So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent, What choice to choose for delicacy best, What order, so contrived as not to mix Tastes, not well joined, inelegant, but bring Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change: Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields In India East or West, or middle shore, In Pontus or the Punic coast, or where Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat Rough or smooth-rined, or bearded husk, or shell, She gathers, tribute large, and on the board Heaps with unsparing hand. For drink the grape She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed She tempers dulcet creams⁠—nor these to hold Wants her fit vessels pure; then strews the ground With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.