Lapas attēli

To think that thou shouldst equally delight
Each several appetite;

Though Art and Nature strive
Thy banquets to contrive:


Thou art our whole Menander,' and dost look
Like the old Greek; think, then, but on his Cook.9

If thou thy full cups bring
Out of the Muses' spring,

And there are some foul mouths had rather drink
Out of the common sink;

There let them seek to quench th' hydropic thirst,
Till the swoln humour burst.

Let him who daily steals

From thy most precious meals,
Since thy strange plenty finds no loss by it,
Feed himself with the fragments of thy wit.

And let those silken men

That know not how, or when

To spend their money, or their time, maintain With their consumed no-brain, Their barbarous feeding on such gross base stuff As only serves to puff

7 "Cæsar called Terence Menander halfed, because he wanted so much of his grace and sharpness. Ben Jonson may well be call'd our Menander, whole, or more: exceeding him as much in sharpness and grace, as Terence wanted of him." I. C.

8 "Ben Jonson is said to be very like the picture we have of Menander, taken from an ancient medal." I. C.

9 "Menander in a fragment of one of his Comedies, makes his Cook speak after this manner of the diversity of tastes, viz. :

'What is his usual fare?

What countryman is he?

These things 'tis meet the cook should scan :
For such nice guests as in the isles are bred,
With various sorts of fresh-fish nourished,
In salt meat take little or no delight,
But taste them with fastidious appetite.'

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I. C.

Up the weak empty mind,
Like bubbles, full with wind,

And strive t'engage the scene with their damn'd oaths, As they do with the privilege of their clothes.

Whilst thou tak'st that high spirit,
Well purchas'd by thy merit :

Great Prince of Poets, though thy head be gray,
Crown it with Delphic bay,

And from the chief [pin] in Apollo's quire,
Take down thy best tuned lyre,
Whose sound shall pierce so far
It shall strike out the star,

Which fabulous Greece durst fix in heaven, whilst


With all due glory, here on earth shall shine.

Sing, English Horace, sing
The wonders of thy King;

Whilst his triumphant chariot runs his whole
Bright course about each pole:
Sing down the Roman harper; he shall rain
His bounties on thy vein;
And with his golden rays,

So gild thy glorious bays,

That Fame shall bear on her unwearied wing,
What the best Poet sung of the best King.

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