For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of
Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to read more

You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of
Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine,
Sabellus, not to bathe.

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan,
Even before he gets so far
read more

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan,
Even before he gets so far
As the place where the clustered palm-trees are,
At the last of the thirty palace-gates
The pet of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,
Orders a feast in his favorite room--
Glittering square of colored ice,
Sweetened with syrup, tinctured with spice,
Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates,
Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,
Limes and citrons and apricots,
And wines that are known to Eastern princes.

"Here, dearest Eve," he exclaims, "here is food." "Well,"
answered she, with the germ of a housewife stirring within read more

"Here, dearest Eve," he exclaims, "here is food." "Well,"
answered she, with the germ of a housewife stirring within her,
"we have been so busy to-day that a picked-up dinner must serve."

What, did you not know, then, that to-day Lucullus dines with
Lucullus?

What, did you not know, then, that to-day Lucullus dines with
Lucullus?

Feast to-day makes fast to-morrow.
[Lat., Festo die si quid prodegeris,
Profesto egere liceat nisi peperceris.]

Feast to-day makes fast to-morrow.
[Lat., Festo die si quid prodegeris,
Profesto egere liceat nisi peperceris.]

A dinner lubricates business.

A dinner lubricates business.

Yet shall you have to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad
Ushering the read more

Yet shall you have to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce: to these a coney
Is not to be despaired of for our money;
And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
read more

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
I've ate and can't digest.