Dost know whom thou'rt to sup with, friend?—I'll tell thee; With gladiators, not with peaceful guests; Instead of knives we're arm'd with naked swords, And swallow firebrands in the place of food: Daggers of Crete are served us for confections, And for a plate of pease a fricassee Of shatter'd spears: the cushions we repose on Are shields and breastplates, at our feet a pile Of slings and arrows, and our foreheads wreath'd With military ensigns, not with myrtle.—CUMBERLAND. _The same._ Know'st thou with whom thou hast to deal? On sharpen'd swords we make our meal; The dripping torch, snapdragon-wise, Our burning beverage supplies; And Cretic shafts, as sweetmeats stored, Form the dessert upon our board, With tid-bits of split javelin: Pillow'd on breastplates we recline; Strew'd at our feet are slings and bows, And crown'd with catapults our brows.—WRANGHAM. _The same._ Herken my word: wote thou, leve brother min, Thou shulde in certaine thys daie wyth us din. Bright swerdes and eke browne our vittaile been; Torches we glot for sowle, that fyerie bren. Eftsone the page doth sette upon our bord, Yfette fro Crete, kene arwes long and broad; No fetches do we ete, but speres shente, That gadred ben fro blood ydrenched bente. The silver targe, and perced habergeon, Been that, whan sonne is set, we lig upon. On bowes reste our fete whan that we slepe, With katapultes crownde, so heie hem clepe.—W. W. * * * * * ALCÆUS. (Book x. § 35, p. 679.) To be bow'd by grief is folly; Nought is gain'd by melancholy; Better than the pain of thinking Is to steep the sense in drinking.—BLAND. * * * * * ALEXIS. (Book x. § 71, p. 709.) _A._ A thing exists which nor immortal is, Nor mortal, but to both belongs, and lives As neither god nor man does. Every day 'Tis born anew and dies. No eye can see it, And yet to all 'tis known. _B._ A plague upon you! You bore me with your riddles. _A._ Still, all this Is plain and easy. _B._ What then can it be? _A._ SLEEP—that puts all our cares and pains to flight. —J. A. ST. JOHN. _The same._ Nor mortal fate, nor yet immortal thine, Amalgam rare of human and divine; Still ever new thou comest, soon again To vanish, fleeting as the phantom train; Ever invisible to earthly eye, Yet known to each one most familiarly.—F. METCALFE. * * * * * EUBULUS. (Book x. § 71, p. 710.)