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My rustic Phidyle, if you raise your suppliant hands to heaven at the new moon, and appease the household gods with frankincense, and this year's fruits, and a ravening swine; the fertile vine shall neither feel the pestilential south-west, nor the corn the barren blight, or your dear brood the sickly season in the fruit-bearing autumn.
But the story begins to be stale, although I believe a doggerel ballad upon it would be popular, how brutal soever the wit. This is the progress of human passions. We ejaculate, exclaim, hold up to Heaven our hand, like the rustic Phidyle next morning the mood changes, and we dance a jig to the tune which moved us to tears. Mr.
Thou, Phidyle, hast no need to besiege the gods with slaughter so great of sheep, thou who crownest thy tiny deities with myrtle rare and rosemary. If but the hand be clean that touches the altar, then richest sacrifice will not more appease the angered Penates than the duteous cake and salt that crackles in the blaze.
See letter in Life, vol. ix. pp. 281-287. Originally published in London in 8vo, 1764. This contemplated edition does not appear to have been printed. Ante, p. 118 n. As You Like It, Act II. Sc. 3. See Beaumont and Fletcher, Knight of the Burning Pestle, Act I. Sc. 3. Coelo supinas si tuleris manus Nascente luna, rustica Phidyle, etc. Hor. Lib. iii Od. 23.
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