Till I shall come again let this suffice, I send my salt, my sacrifice To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far As to thy Genius and thy Lar; To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen, The fat-fed smoking temple, which in The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines Invites to supper him who dines, Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef, Not represent but give relief To the lank stranger and the sour swain, Where both may feed and come again; For no black-bearded vigil from thy door Beats with a button'd-staff the poor; But from thy warm love-hatching gates each may Take friendly morsels and there stay To sun his thin-clad members if he likes, For thou no porter keep'st who strikes. No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants, Or staying there is scourg'd with taunts Of some rough groom, who, yirkt with corns, says: "Sir, Y'ave dipped too long i' th' vinegar; And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, Y'ave fared well: pray make an end; Two days y'ave larded here; a third, ye know, Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go You to some other chimney, and there take Essay of other giblets; make Merry at another's hearth--y'are here Welcome as thunder to our beer; Manners know distance, and a man unrude Would soon recoil and not intrude His stomach to a second meal". No, no! Thy house well fed and taught can show No such crabb'd vizard: thou hast learnt thy train With heart and hand to entertain, And by the armsful, with a breast unhid, As the old race of mankind did, When either's heart and either's hand did strive To be the nearer relative. Thou dost redeem those times, and what was lost Of ancient honesty may boast It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son. Thus, like a Roman tribune, thou thy gate Early sets ope to feast and late; Keeping no currish waiter to affright With blasting eye the appetite, Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that The trencher-creature marketh what Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by Some private pinch tells danger's nigh A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites Skin-deep into the pork, or lights Upon some part of kid, as if mistook, When checked by the butler's look. No, no; thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer Is not reserved for Trebius here, But all who at thy table seated are Find equal freedom, equal fare; And thou, like to that hospitable god, Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode To eat thy bullock's thighs, thy veals, thy fat Wethers, and never grudged at.