Classic Poem

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 .