I'd have you better know this trade of ours: 'Tis a profession, sirs, to ravish admiration: Its nursing-father is the Law; its birth Derives from heaven. All other trades bear stamp Of frail humanity upon them, mix'd, I grant, with show of wisdom—but your parasite Is sprung from Jove: and tell me, who in heaven Is Jove's compeer? 'Tis he that under name Of Philian, enters ev'ry mansion—own it Who will, gentle or simple, prince or artisan: Be't room of state or poverty's mean hovel, He stands upon no points:—the couch is spread, The table furnish'd—on't a goodly show Of tempting dishes: what should he ask more? He drops into a graceful attitude, Calls like a lord about him, gorges greedily The daintiest dish, washes it down with wine, Then bilks his club, and quietly walks home. I too am pieced with him in this respect, And by the god my prudent course is fashion'd. Is there a gala-day, and feast on foot, With open door that offers invitation? In walk I, silence for my only usher: I fall into a chair with sweet composure, (Why should my neighbour's peace be marr'd by noise?) I dip my finger in whate'er's before me, And having feasted ev'ry appetite Up to a surfeit, I walk home with purse Untouch'd—hath not a god done so before me?—MITCHELL. * * * * * ANTIPHANES. (Book vi. § 71, p. 404.) _A._ You say you've pass'd much of your time in Cyprus. _B._ All; for the war prevented my departure. _A._ In what place chiefly, may I ask? _B._ In Paphos; Where I saw elegance in such perfection, As almost mocks belief. _A._ Of what kind, pray you? _B._ Take this for one—The monarch, when he sups, Is fann'd by living doves. _A._ You make me curious How this is to be done; all other questions I will put by to be resolved in this. _B._ There is a juice drawn from a Syrian tree, To which your dove instinctively is wedded With a most loving appetite; with this The king anoints his temples, and the odour No sooner captivates the silly birds, Than straight they flutter round him, nay, would fly A bolder pitch, so strong a love-charm draws them, And perch, O horror! on his sacred crown, If that such profanation were permitted Of the bystanders, who, with reverend care, Fright them away, till thus, retreating now, And now advancing, they keep such a coil With their broad vans, and beat the lazy air Into so quick a stir, that in the conflict His royal lungs are comfortably cool'd, And thus he sups as Paphian monarchs should.—CUMBERLAND. * * * * *