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 Friend. O man of science! 'tis thy babble kills!

M. C. And then no useless dish my table crowds; Harmonious ranged, and consonantly just.

Friend. Ha! what means this?

M. C.                       Divinest music all! As in a concert instruments resound, My order'd dishes in their courses chime. So Epicurus dictated the art Of sweet voluptuousness, and ate in order, Musing delighted o'er the sovereign good! Let raving Stoics in a labyrinth Run after virtue; they shall find no end. Thou, what is foreign to mankind, abjure.—

(Book iii. § 61, p. 171.)

Father. Thou hast destroy'd the morals of my son, And turn'd his mind, not so disposed, to vice, Unholy pedagogue! With morning drams, A filthy custom, which he caught from thee, Clean from his former practice, now he saps His youthful vigour. Is it thus you school him?

Sophist. And if I did, what harms him? Why complain you? He does but follow what the wise prescribe, The great voluptuous law of Epicurus, Pleasure, the best of all good things on earth; And how but thus can pleasure be obtained?

Father. Virtue will give it him.

Sophist.                        And what but virtue Is our philosophy? When have you met One of our sect flush'd and disguised with wine? Or one, but one of those you tax so roundly, On whom to fix a fault?

Father.              Not one, but all, All, who march forth with supercilious brow High arch'd with pride, beating the city-rounds, Like constables in quest of rogues and outlaws, To find that prodigy in human nature, A wise and perfect man! What is your science But kitchen-science? wisely to descant