Is there a gala-day, and feast on foot,
With open door that offers invitation?
In walk I, silence for my only usher:
I fall into a chair with sweet composure,
(Why should my neighbour's peace be marr'd by noise?)
I dip my finger in whate'er's before me,
And having feasted ev'ry appetite
Up to a surfeit, I walk home with purse
Untouch'd—hath not a god done so before me? —Mitchell.