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 A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites Skin-deep into the pork, or lights Upon some part of kid, as if mistook, When checked by the butler's look. No, no; thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer Is not reserved for Trebius here, But all who at thy table seated are Find equal freedom, equal fare; And thou, like to that hospitable god, Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode To eat thy bullock's thighs, thy veals, thy fat Wethers, and never grudged at. The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail, The cock, the curlew and the quail, These and thy choicest viands do extend Their taste unto the lower end Of thy glad table: not a dish more known To thee than unto anyone. But as thy meat so thy immortal wine Makes the smirk face of each to shine And spring fresh rosebuds, while the salt, the wit, Flows from the wine and graces it; While reverence, waiting at the bashful board, Honours my lady and my lord. No scurril jest; no open scene is laid Here for to make the face afraid; But temperate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet- ly that it makes the meat more sweet; And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou Dost rather pour forth than allow