The doating father thought 'twas strange,
But fancied men like times might change;
Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue,
It was not so when he was young.
That was the reign of Love he swore,
Whose halcyon days are now no more.

In that blest age, for honour fam'd,
Love paid the homage Virtue claitn'd;
Not that insipid, daudling Cupid,
With heart so hard, and air so stupid,
Who coldly courts the charms which lie
In Affectation's half-clos'd eye.
Love then was honest, genuine passion,
And manly gallantry the fashion;
Yet pure as ardent was the flame
Excited by the beauteous dame;
Hope could subsist on slender bounties,
And Suitors gallop'd o'er two counties,
The Ball's fair partner to behold,

Or humbly hope she caught no cold.

But mark how much Love's annals mend! Should Beauty's Goddess now descend; On some adventure should she come, To grace a modish drawing-room; Spite of her form and heavenly air, What Beau would hand her to her chair? Vain were that grace, which, to her son, Disclos'd what Beauty had not done : Vain were that motion which betray'd, The goddess was no earth-born maid: If noxious FARO's baleful spright, With rites infernal rul'd, the night,

The group absorb'd in play and pelf,
VENUS might call her doves herself.

AS FLORIO pass'd the Castle-gate,
His spirits seem to lose their weight;
He feasts his lately vacant mind
With all the joys he hopes to find ;
Yet on whate'er his fancy broods,
The form of CELIA still intrudes;
Whatever other sounds he hears,
The voice of CELIA fills his ears;
Howe'er his random thoughts might fly,
Her graces dance before his eye;
Nor was th' obtrusive vision o'er,
E'en when he reach'd BELLARIO's door;
The friends embrac'd with warm delight,
And FLAVIA's praises crown'd the night.
Soon dawn'd the day which was to show
Glad FLORIO what was heaven below.
FLAVIA, admired wherever known,
Th' acknowledg'd Empress of bon-ton ;
O'er FASHION's wayward kingdom reigns,
And holds BELLARIO in her chains;
Various her powers; a wit by day,
By night unmatch'd for lucky play.
The flattering, fashionable tribe,
Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;
And all her "little senate" own
She made the best Charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;

For Slander's Priestess still supplies
The SPOTLESS for the sacrifice.
None at her polish'd table sit,
But who aspire to modish wit;
The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;

The laugh, which, more than censure, wounds,
Which, more than argument, confounds.
There the fair deed, which would engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or still to selfish ends referr'd;
If in the deed no flaw they find,
To some base motive 'tis assign'd;
When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,

Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration ;
Sly RIDICULE, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of — absurd;
Nor care, nor skill, extracts the dart,
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,

And scars indelible remain.

Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic FLAVIA all obey;

Small were her natural charms of face,
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace;
But what subdu'd BELLARIO'S Soul
Beyond Philosophy's control,

Her constant table was as fine
As if ten Rajahs were to dine;
She every day produc'd such fish as
Would gratify the nice APICIUS,
Or realize what we think fabulous
I' th' bill of fare of ELAGAbulus.
Yet still the natural taste was cheated,
'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated.
'Twas spice, 'twas sweetmeat, 'twas confection,
All poignancy, and all perfection.

Rich Entremets, whose name none knows,
Ragoûts, Tourtes, Tendrons, Fricandeaux,
Might picque the sensuality

O' th' hogs of EPICURUS' Sty;
Yet all so foreign, and so fine,
'Twas easier to admire, than dine.
O! if the Muse had power to tell

Each dish, no Muse has power to spell!

Great Goddess of the French Cuisine!
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean,
To violate thy secret shade,

Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,

I, with "mysterious reverence," deem!
Or, should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand ;
None but th' initiated know

The raptures keen thy rites bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem ;
Thy will this general law has past,

That nothing of itself shall taste.

Thy word this high decree enacted,
“ In all be NATURE counteracted!”

Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not givʼn to all to guess,
The rapturous joy BELLARIO found,
When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd.
TO FLORIO, as the best of friends,
One dish he secretly commends;
Then hinted, as a special favour,
What gave it that delicious flavour,
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallow'd ears

Would trust it, but to him would show
How far true Frienship's power could go.
FLORIO, though dazzled by the fête,
With far inferior transport ate;
A little warp his taste had gain'd,
Which, unperceiv'd, till now, remain’d;
For, from himself he would conceal
The change he did not choose to feel;
He almost wish'd he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;
And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
O give me, was his secret wish,
My charming CELIA's plainest dish!
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights,
Lets in some little casual lights,

And Love combines to war with Fashion,
Though yet 'twas but an infant passion.

The practis'd FLAVIA tried each art Of sly attack to steal his heart;