Two hundred years ago, or more, An heir possess'd a miser's store; Rejoiced to find his father dead, Till then on thrifty viands fed; Unnumber'd dishes crown'd his board, With each unwholesome trifle stored. He ate--and long'd to eat again, But sigh'd for appetite in vain: His food, though dress'd a thousand ways, Had lost its late accustom'd praise; He relish'd nothing--sickly grew-- Yet long'd to taste of something new. It chanced in this disastrous case, One morn betimes he join'd the chase: Swift o'er the plain the hunters fly, Each echoing out a joyous cry; A forest next before them lay; He, left behind, mistook his way, And long alone bewildered rode, He found a peasant's poor abode; But fasting kept, from six to four, Felt hunger, long unfelt before; The friendly swain this want supplied, And Joan some eggs and bacon fried. Not dainty now, the squire in haste Fell to, and praised their savory taste; Nay, said his meal had such a _gout_ He ne'er in tarts and olios knew. Rejoiced to think he'd found a dish, That crown'd his long unanswer'd wish, With gold his thankful host he paid, Who guides him back from whence he stray'd; But ere they part, so well he dined, His rustic host the squire enjoin'd To send him home next day a stock Of those same eggs and charming hock. He hoped this dish of savory meat Would prove that still 'twas bliss to eat; But, ah! he found, like all the rest, These eggs were tasteless things at best; The bacon not a dog would touch, So rank--he never tasted such! He sent express to fetch the clown, And thus address'd him with a frown: "These eggs, this bacon, that you sent, For Christian food were never meant; As soon I'll think the moon's a cheese, As those you dress'd the same with these. Little I thought"--"Sir," says the peasant, "I'm glad your worship is so pleasant: You joke, I'm sure: for I can swear, The same the fowls that laid them are! And know as well that all the bacon From one the self-same flitch was taken: The air, indeed, about our green Is known to make the stomach keen." "Is that the case?" the squire replied; "That air shall be directly tried." He gave command--a house he hired, And down he goes with hope inspired, And takes his cooks--a favorite train; But still they ply their art in vain. Perhaps 'twas riding did the feat: He rides,--but still he cannot eat. At last a friend, to physic bred, Perceived his case, and thus he said: "Be ruled by me, you soon shall eat, With hearty gust, the plainest meat; A pint of milk each rising morn, Procure from cow of sable horn; Shake in three drops of morning dew From twig of ever-verdant yew; It must by your own hand be done, Your face turn'd westward from the sun. With this, ere half an hour is past, Well crumb'd with biscuit, break your fast; Which done, from food (or all is vain) For twice three hours and one abstain-- Then dine on one substantial dish, If plainly dress'd, of flesh or fish." Grave look'd the doctor as he spake-- The squire concludes th' advice to take, And, cheated into temperance, found The bliss his former luxury drown'd.