Satires 2.4 (Creech): Unde Et Quo Catius

WHence Catius pray? and whither? Sir I vow
I wish I had, but I han't leisure now
To tell my rules, the best that e're were known,
Better than what Pythagoras has shown,
Or Plato taught; but Sir I must be gone:
I must confess 'twas rude Impertinence
To interrupt a busy Man of Sense
At such a time, but pardon the offence:
For, Sir, what ever 'tis you have forgot,
You'l mind again, and soon recall the thought;
Whether 'twas fixt on Nature, or on Art;
For You are deeply skill'd in either part:
I was considering how I should retain
What I have learn'd, it asks a subtle brain,
A Man of deep contrivance, sense, and thought,
So fine the Precepts, and so finely wrought.
His name, a Stranger, or a Roman tell,
I'le sing the Precepts, but the Man conceal:
Choose Long Eggs still, for those are hard and sound,
Cock Eggs, more white and sweeter than the round:
The Cale that grows on Hills, or barren Fields,
Is better far than what the Garden yields:
Moist ground e'en Odcomb Plants will quickly spoyl,
They tastless grow and watrish as the soil.
Suppose a Friend an unexpected Guest
Comes late, and You have nothing ready drest,
Drown Hens in Wine, I learn't this Art at Court,
'Twill make the flesh eat wonderfully short.
The Meadow Mushrooms are the safer food,
Poys'nous the rest, at least not half so good;
I'le give him health, that when his Meals are done
Eats juicy Mulberrys pluckt before the Sun
Doth rise too high, and scorch with heat of Noon:
Aufidius, thus says Story, us'd to take
His Mornings draught of Hony mixt with Sack,
This was ill done, with Liquors only mild,
E're breakfast Empty Veins are safely fill'd,
What e're some fancy, I have Cause to think
Smooth Mead in Morning is the better drink:
When bound too much, sweet Mallows quickly clear
Thy Gutts from stoppage, and thy Mind from fear;
Or Cockle Fish, or Sorrel newly ripe,
With Coan white wine sawce will ease the gripe,
Better than the old Midwife Glister-pipe:
The Shell-fish with the growing Moons encrease,
Yet different sorts are found in different Seas;
All have not good: the Lucrine Shells exceed
Those various Purples that soft Baja breed,
Oysters low Crice, some Misenian Coasts
And Scollops large soft. Tarent loudly boasts:
Let none pretend to have an Art in Feasts
Till He's exact, and Critical in Tasts:
'Tis vain for him to buy the dearest Fish,
That after knows not how to cook the dish,
What must be stew'd, what boyl'd will grace a Feast,
And what the Stomach of the glutted Guest;
Make him forget his Belly's full, restore
Lost Appetite, and tempt him on to more.
Bores fed on Acorns, caught in Umbria's Wood;
Bend down his dishes with their weighty load,
That would avoid dull, mean, or tastless food:
For no wise Palates the Laurentans choose,
Vile meat and fat with plashy reeds and Ouze:
Goats bred on Vines, not always dainty fare,
Wise Palates choose the Wings of breeding Hare:
What Fish of all the sorts, what Birds are best,
And at what Age, and how they should be drest,
Before the World saw me were hardly known,
All those are pure inventions of my own.
Some spend their time, and hope to gain applause
For minding nothing but new Cates, and Sawce,
But Men of Art must still their Cares divide,
Not mind one thing, and neglect all beside,
Nor whilst they're curious in their Wine and Ale,
Ne're heed what Oyl they pour upon their Cale:
If full of Lees, if thick your Massick Wine,
Set it abroad by Night 'twill make it fine;
Take off those Smells that hurt the Nerves, and wast
The Spirits; Hemp-seed spoyls its proper tast:
Those cheating Rogues, that when the Wine decays,
With their Surrentine mix Falernian Lees,
This dasht Wine quickly cleanse with Pidgeous Eggs,
Those falling down precipitate the Dregs:
You have drunk briskly, and your friend decays;
Then give him pickled Hearings, those will raise
And whet his Stomach for another glass.
For Lettice after Wine's not half so good,
It swims on drink, and makes the Stomach crude:
When He's too full, then Gammon's only fit,
Sawsage provokes him to another bit;
If these won't do, of it He scorns them both,
He may be whetted with a dish of Broth:
To know both sorts of Broth, 'tis worth your while,
The Simple is compos'd of sweetest Oyl,
This Oyly Wine, and Caviare only asks
Such as grows mellow in Byzantian Casks:
To this shred Herbs, with Safforn mixt, and boyl,
And when 'tis cool then add Venafrian Oyl:
Some Grapes are best in Pots, all ways are try'd,
In smoak the Aban Grape is better dry'd:
This Grape with some sharp Sawce, round Plates to strew,
With Salt and Pepper, I'me the first that knew,
And told it others, as I tell it you.
'Tis a grand fault to buy the dearest fish,
And after crow'd them in too straight a dish:
The Guests won't like to see one take the Cup,
Who stole a Pidgeon, as He brought it up,
With the same hand, for that will stain the place;
Nor yet to see old dust stick round the Glass:
How little Beasoms cost? how quickly bought?
Yet if not gotten, 'tis a grievous Fault.
Dost think it decent to neglect thy House,
Or sweep the marble Floor with dirty boughs?
Dost think 'tis handsom, for the Page to spread
A dirty covering o're a Gawdy Bed,
Forgetful still that since these things are mean,
And such as All must have that would be clean,
Tis worse to want these, than such dainty meat
Which only Luxury or Wealth can get:
Learn'd Catius by the Gods I ask this boon,
Where e're you go, Sir I must have it done,
Pray bring me to this copious Spring of Truth,
That I may heare it drop from his own mouth;
For though you talk, as if you understood
His Precepts well, and knew the rules for Food,
Yet from your Lips, I'me sure they can't be known
As well, as if I heard them from his own,
Besides to see the Figure of the Man
Would please me much, pray show me if you can,
A sweet with which, blest you are almost cloy'd,
And do not value, 'cause so oft enjoy'd;
But eager I to unknown Fountains press,
To draw from thence the Rules of Happiness.