Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more, Who only lived to eat, his stomach pall'd, And drown'd in floods of sorrow? Hath Fate call'd His father from the grave to second life? Hath Clodius on his hands return'd his wife? Or hath the law, by strictest justice taught, Compell'd him to restore the dow'r she brought? Hath some bold creditor, against his will, Brought in, and forced him to discharge, a bill, 390 Where eating had no share? Hath some vain wench Run out his wealth, and forced him to retrench? Hath any rival glutton got the start, And beat him in his own luxurious art-- Bought cates for which Apicius could not pay, Or dress'd old dainties in a newer way? Hath his cook, worthy to be flain with rods, Spoil'd a dish fit to entertain the gods? Or hath some varlet, cross'd by cruel Fate, Thrown down the price of empires in a plate? 400 None, none of these--his servants all are tried: So sure, they walk on ice, and never slide; His cook, an acquisition made in France, Might put a Chloe[301] out of countenance; Nor, though old Holles still maintains his stand, Hath he one rival glutton in the land. Women are all the objects of his hate; His debts are all unpaid, and yet his state In full security and triumph held, Unless for once a knave should be expell'd: 410 His wife is still a whore, and in his power, The woman gone, he still retains the dower; Sound in the grave (thanks to his filial care Which mix'd the draught, and kindly sent him there) His father sleeps, and, till the last trump shake The corners of the earth, shall not awake. Whence flows this sorrow, then? Behind his chair, Didst thou not see, deck'd with a solitaire, Which on his bare breast glittering play'd, and graced With nicest ornaments, a stripling placed, 420 A smooth, smug stripling, in life's fairest prime? Didst thou not mind, too, how from time to time, The monstrous lecher, tempted to despise All other dainties, thither turn'd his eyes? How he seem'd inly to reproach us all, Who strove his fix'd attention to recall, And how he wish'd, e'en at the time of grace, Like Janus, to have had a double face? His cause of grief behold in that fair boy; Apicius dotes, and Corydon is coy. 430 Vain and unthinking stripling! when the glass Meets thy too curious eye, and, as you pass, Flattering, presents in smiles thy image there, Why dost thou bless the gods, who made thee fair? Blame their large bounties, and with reason blame; Curse, curse thy beauty, for it leads to shame; When thy hot lord, to work thee to his end, Bids showers of gold into thy breast descend, Suspect his gifts, nor the vile giver trust; They're baits for virtue, and smell strong of lust. 440 On those gay, gaudy trappings, which adorn The temple of thy body, look with scorn; View them with horror; they pollution mean, And deepest ruin: thou hast often seen