I've harbour'd a he-sphinx and not a cook,
For, by the gods! he talk'd to me in riddles,
And coin'd new words that pose me to interpret.
No sooner had he enter'd on his office,
Than eyeing me from head to foot, he cries—
"How many mortals hast thou bid to supper?"
Mortals! quoth I, what tell you me of mortals?
Let Jove decide on their mortality;
You're crazy sure! none by that name are bidden.
"No table usher? no one to officiate