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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 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-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:—
