As having lost its use: no more the eye, 320 With female beauty caught, in wild amaze, Gazes entranced, and could for ever gaze; No more the heart, that seat where Love resides, Each breath drawn quick and short, in fuller tides Life posting through the veins, each pulse on fire, And the whole body tingling with desire, Pants for those charms, which Virtue might engage, To break his vow, and thaw the frost of Age, Bidding each trembling nerve, each muscle strain, And giving pleasure which is almost pain. 330 Women are kept for nothing but the breed; For pleasure we must have a Ganymede, A fine, fresh Hylas, a delicious boy, To serve our purposes of beastly joy. Fairest of nymphs, where every nymph is fair, Whom Nature form'd with more than common care, With more than common care whom Art improved, And both declared most worthy to be loved, ---- neglected wanders, whilst a crowd Pursue and consecrate the steps of ----; 340 She, hapless maid, born in a wretched hour, Wastes life's gay prime in vain, like some fair flower, Sweet in its scent, and lively in its hue, Which withers on the stalk from whence it grew, And dies uncropp'd; whilst he, admired, caress'd, Beloved, and everywhere a welcome guest, With brutes of rank and fortune plays the whore, For their unnatural lust a common sewer. Dine with Apicius--at his sumptuous board Find all, the world of dainties can afford-- 350 And yet (so much distemper'd spirits pall The sickly appetite) amidst them all Apicius finds no joy, but, whilst he carves For every guest, the landlord sits and starves. The forest haunch, fine, fat, in flavour high, Kept to a moment, smokes before his eye, But smokes in vain; his heedless eye runs o'er And loathes what he had deified before: The turtle, of a great and glorious size, Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize 360 For which a man of taste all risks would run, Itself a feast, and every dish in one; The turtle in luxurious pomp comes in, Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepared, and dress'd by Quin;[300] In vain it comes, in vain lies full in view; As Quin hath dress'd it, he may eat it too; Apicius cannot. When the glass goes round, Quick-circling, and the roofs with mirth resound, Sober he sits, and silent--all alone Though in a crowd, and to himself scarce known: 370 On grief he feeds: nor friends can cure, nor wine Suspend his cares, and make him cease to pine. Why mourns Apicius thus? Why runs his eye, Heedless, o'er delicates, which from the sky Might call down Jove? Where now his generous wish, That, to invent a new and better dish, The world might burn, and all mankind expire, So he might roast a phoenix at the fire? Why swims that eye in tears, which, through a race Of sixty years, ne'er show'd one sign of grace? 380 Why feels that heart, which never felt before?