—You stagger me to tell of these good days,
And yet to live with us on our hard fare,
When death's a deed as easy as to drink.
If your mouth waters now, what had it done,
Could you have seen our delicate fine thrushes
Hot from the spit, with myrtle-berries cramm'd,
And larded well with celandine and parsley,
Bob at your hungry lips, crying—Come eat me!
Nor was this all; for pendent over-head
The fairest choicest fruits in clusters hung;