One taste, BELLARIO'S soul possess'd,
The master passion of his breast;
Not one of those frail, transient joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys;
This bliss was solid, constant, true,
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too;
For tho' the business might be finish'd,
The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,
Still he liv'd o'er again in talk
This keen, this ever new delight,
His joy by day, his dream by night.
'Twas eating did his soul allure,
In short, a modish Epicure;
Tho' once this word, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine,
Yet all our modern Wits assure us,
That's all they know of EPICURUS:
They fondly fancy, that repletion
Was the  of that fam'd Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk philosophy in bowers,
Or, in the covert of a wood,
To descant on the
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder;
Their bolder standards they erect,
To form a more voluptuous sect;
Old EPICURUS wou'd not own 'em,
A dinner is their
You'll rather find such sparks as these
Like EPICURUS' deities;
Like them they laugh at human cares,
And with disdain view all affairs.
BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee,
This practical philosophy.