Book 6
97
And in his Persians he says— But what need, I pray you now, Have we of all you ploughmen, Or carters, mowers, reapers too, Or coopers, or brass-founders? What need we seed, or furrow's line? For of their own accord Rivers do flow down every road (Though half choked up with comfits) Of rich black soup, which rolls along Within its greasy flood Achilles's fat barley-cake, And streams of sauce which flow Straight down from Plutus's own springs, For all the guests to relish. Meantime Jove rains down fragrant wine, As if it were a bath, And from the roof red strings of grapes Hang down, with well made cakes, Water'd the while with smoking soup, And mix'd with savoury omelets. E'en all the trees upon the hills Will put forth leaves of paunches, Kids' paunches, and young cuttle-fish, And smoking roasted thrushes.
