A bore it is to take pot-luck, with welcome frank and hearty, All at the board round which is placed a downright family-party. Old daddy seizes first the cup, and so begins his story, And lectures on, with saws and jokes—a Mentor in his glory. The mother next, and grandam too, confound you with their babble; And worse and worse, the grandam's sire will mump, and grunt, and gabble; His daughter with her toothless gums, lisps out, "The dear old fellow!" And round and round the dotard nods, as fast as he grows mellow. —ANON. _The same._ From family repasts, Where all the guests claim kin,—nephews and uncles, And aunts and cousins to the fifth remove! First you've the sire, a goblet in his hand, And he deals out his dole of admonition;— Then comes my lady-mother, a mere homily Reproof and exhortation!—at her heels The aunt slips in a word of pious precept. The grandsire last—a bass voice among trebles, Thunder succeeding whispers, fires away. Each pause between, his aged partner fills With "lack-a-day!" "good sooth!" and "dearest dear!" The dotard's head meantime for ever nods, Encouraging her drivelling.—ANON. * * * * * ARISTOPHANES. (Book iii. § 7, p. 126.) There is no kind of fig, Whether little or big, Save the Spartan, which here does not grow; But this, though quite small, Swells with hatred and gall, A stern foe to the Demos, I trow.—J. A. ST. JOHN. * * * * * STESICHORUS. (Book iii. § 21, p. 136.) Many a yellow quince was there Piled upon the regal chair, Many a verdant myrtle-bough, Many a rose-crown featly wreathed, With twisted violets that grow Where the breath of spring has breathed.—J. A. ST. JOHN. * * * * * ANTIGONUS. (Book iii. § 22, p. 137.) O where is the maiden, sweeter far Than the ruddy fruits of Ephyrè are, When the winds of summer have o'er them blown, And their cheeks with autumn's gold have been strown! —J. A. ST. JOHN. * * * * * ANTIPHANES. (Book iii. § 27, p. 140.) _A._ 'Twould be absurd to speak of what's to eat, As if you thought of such things; but, fair maid, Take of these apples. _B._ Oh, how beautiful! _A._ They are, indeed, since hither they but lately Have come from the great king. _B._ By Phosphoros! I could have thought them from the Hesperian bowers, Where th' apples are of gold. _A._ There are but three. _B._ The beautiful is nowhere plentiful.—J. A. ST. JOHN.