In it did swim the gold-faced ἐλλοὶ ἰχθύες,
And sported in the sea's ambrosial depths.

And Sophocles was very fond of the Epic Cycle, so that he composed even entire plays in which he has followed the stories told in their fables.

6. Presently when the tunnies called Amiæ were put on the table, some one said,—Aristotle speaks of this fish, and says that they have gills out of sight, and that they have very sharp teeth, and that they belong to the gregarious and carnivorous class of fishes: and that they have a gall of equal extent with their whole intestines, and a spleen of corresponding proportions. It is said also that when they are hooked, they leap up towards the fisherman, and bite through the line and so escape. And Archippus mentions them in his play entitled the Fishes, where he says—

But when you were eating the fat amiæ.

And Epicharmus in his Sirens says—

A.In the morning early, at the break of day,
We roasted plump anchovies,
Cutlets of well-fed pork, and polypi;
And then we drank sweet wine.
B.Alack! alack! my silly wife detain'd me,
Chattering near the monument.
A.I'm sorry for you. Then, too, there were mullets
And large plump amiæ—
A noble pair i' the middle of the table,
And eke a pair of pigeons,
A scorpion and a lobster.

And Aristotle, inquiring into the etymology of the name, says that they were called amiæ, παρὰ τὸ ἅμα ἰέναι ταῖς

[[437]] παραπλησίαις (from their going in shoals with their companions of the same kind). But Icesius, in his treatise on the Materials of Food, says that they are full of a wholesome juice, and tender, but only of moderate excellency as far as their digestible properties go, and not very nutritious.

7. But Archestratus,—that writer so curious in all that relates to cookery,—in his Gastrology (for that is the title of the book as it is given by Lycophron, in his treatise on Comedy, just as the work of Cleostratus of Tenedos is called Astrology), speaks thus of the amia:—

But towards the end of autumn, when the Pleiad
Has hidden its light, then dress the amiæ
Whatever way you please. Why need I teach you?
For then you cannot spoil it, if you wish.
But if you should desire, Moschus my friend,
To know by what recipe you best may dress it;
Take the green leaves of fig-trees, and some marjoram,
But not too much; no cheese or other nonsense,
But merely wrap it up in the fig leaves,
And tie it round with a small piece of string,
Then bury it beneath the glowing ashes,
Judging by instinct of the time it takes
To be completely done without being burnt.
And if you wish to have the best o' their kind,
Take care to get them from Byzantium;
Or if they come from any sea near that
They'll not be bad: but if you go down lower,
And pass the straits into the Ægæan sea,
They're quite a different thing, in flavour worse
As well as size, and merit far less praise.