The days of Plutus were the days of gold; The season of high feeding, and good cheer: Rivers of goodly beef and brewis ran Boiling and bubbling through the streaming streets, With islands of fat dumplings, cut in sops And slippery gobbets, moulded into mouthfuls, That dead men might have swallow'd; floating tripes, And fleets of sausages, in luscious morsels, Stuck to the banks like oysters: here and there, For relishers, a salt-fish season'd high Swam down the savoury tide: when soon behold! The portly gammon, sailing in full state Upon his smoking platter, heaves in sight, Encompass'd with his bandoliers like guards, And convoy'd by huge bowls of frumenty, That with their generous odours scent the air. —You stagger me to tell of these good days, And yet to live with us on our hard fare, When death's a deed as easy as to drink. If your mouth waters now, what had it done, Could you have seen our delicate fine thrushes Hot from the spit, with myrtle-berries cramm'd, And larded well with celandine and parsley, Bob at your hungry lips, crying—Come eat me! Nor was this all; for pendent over-head The fairest choicest fruits in clusters hung; Girls too, young girls just budding into bloom, Clad in transparent vests, stood near at hand To serve us with fresh roses, and full cups Of rich and fragrant wine, of which one glass No sooner was despatch'd, than straight behold! Two goblets, fresh and sparkling as the first, Provoked us to repeat the increasing draught. Away then with your ploughs, we need them not, Your scythes, your sickles, and your pruning-hooks! Away with all your trumpery at once! Seed-time and harvest-home and vintage wakes— Your holidays are nothing worth to us. Our rivers roll with luxury, our vats O'erflow with nectar, which providing Jove Showers down by cataracts; the very gutters From our house-tops spout wine, vast forests wave, Whose very leaves drop fatness, smoking viands Like mountains rise.—All nature's one great feast.—CUMBERLAND. * * * * * PHILEMON. (Book vii. § 32, p. 453.)