’Tis strange that when the eye reposes On summer skies and beds of roses— And fountains with their spray-showers glancing, And green leaves in the south-wind dancing— That tyrant Hunger, grossest sense! Will not a few short hours dispense His _congé_ to poor earthly sinners, But sets them craving for their dinners: ’Tis strange that all, howe’er refined, Of lofty thought, poetic mind, Nor leaves nor roses will espy, If but a tempting _pâté_’s by; Transparent fountains flow in vain, If froth for them the brisk champagne, As chuckling while they pile a plate, They cry, “I love a rural _fête_!” ’Tis strange—explain it, learned sages— That chaperons all, whate’er their ages, Whether dame Fortune smiles or spites, Rejoice in boundless appetites; And some I’ve seen such homage do To fish, flesh, fowl, and pastry too, Fearless of ache or indigestion, Having profoundly solved the question, How many different foods with zest A Christian stomach can digest; That hecatombs must offer up The amazed Amphitryons where they sup. Maidens, _au contraire_, little eat; How should they, when, from neighbouring seat, A lover, with devouring eyes, Each tempting morsel jealous spies? Ye charmers, who would lovers gain To hover round, a sighing train! From all but sparrow-meals refrain; Men bear a small plump hand to see A golden fork wield gracefully, Not guided by a heart intent, Like nun’s, half starved with keeping Lent, But in a light capricious way As less in hunger than in play. Would you enchain the creatures fast, Choose delicately for repast Of whitest chicken, one small slice— Some orange jelly, cool as ice— Three cherries, and an almond cake— } And water tinged with wine,—they’ll make } A charm not Samson’s self could break. } But should your suitors chance to spy The open mouth, the hungry eye, You’ll look around—and where are they? Scared—gone—and sure, past doubt, to say, “Nay, saw you that?—no joke indeed! I hate to see a woman feed!”