On Tuscan acorns fed, in monster size
He yields to Meleager's boar alone,
Now pierced by Dexter's glittering spear he lies
In bulk that makes my humble kitchen groan;
Hearth gods, grow fat, in unctuous vapour bask,
Strip a whole hill for festal logs — but hold!
How vast a mound of spice the cook will ask
And for a crafty sauce good wine and old;
Return, thou costly brute; my fire aghast
Shrinks from thy bulk: 'Tis cheaper far to fast .