Sat. VI. Horace. Catius.
Horace.
Whence comes, my Catius? Whither in such Haste?
Catius.
I have no Time in idle Prate to waste.
I must away to treasure in my Mind
A Set of Precepts, novel and refin'd;
Such as Pythagoras could never reach,
Nor Socrates, nor scienc'd Plato teach.
Horace.
I ask your Pardon, and confess my Crime,
To interrupt you at so cross a Time.
But yet, if aught escap'd through strange Neglect,
You shall with Ease the Wisdom recollect,
Whether you boast, from Nature or from Art,
This wonderous Gift of holding Things by Heart.
Catius.
I meant to store them total in my Head,
The Matter nice, and wrought of subtle Thread.
Horace.
But prithee, Catius, what's your Sage's Name:
Is he a Roman, or of foreign Fame?
Catius.
His Precepts I shall willingly reveal;
And sing his Doctrines, but his Name conceal.
Long be your Eggs, far sweeter than the round,
Cock-Eggs they are, more nourishing and sound.
In thirsty Fields a richer Colewort grows,
Than where the watry Garden overflows.
If by an evening Guest perchance surpris'd,
Lest the tough Hen (I prithee be advis'd)
Should quarrel with his Teeth, let her be drown'd
In Lees of Wine, and she'll be tender found.
Best flavour'd Mushrooms Meadow-Land supplies,
In those of Art a dangerous Poison lies.
He shall with Vigour bear the Summer's Heat,
Who after Dinner shall be sure to eat
His Mulberries, of blackest, ripest Dyes,
And gather'd ere the Morning-Sun arise.
Aufidius first, most injudicious, quaff'd
Strong Wine and Honey for his Morning Draught.
With lenient Beverage fill your empty Veins,
And smoother Mead shall better scour the Reins.
Sorrel and White-Wine, if you costive prove,
And Muscles, all Obstructions shall remove.
In the New Moon all Shell-Fish fill with Juice,
But not all Seas the richer Sort produce;
The largest in the Lucrine Lake we find,
But the Circæan are of sweeter Kind.
Crayfish are best on the Misenian Coasts,
And soft Tarentum broadest Scollops boasts.
Let none presume to understand a Feast,
If not exact and elegant of Taste.
'Tis not enough to buy the precious Fish,
But know what Sauce gives Flavour to the Dish,
If stew'd or roasted it shall relish best,
And to the Table rouze the languid Guest.
But if th' insipid Flesh of Boars you hate,
Let the round Dishes bend beneath the Weight
Of those with Acorns fed; though fat, indeed,
The rest are vapid from the marshy Reed.
The Vine-fed Goat's not always luscious Fare;
Wise Palates chuse the Wings of pregnant Hare.
None before me so sapient to engage
To tell the various Nature or the Age.
Of Fish and Fowl; that Secret was my own,
'Till my judicious Palate quite unknown.
In some new Pastry that Man's Genius lies,
Yet in one Art 'tis Meaness to be wise.
For should we not be careful lest our Oil,
Though excellent our Wine, the Fish should spoil?
The Sky serene, put out your Massic Wine;
In the Night-Air its Foulness shall refine,
And lose the Scent, unfriendly to the Nerves,
But philtrated no Flavour it preserves.
He, who with Art would pour a stronger Wine
On smooth Falernian Lees, should well refine
Th' incorporated Mass with Pigeon's Eggs;
The falling Yolk will carry down the Dregs.
Stew'd Shrimps and Afric Cockles shall excite
A jaded Drinker's languid Appetite;
For Lettuce after Wine is cold and crude,
But Ham or Sausage is provoking Food;
Perhaps he may prefer with higher Zest,
Whatever is in filthy Taverns drest.
Two Sorts of Sauce are worthy to be known;
Simple the first, of sweetest Oil alone:
The other mix'd with full and generous Wine,
With the true Pickle of Byzantian Brine;
Let it with shreded Herbs and Saffron boil,
And when it cools pour in Venafran Oil.
Picenian Fruits with juicy Flavour grow,
But Tibur's with superior Beauty glow.
Some Grapes have with Success in Pots been tried:
Albanian better in the Smoke are dried,
With them and Apples and the Lees of Wine,
White Pepper, common Salt, and Herring-Brine,
I first invented a delicious Treat,
And gave to every Guest a separate Plate.
Monstrous, to spend a Fortune on a Dish,
Or croud the Table with a Load of Fish.
It strongly turns the Stomach, when a Slave
Shall on your Cup the greasy Tokens leave
Of what rich Sauce the luscious Caitiff stole;
Or when vile Mould incrusts your antique Bowl.
Brooms, Mats and Saw-dust are so cheaply bought
That not to have them is a shameless Fault.
What! sweep with dirty Broom a Floor inlaid,
Or on foul Couch a Tyrian Carpet spread?
Horace.
Catius, by Friendship, by the Powers divine,
Take me to hear this learned Sage of thine:
For though his Rules you faithfully express,
This meer repeating makes the Pleasure less.
Besides, what Joy to view his Air and Mien!
Trifles to you, because full often seen.
Nor mean that Ardour, which my Breast enflames,
To visit Wisdom's more remoter Streams,
And by your learned, friendly Guidance led,
Quaff the pure Precept at the Fountain-Head.
