Sweetnesse

O thou wide and sun-scorch'd land, wherein the rivers vanish and the earth is parch'd as bone! What marvels dost thou hide beneath thy dust? Not vines, nor wheat, nor kine doth thy bosom bear; yet from thy secret places springeth a banquet wondrous and rare. Behold the Witchetty Grubbe—a creature pale, that slumb'reth in the root of the acacia. With staff of wood the matron striketh the ground, and plucketh forth this treasure of the soil. Some, in their hunger, devour it raw, and finde therein a cream more soft than almond, more delicate than egg. Others, casting it upon the coal, behold it turn to gold of savour, with a crackling skin and a taste as of the roasted fowl. Lo, a worm transform'd into meat more princely than capon. Mark next the Honie Ant, that little vessel of ambrosia. Her belly, swollen with the sun's distilled sweetnesse, is broken in the child's mouth, and yieldeth a draught more pleasant than the grape's red tear. A jewel she is, no bigger than a berry, yet brimming with delight.