The Goddesses once, as the old Poets tell us,

Were pleas'd in intriguing with us pretty fellows;

And, to make matters easy, Jove always conferr'd

On each, as her courier, her favourite bird.

If the peacock was seen with plumage erected,

A message from Juno was surely expected:

When Venus would write to her lover Anchises,

The dove she dispatch'd with celestial advices:

And Pallas, though reckon'd too sober for flirting,

Was sure of a nodding grave owl at her curtain;—

It was hinted, however, that she had her spark;

Or else why should her messengers fly in the dark?

Be it known that of late an intrigue is begun

Between me and dear Nysa, the goddess of fun;

And kind Nysa, lest mortals should think her absurd,

Has follow'd the fashion, and sent me her bird.

It is true, she hath sent nor owl, peacock, nor dove;

But her turkey has brought me her language of love.

The messenger came and, faith, my fancy did hit—

Not sparkling with plumage—ready truss'd for the spit:

On each side did the liver and gizzard appear,

And a link of good sausages came in the rear.

Oh, then follow this maxim; I learnt it at school;

That love, without eating and drinking, grows cool:

So, whene'er at a schoolboy you level your dart,

The way through the stomach's the way to the heart.