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A LECTURE ON GASTRONOMY. When your butler 's away and the weather's so bad That there's not a morsel of fish to be had, A crust with some salt will soothe not amiss The ravening stomach. You ask, “How is this?” Because for delight, at the best, you must look To yourself, and not to your wealth or your cook. Work till you perspire: of all sauces 't is best. The man that's with over-indulgence opprest, White-livered and pursy, can relish no dish, Be it ortolans, oysters, or finest of fish. Still I scarcely can hope, if before you there were A peacock and capon, you would not prefer With he peacock to tickle your palate, you 're so Completely the dupes of mere semblance and show. For to buy the rare bird only gold will avail, And he makes a rare show with his fine painted tail, As if tbis had to do with the matter the least! Can you make of the feathers you prize so a feast? And when the bird's cooked, what becomes of its splendor ? Is his flesh than the capon's more juicy or tender ? Mere appearance, not substance, then, clearly it is Which bamboozles your judgment so much, then, for this. So were any one now to assure us a treat In cormorants roasted, as tender and sweet, The young men of Rome are so prone to what's wrong, They'd eat cormorants all to a man before long.
HORACE'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FATHER.
Than patrimonial fortunes old and great
SHOULD then my humorous vein run wild, some latitude allow.
The faith and morals handed down from our good sires of old;
name. When years have hardened, as they will, your judgment and your
frame, You'll swim without a float."
And so, with talk like this, he won And moulded me while yet a boy. Was something to be done, Hard it might be — “For this,” he'd say, "good warrant you can
quote," And then as model pointed to some public man of note. Or was there something to be shunned, then he would urge, “Can
you One moment doubt that acts like these are base and futile too, Which have to him and his such dire disgrace and trouble bred ?" And as a neighbor's death appals the sick, and by the dread Of dying forces them to put upon their lusts restraint, So tender minds are oft deterred from vices by the taint They see them bring on others' names; 't is thus that I from those Am all exempt, which bring with them a train of shame and woes.
HORACE'S SATIRE UPON HIMSELF.
At Rome, you for the country sigh;
And drinking bumpers is a bore
But only let Mæcepas send Command for you “to meet a friend ;" Although the message comes so late The lamps are being lighted, straight, « Where's my pomade? Look sharp!” you shout; “ Heavens! is there nobody about? Are you all deaf?" And stormy high
At all the household, off you fly.
A WOULD-BE LITERARY BORE.
Then, writhing to escape the bore,
“You're dying to be off," he cries :
(For all the while I'd been stock dumb ;) “ I've seen it this half-hour. But come, Let's clearly understand each other; It's no use making 11 this pother. My mind's made up to stick by you; So where you go, there I go too." “Don't put yourself,” I answered, “pray, So very far out of your way. I'm on the road to see a friend Whom you don't know, that's near his end, Away beyond the Tiber far, Close by where Cæsar's gardens are." “I've nothing in the world to do, And what's a paltry mile or two ? I like it: so I'll follow you!”
Down dropped my ears on hearing this, Just like a vicious jackass's, That's loaded heavier than he likes, But off anew my torment strikes :
“If well I know myself, you 'll end With making of me more a friend Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for Of verses who can run off more, Or run them off at such a pace ? Who dance with such distinguished grace ? And as for singing, zounds !” says he, “ Hermogenes might envy me!”
Here was an opening to break in : “Have you a mother, father, kin, To whom your life is precious ?” “None; I've closed the eyes of every one." Oh, happy they, I inly groan; Now I am left, and I alone. Quick, quick despatch me where I stand; Now is the direful doom at hand, Which erst the Sabine beldam old, Shaking her magic urn, foretold In days when I was yet a boy: “ Him shall no poison fell destroy, Nor hostile sword in shock of war, Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh. In fulness of time his thread Shall by a prate-apace be shred; So let him, when he's twenty-one, If he be wise, all babblers shun.”