varying gout within itDuring 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 receiveAs much light as you want, and see from whenceThe 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 goodIn every station and in every art;In ours, it almost is the leading point.The serving up, and the removing all thingsIn order, and the seeing when's the timeEither 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.
Cook.Our art is not entirely despicable,If you examine it, good Demylus;But the pursuit has been run down, and allAlmost, 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 littleUpon the subject, that we thus may seizeThis 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 risingsOf all the stars, and when the sun comes backBoth to the longest and the shortest day,And through what constellations he is passing.For nearly every kind of meat and foodDeceives, they say, a varying gout within itDuring 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 receiveAs much light as you want, and see from whenceThe 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 goodIn every station and in every art;In ours, it almost is the leading point.The serving up, and the removing all thingsIn order, and the seeing when's the timeEither 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.
Cook.Our art is not entirely despicable,If you examine it, good Demylus;But the pursuit has been run down, and allAlmost, 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 littleUpon the subject, that we thus may seizeThis 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 risingsOf all the stars, and when the sun comes backBoth to the longest and the shortest day,And through what constellations he is passing.For nearly every kind of meat and foodDeceives, they say, a varying gout within itDuring 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 receiveAs much light as you want, and see from whenceThe 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 goodIn every station and in every art;In ours, it almost is the leading point.The serving up, and the removing all thingsIn order, and the seeing when's the timeEither 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.
Cook.Our art is not entirely despicable,If you examine it, good Demylus;But the pursuit has been run down, and allAlmost, 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 littleUpon the subject, that we thus may seizeThis 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 risingsOf all the stars, and when the sun comes backBoth to the longest and the shortest day,And through what constellations he is passing.For nearly every kind of meat and foodDeceives, they say, a varying gout within itDuring 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 receiveAs much light as you want, and see from whenceThe 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 goodIn every station and in every art;In ours, it almost is the leading point.The serving up, and the removing all thingsIn order, and the seeing when's the timeEither 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.
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 BÅ“dion, 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 perfectionIs not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mindThe rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use itPerhaps 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 preparedCome 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 beenKept back, is now too hastily despatch'd,And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thusThe act itself of its due merit.—Anon.
A.You surely must confess that, in most arts,The pleasure that results from the perfectionIs not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mindThe rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use itPerhaps 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 preparedCome 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 beenKept back, is now too hastily despatch'd,And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thusThe act itself of its due merit.—Anon.
A.You surely must confess that, in most arts,The pleasure that results from the perfectionIs not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mindThe rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use itPerhaps 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 preparedCome 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 beenKept back, is now too hastily despatch'd,And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thusThe act itself of its due merit.—Anon.
A.You surely must confess that, in most arts,The pleasure that results from the perfectionIs not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mindThe rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use itPerhaps 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 preparedCome 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 beenKept back, is now too hastily despatch'd,And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thusThe act itself of its due merit.—Anon.
A.You surely must confess that, in most arts,
The pleasure that results from the perfection
Is not enjoy'd by him alone, whose mind
The rich invention plann'd, or by whose hands
'Tis fashion'd into shape; but they who use it
Perhaps partake a larger portion still.
B.As I'm a stranger, pray inform me how?
A.For instance, to prepare a sumptuous feast,
We must provide a tolerable cook;
His work once done, his function's at an end.
Then, if the guests for whom it is prepared
Come at the proper moment, all is well,
And they enjoy a most delicious treat.
If they delay, the dishes are all cold,
And must be warm'd again; or what has been
Kept back, is now too hastily despatch'd,
And is served up ill dress'd, defrauding thus
The act itself of its due merit.—Anon.
Euphron.(Book ix. § 24, p. 597.)
I have had many pupils in my time,But you, my Lycus, far exceed them allIn 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 broilA 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 forwhite thrion, no one could exceedChariades of Athens; for black broth,Th' invention and perfection's justly dueTo Lamprias alone; while AponètusWas held unrivall'd for his sausages.For lentils, too, Euthynus beat the world;And Aristion above all the restKnew how to suit each guest, with the same dishServed up in various forms, at those repastsWhere each man paid his share to deck the board.—After the ancient Sophists, these aloneWere justly deem'd the seven wise men of Greece.—Anon.
I have had many pupils in my time,But you, my Lycus, far exceed them allIn 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 broilA 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 forwhite thrion, no one could exceedChariades of Athens; for black broth,Th' invention and perfection's justly dueTo Lamprias alone; while AponètusWas held unrivall'd for his sausages.For lentils, too, Euthynus beat the world;And Aristion above all the restKnew how to suit each guest, with the same dishServed up in various forms, at those repastsWhere each man paid his share to deck the board.—After the ancient Sophists, these aloneWere justly deem'd the seven wise men of Greece.—Anon.
I have had many pupils in my time,But you, my Lycus, far exceed them allIn 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 broilA 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 forwhite thrion, no one could exceedChariades of Athens; for black broth,Th' invention and perfection's justly dueTo Lamprias alone; while AponètusWas held unrivall'd for his sausages.For lentils, too, Euthynus beat the world;And Aristion above all the restKnew how to suit each guest, with the same dishServed up in various forms, at those repastsWhere each man paid his share to deck the board.—After the ancient Sophists, these aloneWere justly deem'd the seven wise men of Greece.—Anon.
I have had many pupils in my time,But you, my Lycus, far exceed them allIn 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 broilA 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 forwhite thrion, no one could exceedChariades of Athens; for black broth,Th' invention and perfection's justly dueTo Lamprias alone; while AponètusWas held unrivall'd for his sausages.For lentils, too, Euthynus beat the world;And Aristion above all the restKnew how to suit each guest, with the same dishServed up in various forms, at those repastsWhere each man paid his share to deck the board.—After the ancient Sophists, these aloneWere justly deem'd the seven wise men of Greece.—Anon.
I have had many pupils in my time,
But you, my Lycus, far exceed them all
In clear and solid sense, and piercing judgment.
Young as you are, with only ten months' study,
I send you forth into the world, a cook,
Complete and perfect in the rules of art.
Agis of Rhodes alone knew how to broil
A fish in due perfection; Nereus, too,
Of Chios, for stew'd congers had no equal;
For from his hands, it was a dish for th' gods.
Then forwhite 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 officiateAs master of the courses?"—No such person;Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus,These are my guests and friends, and amongst theseYou'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 thouTo 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 speakPlain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does;And sure a cook may use like privilegeAnd more than a blind poet."—Not with me;I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house!So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted. —Cumberland.
I'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 officiateAs master of the courses?"—No such person;Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus,These are my guests and friends, and amongst theseYou'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 thouTo 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 speakPlain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does;And sure a cook may use like privilegeAnd more than a blind poet."—Not with me;I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house!So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted. —Cumberland.
I'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 officiateAs master of the courses?"—No such person;Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus,These are my guests and friends, and amongst theseYou'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 thouTo 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 speakPlain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does;And sure a cook may use like privilegeAnd more than a blind poet."—Not with me;I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house!So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted. —Cumberland.
I'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 officiateAs master of the courses?"—No such person;Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus,These are my guests and friends, and amongst theseYou'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 thouTo 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 speakPlain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does;And sure a cook may use like privilegeAnd more than a blind poet."—Not with me;I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house!So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted. —Cumberland.
I'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 inspireThe 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 dishTo charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs,And all the shelly race, with mixture dueOf cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich.For such a host, my friend! expends much moreIn 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 youthTo 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.
I like to see the faces of my guests,To feed them as their age and station claim.My kitchen changes, as my guests inspireThe 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 dishTo charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs,And all the shelly race, with mixture dueOf cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich.For such a host, my friend! expends much moreIn 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 youthTo 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.
I like to see the faces of my guests,To feed them as their age and station claim.My kitchen changes, as my guests inspireThe 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 dishTo charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs,And all the shelly race, with mixture dueOf cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich.For such a host, my friend! expends much moreIn 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 youthTo 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.
I like to see the faces of my guests,To feed them as their age and station claim.My kitchen changes, as my guests inspireThe 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 dishTo charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs,And all the shelly race, with mixture dueOf cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich.For such a host, my friend! expends much moreIn 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 youthTo 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.
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 bespokeAspiring to prepare, with prescient zealShould know the tastes and humours of the guests;For if he drudges through the common work,Thoughtless of manner, careless what the placeAnd seasons claim, and what the favouring hourAuspicious to his genius may present,Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,Call we this ploddingfricasseera Cook?Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!We call indeed thegeneralof an armyHim 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 aleaderto his men!With our profession thus: the first who comesMay with a humble toil, or slice, or chop,Prepare the ingredients, and around the fireObsequious, 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 knowThat all, we always find; but always all,Charms not the palate, critically fine.Archestratus, in culinary loreDeep for his time, in this more learned ageIs wanting; and full oft he surely talksOf what he never ate. Suspect his page,Nor load thy genius with a barren precept.Look not in books for what some idle sageSo idly raved; for cookery is an artComporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an artStill 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 friendDemands, "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 reverieShalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.
"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespokeAspiring to prepare, with prescient zealShould know the tastes and humours of the guests;For if he drudges through the common work,Thoughtless of manner, careless what the placeAnd seasons claim, and what the favouring hourAuspicious to his genius may present,Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,Call we this ploddingfricasseera Cook?Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!We call indeed thegeneralof an armyHim 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 aleaderto his men!With our profession thus: the first who comesMay with a humble toil, or slice, or chop,Prepare the ingredients, and around the fireObsequious, 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 knowThat all, we always find; but always all,Charms not the palate, critically fine.Archestratus, in culinary loreDeep for his time, in this more learned ageIs wanting; and full oft he surely talksOf what he never ate. Suspect his page,Nor load thy genius with a barren precept.Look not in books for what some idle sageSo idly raved; for cookery is an artComporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an artStill 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 friendDemands, "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 reverieShalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.
"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespokeAspiring to prepare, with prescient zealShould know the tastes and humours of the guests;For if he drudges through the common work,Thoughtless of manner, careless what the placeAnd seasons claim, and what the favouring hourAuspicious to his genius may present,Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,Call we this ploddingfricasseera Cook?Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!We call indeed thegeneralof an armyHim 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 aleaderto his men!With our profession thus: the first who comesMay with a humble toil, or slice, or chop,Prepare the ingredients, and around the fireObsequious, 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 knowThat all, we always find; but always all,Charms not the palate, critically fine.Archestratus, in culinary loreDeep for his time, in this more learned ageIs wanting; and full oft he surely talksOf what he never ate. Suspect his page,Nor load thy genius with a barren precept.Look not in books for what some idle sageSo idly raved; for cookery is an artComporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an artStill 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 friendDemands, "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 reverieShalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.
"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespokeAspiring to prepare, with prescient zealShould know the tastes and humours of the guests;For if he drudges through the common work,Thoughtless of manner, careless what the placeAnd seasons claim, and what the favouring hourAuspicious to his genius may present,Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,Call we this ploddingfricasseera Cook?Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!We call indeed thegeneralof an armyHim 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 aleaderto his men!With our profession thus: the first who comesMay with a humble toil, or slice, or chop,Prepare the ingredients, and around the fireObsequious, 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 knowThat all, we always find; but always all,Charms not the palate, critically fine.Archestratus, in culinary loreDeep for his time, in this more learned ageIs wanting; and full oft he surely talksOf what he never ate. Suspect his page,Nor load thy genius with a barren precept.Look not in books for what some idle sageSo idly raved; for cookery is an artComporting ill with rhetoric; 'tis an artStill 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 friendDemands, "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 reverieShalt slumber heavenly o'er the Attic dish!" —D'Israeli.
"Know then, the Cook, a dinner that's bespoke
Aspiring to prepare, with prescient zeal
Should know the tastes and humours of the guests;
For if he drudges through the common work,
Thoughtless of manner, careless what the place
And seasons claim, and what the favouring hour
Auspicious to his genius may present,
Why, standing 'midst the multitude of men,
Call we this ploddingfricasseera Cook?
Oh, differing far! and one is not the other!
We call indeed thegeneralof 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 aleaderto 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 striveTo 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 dischargedHis office, he's mistaken, and deservesTo 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 nameOf General, 'tis true, who heads the army;But he whose comprehensive mind surveysThe whole, who knows to turn each circumstanceOf time, and place, and action, to advantage,—Foresees what difficulties may occur,And how to conquer them,—this is the manWho should be call'd the general; the otherThe mere conductor of the troops, no more:So in our art it is an easy thingTo boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee,To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire;But a professor of the art regardsThe time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest;And when the market is well stored with fish,Knows to select, and to prefer such onlyAs are in proper season, and, in short,Omits no knowledge that may justly leadTo the perfection of his art. 'Tis true,Archestratus has written on the subject,And is allow'd by many to have leftMost choice receipts, and rare inventionsUseful and pleasing; yet in many thingsHe was profoundly ignorant, and speaksUpon report, without substantial proofOr knowledge of his own. We must not trust,Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus;For in our art we only can dependOn actual practice and experiment.Having no fix'd and settled laws by whichWe may be govern'd, we must frame our own,As time and opportunity may serve,Which if we do not well improve, the artItself must suffer by our negligence.B.You are indeed a most renown'd professor;But still you have omitted to point outThe properties of that most skilful cookWho furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease.A.Give but the word, and you shall see me dressAthrionin such style! and other daintiesTo 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.
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 striveTo 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 dischargedHis office, he's mistaken, and deservesTo 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 nameOf General, 'tis true, who heads the army;But he whose comprehensive mind surveysThe whole, who knows to turn each circumstanceOf time, and place, and action, to advantage,—Foresees what difficulties may occur,And how to conquer them,—this is the manWho should be call'd the general; the otherThe mere conductor of the troops, no more:So in our art it is an easy thingTo boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee,To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire;But a professor of the art regardsThe time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest;And when the market is well stored with fish,Knows to select, and to prefer such onlyAs are in proper season, and, in short,Omits no knowledge that may justly leadTo the perfection of his art. 'Tis true,Archestratus has written on the subject,And is allow'd by many to have leftMost choice receipts, and rare inventionsUseful and pleasing; yet in many thingsHe was profoundly ignorant, and speaksUpon report, without substantial proofOr knowledge of his own. We must not trust,Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus;For in our art we only can dependOn actual practice and experiment.Having no fix'd and settled laws by whichWe may be govern'd, we must frame our own,As time and opportunity may serve,Which if we do not well improve, the artItself must suffer by our negligence.B.You are indeed a most renown'd professor;But still you have omitted to point outThe properties of that most skilful cookWho furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease.A.Give but the word, and you shall see me dressAthrionin such style! and other daintiesTo 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.
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 striveTo 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 dischargedHis office, he's mistaken, and deservesTo 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 nameOf General, 'tis true, who heads the army;But he whose comprehensive mind surveysThe whole, who knows to turn each circumstanceOf time, and place, and action, to advantage,—Foresees what difficulties may occur,And how to conquer them,—this is the manWho should be call'd the general; the otherThe mere conductor of the troops, no more:So in our art it is an easy thingTo boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee,To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire;But a professor of the art regardsThe time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest;And when the market is well stored with fish,Knows to select, and to prefer such onlyAs are in proper season, and, in short,Omits no knowledge that may justly leadTo the perfection of his art. 'Tis true,Archestratus has written on the subject,And is allow'd by many to have leftMost choice receipts, and rare inventionsUseful and pleasing; yet in many thingsHe was profoundly ignorant, and speaksUpon report, without substantial proofOr knowledge of his own. We must not trust,Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus;For in our art we only can dependOn actual practice and experiment.Having no fix'd and settled laws by whichWe may be govern'd, we must frame our own,As time and opportunity may serve,Which if we do not well improve, the artItself must suffer by our negligence.B.You are indeed a most renown'd professor;But still you have omitted to point outThe properties of that most skilful cookWho furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease.A.Give but the word, and you shall see me dressAthrionin such style! and other daintiesTo 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.
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 striveTo 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 dischargedHis office, he's mistaken, and deservesTo 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 nameOf General, 'tis true, who heads the army;But he whose comprehensive mind surveysThe whole, who knows to turn each circumstanceOf time, and place, and action, to advantage,—Foresees what difficulties may occur,And how to conquer them,—this is the manWho should be call'd the general; the otherThe mere conductor of the troops, no more:So in our art it is an easy thingTo boil, to roast, to stew, to fricassee,To blow the bellows, or to stir the fire;But a professor of the art regardsThe time, the place, th' inviter, and the guest;And when the market is well stored with fish,Knows to select, and to prefer such onlyAs are in proper season, and, in short,Omits no knowledge that may justly leadTo the perfection of his art. 'Tis true,Archestratus has written on the subject,And is allow'd by many to have leftMost choice receipts, and rare inventionsUseful and pleasing; yet in many thingsHe was profoundly ignorant, and speaksUpon report, without substantial proofOr knowledge of his own. We must not trust,Nor give our faith to loose conjectures thus;For in our art we only can dependOn actual practice and experiment.Having no fix'd and settled laws by whichWe may be govern'd, we must frame our own,As time and opportunity may serve,Which if we do not well improve, the artItself must suffer by our negligence.B.You are indeed a most renown'd professor;But still you have omitted to point outThe properties of that most skilful cookWho furnish'd splendid feasts with so much ease.A.Give but the word, and you shall see me dressAthrionin such style! and other daintiesTo 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.
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
Athrionin 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.)