Do this! and it is done: I stick at nothing;
They call me Thunder-bolt for my despatch;
Friend of my friends am I: let actions speak me;
I'm much too modest to commend myself.—Cumberland.
Pherecrates. (Book vi. §§ 96, 97, pp. 423, 424.)
The days of Plutus were the days of gold;
The season of high feeding, and good cheer:
Rivers of goodly beef and brewis ran
Boiling and bubbling through the streaming streets,
With islands of fat dumplings, cut in sops
And slippery gobbets, moulded into mouthfuls,
That dead men might have swallow'd; floating tripes,
And fleets of sausages, in luscious morsels,
Stuck to the banks like oysters: here and there,
For relishers, a salt-fish season'd high
Swam down the savoury tide: when soon behold!
The portly gammon, sailing in full state
Upon his smoking platter, heaves in sight,
Encompass'd with his bandoliers like guards,
And convoy'd by huge bowls of frumenty,
That with their generous odours scent the air.
—You stagger me to tell of these good days,
And yet to live with us on our hard fare,
When death's a deed as easy as to drink.
If your mouth waters now, what had it done,
Could you have seen our delicate fine thrushes
Hot from the spit, with myrtle-berries cramm'd,
And larded well with celandine and parsley,
Bob at your hungry lips, crying—Come eat me!
Nor was this all; for pendent over-head
The fairest choicest fruits in clusters hung;
Girls too, young girls just budding into bloom,
Clad in transparent vests, stood near at hand
To serve us with fresh roses, and full cups
Of rich and fragrant wine, of which one glass
No sooner was despatch'd, than straight behold!
Two goblets, fresh and sparkling as the first,
Provoked us to repeat the increasing draught.
