There is a certain hospitable air
In a friend's house, that tells me I am welcome:
The porter opens to me with a smile;
The yard dog wags his tail, the servant runs,
Beats up the cushion, spreads the couch, and says—
"Sit down, good Sir!" e'er I can say I'm weary.—Cumberland.
Archestratus. (Book i. § 7, p. 7.)
I write these precepts for immortal Greece,
That round a table delicately spread,