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Order fome other table to be brought,
Something, at great expence in India bought,
Beneath whose orb large yawning panthers lie,
Carv'd on rich pedestals of ivory :
He finds no more of that offensive smell,
The meat recovers,
An ivory table is a certain whet;
You would not think how heartily he 'll eat,
As if new vigour to his teeth were sent,
By sympathy from those o' th' elephant.
But such fine feeders are no guests for me :
Riot agrees not with frugality;
Then, that unfashionable man am I,
With me they'd ftarve for want of ivory :
For not one inch does my whole house afford,
Not in my very tables, or chess-board;
Of bone the handles of my knives are made,
Yet no ill taste from thence affects the blade,
Or what I carve; nor is there ever left
Any unfavoury haut-goût from the haft.
A hearty welcome to plain wholesome meat
You 'll find, but serv'd up in no formal state ;
No fewers nor dextrous carvers have I got,
Such as by skilful Trypherus are taught :
In whose fam'd schools the various forms appear
Of fishes, beasts, and all the fowls o' th' air;
And where, with blunted knives, his scholars learn
How to dissect, and the nice joints discern ;
While all the neighbours are with noise opprest,
From the harsh carving of his wooden feast.
On me attends a raw unskilful lad,
On fragments fed, in homely garments clad,
At once my carver, and my Ganymede ;
With diligence he 'll serve us while we dine,
And in plain beechen vessels fill our wine.
No beauteous boys I keep, from Phrygia brought,
No catamites, by shameful pandars taught :
Only to me two home-bred youths belong,
Unskill'd in any but their mother-tongue ;
Alike in feature both, and garb appear,
With honest faces, though with uncurl'd hair.
This day thou shalt my rural pages see,
For I have dreft them both to wait on thec.
Of country fwains they both were born, and one
My ploughman's is, t' other my shepherd's son;
A chearful sweetness in his looks he has,
And innocence unartful in his face :
Though sometimes sadness will o'ercaft the joy,
And gentlc fighs break from the tender boy ;
His absence from his mother oft he 'll mourn,
And with his eyes look wishes to return;
Longing to see his tender kids again,
And feed his lambs upon the flowery plain ;
A modest blush he wears, not form’d by art,
Free from deceit his face, and full as free his heart.
Such looks, such bathfulness, might well adorn
The cheeks of youths that are more nobly born ;
But noblemen those humble graces scorn.
This youth to-day shall my small treat attend,
And only he with wine shall serve my friend,
With wine from his own country brought and made
From the fame vines, beneath whose fruitful shade
He and his wanton kids have often play'd.
But you, perhaps, expect a modifh feast,
With amorous fongs and wanton dances grac'd ;
When sprightly females, to the middle bare,
Trip lightly o’er the ground, and frisk in air;
Whose pliant limbs in various postures move,
And twine and bound as in the rage of love.
Such sights the languid nerves to action stir,
And jaded lust springs forward with this fpur.
Virtue would shrink to hear this lewdness told,
Which husbands now do with their wives behold;
A needful help, to make them both approve
The dry embraces of long wedded love. :*
In nuptial cinders this revives the fire,
And turns their mutual loathing to desire.
But she, who by her sex's charter mult,
Have double pleasure paid, feels double luft;
Apace she warms with an immoderate heat,
Strongly her bosom heaves, and pulses-beat;
With glowing cheeks and trembling lips the lies,
With arms cxpanded, and with naked thighs,
Sucking in passion both at ears and eyes.
But this becomes not me nor my estate ;
These are the vicious follies of the great.
Let him who does on ivory tables dine,
Whose marble floors with drunken spawlings shine ;
Let him lafcivious songs and dances have,
Which, or to fee, or hear, the lewdeft Nave,
The vilest prostitute in all the stews,
With bashful indignation would refuse.
But fortune, there, extenuates the crime;
What 's vice in me, is only mirth in him :
The fruits which murder, cards, or dice afford,
A vestal ravish'd, or a matron whor'd,
Are laudable diversions in a lord.
But my poor entertainment is design'd
T'afford you pleasures of another kind :
Yet with your taste your hearing shall be fed,
And Homer's sacred lines and Virgil's read;
Either of whom does all mankind excel,
Though which exceeds the other none can tell.
It matters not with what ill tone they 're sung,
Verse fo sublimely good no voice can wrong.
Now then be all thy weighty cares away,
Thy jealousies and fears; and, while
you may, To peace and soft repofe give all the day. From thoughts of debt, or any worldly ill, Be free; be all uneasy passion still. What though thy wife do with the morning light (When thou in vain hast toil'd and drudg'd all night) Steal from thy bed and house, abroad to roam, And, having quench'd her flame, come breathless home, Fleck'd in her face, and with disorder'd hair, Her garments ruffled, and her bosom bare ; With ears still tingling, and her eyes on fire, Half drown'd in sin, still burning in desire : Whilst you are forc'd to wink, and seem content Swelling with pastion, which you dare not vent;
Nay, if you would be free from night-alarms,
You must seem fond, and doating on her charms,
Take her (the last of twenty) to your arms.
Let this, and every other anxious thought,
At th entrance of my threshold be forgot ;
All thy domestic griefs at home be left,
The wife's adultery, with the servants' theft;
And (the most racking thought which can intrude)
Forget false friends and their ingratitude.
Let us our peaceful mirth at home begin,
While Megalensian shows are in the Circus seen:
There (to the bane of horses) in high state
The Prætor sits on a triumphal seat;
Vainly with ensigns and with robes adorn'd,
As if with conquest from the wars return'd.
This day all Rome, (if I may be allow'd,
Without offence to such a numerous crowd,
To say all Rome) will in the Circus fweat;
Echos already do their shouts repeat :
Methinks I hear the cry---“ Away, away,
“ The green have won the honour of the day.”
Oh, should these sports be but one year forborn,
Rome would in tears her lov'd diversion mourn;
For that would now a cause of sorrow yield,
Great as the loss of Cannæ fatal field.
Such shows as these were not for us design’d,
But vigorous youth to active sports inclin'd.
On beds of roses laid, let us repose,
While round our heads refreshing ointment flows;