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The sacred hearth with seasoned faggots heap, .
When her tired lord draws nigh;
Drain their great udders dry:
To grace the home-made feast ?For Lucrine purple-fish I shall not ask,
Nor turbots from the East :
Storms carried to our shore,
. Or hens from Guinea, more My taste; than oil that, in the rich boughs hid,
Her hands did thence obtain;
Our suffering frames from pain,
By wolves so nearly slain !
“So banqueting, how sweet to notice how
The fed ewes homeward fare:
On drooping shoulders bear;
And slaves-sure signs of wealth-ranged idle now,
Swarm round the glad hearth’s glare!"
So did the money-lender Appius speak,
Resolved to be a swain,
Would put it out again.
THE DEAD Ox.
FROM VIRGIL, GEORG. III.
Lo! smoking in the stubborn plough, the ox
Upturning? Yet the grape of Italy,
SPEECH OF AJAX.
SOPH. AJ. 645..
ALL strangest things the multitudinous years