Which the all-bounteous gods employ
To raise the hearts of men,
Consoling them for long laborious pain;
All their chief brightness owe, kind Health, to you;
You are the Graces' spring,
'Tis you the only real bliss can bring,
And no man's blest when you are not in view,
* * * *
64. They know.—For Sopater the farce-writer, in his play entitled The Lentil, speaks thus—
I can both carve and drink Etruscan wine,