I've harbour'd a he-sphinx and not a cook, For, by the gods! he talk'd to me in riddles, And coin'd new words that pose me to interpret. No sooner had he enter'd on his office, Than eyeing me from head to foot, he cries— "How many mortals hast thou bid to supper?" Mortals! quoth I, what tell you me of mortals? Let Jove decide on their mortality; You're crazy sure! none by that name are bidden. "No table usher? no one to officiate As master of the courses?"—No such person; Moschion and Niceratus and Philinus, These are my guests and friends, and amongst these You'll find no table-decker, as I take it. "Gods! is it possible?" cried he;—Most certain, I patiently replied: he swell'd and huff'd, As if, forsooth! I'd done him heinous wrong, And robb'd him of his proper dignity; Ridiculous conceit!—"What offering mak'st thou To Erysichthon?" he demanded: None— "Shall not the wide-horn'd ox be fell'd?" cries he: I sacrifice no ox—"Nor yet a wether?" Not I, by Jove! a simple sheep perhaps: "And what's a wether but a sheep?" cries he. I'm a plain man, my friend, and therefore speak Plain language:—"What! I speak as Homer does; And sure a cook may use like privilege And more than a blind poet."—Not with me; I'll have no kitchen-Homers in my house! So pray discharge yourself!—This said, we parted.—CUMBERLAND. * * * * * ANTHIPPUS. (Book ix. § 68, p. 637.) I like to see the faces of my guests, To feed them as their age and station claim. My kitchen changes, as my guests inspire The various spectacle; for lovers now, Philosophers, and now for financiers, If my young royster be a mettled spark, Who melts an acre in a savoury dish To charm his mistress, scuttle-fish and crabs, And all the shelly race, with mixture due Of cordials filter'd, exquisitely rich. For such a host, my friend! expends much more In oil than cotton; solely studying love! To a philosopher, that animal, Voracious, solid ham and bulky feet; But to the financier, with costly niceness, Glociscus rare, or rarity more rare. Insensible the palate of old age, More difficult than the soft lips of youth To move, I put much mustard in their dish; With quickening sauces make their stupor keen, And lash the lazy blood that creeps within.—D'ISRAELI. * * * * * DIONYSIUS. (Book ix. § 69, p. 638.)