Of all its gifts; so custom has improv’d 200
This bent of nature; that few simple foods,
Of all that earth, or air, or ocean yield,
But by excess offend. Beyond the sense
Of light refection, at the genial board
Indulge not often; nor protract the feast 205
To dull satiety; till soft and slow
A drowzy death creeps on, th’ expansive soul
Oppress’d, and smother’d the celestial fire.
The stomach, urg’d beyond its active tone,