And nothing will be spared: therefore be quick, Tuck up your robe, and come away with me.—ANON. * * * * * ALEXIS. (Book viii. § 15, p. 532.) Talk not to me of schools and trim academies, Of music or sage meetings held at Pylus— I'll hear no more of them: mere sugar'd words Which melt as you pronounce them. Fill your cup And pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper. This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius— Feast it with high delights, and mark it be not Too sad—I know no pleasure but the belly; 'Tis kin, 'tis genealogy to me: I own no other sire nor lady-mother. For virtue—'tis a cheat: your embassies— Mere toys: office and army sway—boy's rattles. They are a sound—a dream—an empty bubble; Our fated day is fix'd, and who may cheat it? Nought rests in perpetuity; nor may we Call aught our own, save what the belly gives A local habitation: for the rest— What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod. And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him.—MITCHELL. * * * * * MACHON. (Book viii. § 26, p. 538.) Of all fish-eaters None sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus. 'Twas a prodigious twist! At Syracuse Fate threw him on the fish call'd "Many-feet." He purchased it and drest it; and the whole, Bate me the head, form'd but a single swallow. A crudity ensued—the doctor came, And the first glance inform'd him things went wrong. And "Friend," quoth he, "if thou hast aught to set In order, to it straight;—pass but seven hours, And thou and life must take a long farewell." "I've nought to do," replied the bard: "all's right And tight about me—nothing's in confusion— Thanks to the gods! I leave a stock behind me Of healthy dithyrambics, fully form'd, A credit to their years;—not one among them Without a graceful chaplet on his head:— These to the Muses' keeping I bequeath, (We long were fellow-nurslings,) and with them Be Bacchus and fair Venus in commission.— Thus far, Sir, for my testament:—for respite, I look not for it, mark, at Charon's hand, (Take me, I would be understood to mean Timotheus' Charon,—him in the Niobe:) I hear his voice this moment—"Hip! halloo! To ship, to ship," he cries: the swarthy Destinies (And who must not attend their solemn bidding?) Unite their voices.—I were loth, howe'er, To troop with less than all my gear about me;— Good doctor, be my helper then to what Remains of that same blessed Many-feet!—MITCHELL. * * * * * PHŒNIX. (Book viii. § 59, p. 566.)