From his own giblets' oil, an Ararat
Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts
From Noah's vineyard,—... crisp, enticing wafts
Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense
Somewhat abate the fear of old events,
Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow
Unnecessary duties to forgo,—
You understand? A venison haunch, haut goût,
Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew,
And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke