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ings? Neither can a poet put hops in an Englishman's drink before heresy came in: nor can be serve him with a dish of carp before that time: he might as well give king James the First a dish of asparagus upon his first coming to London, which were not brought into England till many years after; or make Owen Tudor present queen Catharine with a sugar-loaf, whereas he might as easily have given her a diamond as large, seeing the iceing of cakes at Wood-strect corner, and the refining of sugar, was but an invention of two hundred years standing, and before that time our ancestors sweetened and garnished all with honey, of which there are some remains in Windsor bowls, baron bracks, and large simmels, sent for presents

from Litchfield.

But now, on the contrary, it would show his reading, if the poet put a hen-turkey upon a table in a tragedy; and therefore I would advise it in Hamlet, instead of their painted trifles; and I believe it would give more satisfaction to the actors. For Diodorus Siculus reports, how the sisters of Meleager, or Diomedes, mourning for their brother, were turned into hen-turkeys; from whence proceeds their stateliness of gate, reservedness in conversation, and melancholy in the tone of their voice, and all their actions. But this would be the most improper meat in the world for a comedy; for melancholy and distress require a different sort of diet, as well as language: and I have heard of a fair lady, that was pleased to say, "that, if she were upon a strange road, and driven to great necessity, she believed she might for once be able to sup upon a sack-posset and a fat capon."

I am sure poets, as well as cooks, are for having all words nicely chosen and properly adapted; and therefore, I believe, they would show the same regret that I do, to hear persons of some rank and quality say, "Pray cut up that goose. Help me to some of that chicken, hen, or capon, or half that plover;" not considering how indiscreetly they talk, before men of art, whose proper terms are, "Break that goose; frust that chicken; spoil that hen; sauce that capon; mince that plover."-If they are so much out in common things, how much more will they be with bitterns, herons, cranes, and peacocks? But it is vain for us to complain of the faults and errours of the world, unless we lend our helping

hand to retrieve them.

To conclude, our greatest author of dramatic poetry, Mr. Dryden, has made use of the mysteries of this art in the prologues to two of his plays, one a tragedy, the other a comedy; in which he has shown his greatest art, and proved most successful. I had not seen the play for some years, before I hit upon almost the same words that he has in the following prologue to All for Love:

Fops may have leave to level all they can,
As pigmies would be glad to top a man.
Half-wits are fleas, so little and so light,
We scarce could know they five, but that they bite.
But, as the rich, when tir'd with daily feasts,
For change, become their next poor tenant's guests,
Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls,
And snatch the homely rasher from the coals 3
So you, retiring from much better cheer,
For once may venture to do penance here;
And, since that plenteous Autumn now is past,
Whose grapes and peaches have indulg'd your taste,

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Are yet the great regalia of a play;
Fools, which each man meets in his dish each
[day,
In which to poets you but just appear,
To prize that highest which cost them so dear.
Fops in the town more easily will pass,
One story makes a statutable ass :
But such in plays must be much thicker sown,
Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one,
Observing poets all their walks invade,
As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade;
And, when they have enough for comedy,
They 'stow their several bodies in a pye.
The poet's but the cook to fashion it,
To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong:
For, gallants, you yourselves bave found the wit.
None welcome those who bring their cheers along.

The image (which is the great perfection of a poet) is so extremely lively, and well painted, that methinks I see the whole audience with a dish of buttered the other. I hope I may be excused, after so great eggs in one hand, and a woodcock-pye in an example; for I declare I have no design but to encourage learning, and am very far from any designs against it. And therefore I hope the worthy gentleman, who said, that the Journey to London ought to be burnt by the common hangman, as a book, that, if received, would discourage ingenuity, would be pleased not to make his bonfire at

the upper

end of Ludgate-street, for fear of endangering the booksellers' shops and the cathedral. I have abundance more to say upon these subjects; but I am afraid my first course is so tedious,

that

the dessert, and call for pipes and a candle. But you will excuse me both the second course and consider, the papers come from an old friend; and spare them out of compassion to,

SIR,

LETTER VII. To Mr.

Sir, &c.

I AM no great lover of writing more than I am forced to, and therefore have not troubled you with my letters to congratulate your good fortune in London, or to bemoan our unhappiness in the loss of you here. The occasion of this is, to desire your assistance in a matter that I am fallen into by the advice of some friends; but, unless they help me, it will be impossible for me to get out of

5 Some critics read it chair. KING.

Bonona.

it. I have had the misfortune to--write; but, | the house-keeper, makes this complaint to lady what is worse, I have never considered whether any one would read. Nay, 1 have been so very bad as to design to print; but then a wicked thought came across me with "Who will buy?" For, if I tell you the title, you will be of my mind, that the very name will destroy it: "The Art of Cookery, in Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry; with some familiar Letters to Dr. Lister and others, occasioned principally by the Title of a Book, published by the Doctor, concerning the Soups and Sauces of the Ancients." To this a beau will cry, "Phough! what have I to do with kitchen-stuff?” To which I answer, "Buy it, and give it to your servants." For 1 hope to live to see the day when every mistress of a family, and every steward, shall call up their children and servants with, "Come, miss Betty, how much have you got of your Art of Cookery?" "Where did you leave off, miss Isabel?"-" Miss Kitty, are you no farther than King Henry and the Miller?"-"Yes, madam, I am come to

"FAV. The last mutton killed was lean, madam. Should not some fat sheep be bought in? BON. What say you, Let-acre, to it?

LET. This is the worst time of the year for sheep. The fresh grass makes them fall away, and they begin to taste of the wool; they must be spared a while, and Favourite must cast to spend some salt-meat and fish. I hope we shall have some fat calves shortly."

-His name shall be enroll'd

In Estcourt's book, whose gridiron's fram'd of gold.
"Pray, mother, is that our master Estcourt?"
"Well, child, if you mind this, you shall not be
put to your Assembly Catechism next Saturday."
What a glorious sight it will be, and how becom-
ing a great family, to see the butler out-learning
the steward, and the painful scullery-maid exert-
ing her memory far beyond the mumping house-
keeper! I am told, that, if a book is any thing
useful, the printers have a way of pirating on one
another, and printing other persons' copies; which
is very barbarous. And then shall I be forced to
come out with, "The True Art of Cookery is only
to be had at Mr. Pindar's, a patten-maker's, under
St. Dunstan's church, with the author's seal at the
title-page, being three sauce-pans, in a bend
proper, on a cook's apron, argent. Beware of
counterfeits." And be forced to put out adver-
tisements, with "Strops for razors, and the best
spectacles, are to be only had at the Archimedes,

&c."

I design proposals, which I must get delivered to the cooks' company, for the making an order that every apprentice shall have the Art of Cookery when he is bound, which he shall say by heart before he is made free; and then he shall have Dr. Lister's book of Soups and Sauces delivered to him for his future practice. But you know better what I am to do than I. For the kindness you may show me, I shall always endeaYour to make what returns lay in my power. I am yours, &c,

DEAR SIR,

LETTER VIII.
To Mr.

I CANNOT but recommend to your perusal a hte exquisite comedy, called The Lawyer's Fortune; or, Love in a Hollow Tree; which piece has its peculiar embellishments, and is a poem carefully framed according to the nicest rules of the Art of Cookery; for the play opens with a scene of good housewifery, where Favourite,

What can be more agreeable than this to the
Art of Cookery, where our author says,

But though my edge be not too nicely set,
Yet I another's appetite may whet;
May teach him when to buy, when season's past,
What's stale, what's choice, what's plentiful, what
waste,

And lead him through the various maze of taste.

In the second act, Valentine, Mrs. Bonona's' son, the consummate character of the play, having in the first act lost his hawk, and consequently his way, benighted and lost, and seeing a light in a distant house, comes to the thrifty widow Furiosa's, (which is exactly according to the rule, "A prince, who in a forest rides astray!") where he finds the old gentlewoman carding, the fair Florida her daughter working on a parchment, whilst the maid is spinning. Peg reaches a chair; sack is called for; and in the mean time the good old gentlewoman complains so of rogues, that she can scarce keep a goose or a turkey in safety, for them. Then Florida enters, with a little white bottle, about a pint, and an old-fashioned glass, fills, and gives her mother; she drinks to Valentine, he to Florida, she to him again, he to Furiosa, who sets it down on the table. After a small time, the old lady cries, "Well, it is my bed-time; but my daughter will show you the way to yours: for I know you would willingly be in it." This was extremely kind! Now, upon her retirement, (see the great judgment of the poet!) she being an old gentlewoman that went to bed, he suits the following regale according to the age of the person. Had boys been put to bed, it had been proper to have "laid the goose to the fire:" but here it is otherwise; for, after some intermediate discourse, he is invited to a repast; when he modestly excuses himself with, "Truly, madam, I have no stomach to any meat, but to comply with you. You have, madam, entertained me with all that is desirable already." The lady tells him "cold supper is better an none;" so he sits at the table, offers to eat, but cannot. I am sure, Horace could not have prepared himself more exactly; for, (according to the rule, "A widow has cold pye") though Valentine, being love-sick, could not eat, yet it was his fault, and not the poet's. But, when Valentine is to return the civility, and to invite madam Furiosa, and madam Florida, with other good company, to his mother the hospitable lady Bonona's, (who by the by, had called for two bottles of wine for Latitat her attorney) then affluence and dainties are to appear (according to this verse "Mangoes, potargo, champignons, caveare"); and Mrs. Favourite, the housekeeper, makes these most important enquiries:

"FAV. Mistress, shall I put any mushrooms, mangoes, or bamboons, into the sallad ?

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Boy. There is nothing left in the wallet but one piece of cheese. What shall we do for bread?

VAL. When we have slept we will seek out
Some roots that shall supply that doubt.
Boy. But no drink, master?

VAL. Under that rock a spring I see,
Which shall refresh my thirst and thee."

So the act closes; and it is dismal for the au

boy, who, it seems, had a coming stomach, should continue there all the time the music was playing, and longer. But, to ease them of their pain, by an invention which the poets call catastrophe, Valentine, though with a long beard, and very weak with fasting, is reconciled to Florida, who, embracing him, says, "I doubt I have offended him too much; but I will attend him home, cherish him with cordials, make him broths," (poor goodnatured creature! I wish she had Dr. Lister's book to help her!) "anoint his limbs, and be a nurse, a tender nurse, to him." Nor do blessings come alone; for the good mother, having refreshed him with warm baths, and kept him tenderly in the house, orders Favourite, with repeated injunctions, "to get the best entertainment she ever yet provided, to consider what she has and what she wants, and to get all ready in few hours." And so this most regular work is concluded with a dance and a wedding-dinner. I cannot believe there was any thing ever more of a piece than the comedy. Some persons may admire your meagre tragedies; but give me a play where there is a prospect of good meat or good wine stirring in every act of it.

But, however magnificent the dinner might be, yet Mrs. Bonona, as the manner of some persons is, makes her excuse for it, with, "Well, gentlemen, can ye spare a little time to take a short dianer? I promise you, it shall not be long." It is very probable, though the author does not make any of the guests give a relation of it, that Valen-dience to consider how Valentine and the poor tine, being a great sportsman, might furnish the table with game and wild-fowl. There was at least one pheasant in the house, which Valentine toid his mother of the morning before. "Madam, 1 had a good flight of a pheasant-cock, that, after my hawk seized, made head as if he would have fought; but my hawk plumed him presently." Now it is not reasonable to suppose, that, Vally lying abroad that night, the old gentlewoman under that concern. would have any stomach to it for her own supper. However, to see the fate of things, there is nothing permanent; for one Mrs. Candia making (though innocently) a present of an hawk to Valentine, Florida his mistress grows jealous, and resolves to leave him, and run away with an odd sort of fellow, one major Sly. Valentine, to appease her, sends a message to her by a boy, who tells her, "His master, to show the trouble he took by her misapprehension, had sent her some visible tokens, the hawk torn topieces with his own hands;" and then pulls out of the basket the wings and legs of a forel. So we see the poor bird demolished, and all hopes of wild-fowl destroyed for the future: and happy were it if misfortunes would stop here. But, the cruel beauty refusing to be appeased, Valentine takes a sudden resolution, which he communicates to Let-acre the steward, to brush-off, and quit his habitation. However it was, whether Let-acre did not think his young master real, and Valentine having threatened the housekeeper to kick her immediately before for being too fond of him, and his boy being raw and unexperienced in travelling, it seems they made but slender provision for their expedition; for there is but one scene interposed, before we find distressed Valentine in the most miserable condition that the joint arts of poetry and cookery are able to represent him. There is a scene of the greatest horrour, and most moving to compassion, of any thing that I have seen amongst the moderns; "Talks of no pyramids of fowl, or bisks of fish," is nothing to it; for here we see an innocent person, unless punished for his mother's and housekeeper's extravagance, as was said before, in their mushrooms, mangoes, bamboons, ketchup, and anchovies, reduced to the extremity of eating his cheese without bread, and having no other drink but water. For he and his boy, with two saddles on his back and wallet, came into a walk of confused trees, where an owl hollows, a bear and leopard walk across the desert at a distance, and yet they venture in; where Valentine accosts his boy with these lines, which would draw tears from any thing that is not marble:

"Hang up thy wallet on that tree

And creep thou in this hollow place with me, Let's here repose our wearied limbs till they more wearied be!

Though I am confident the author had written this play and printed it long before the Art of Cookery was thought of, and 1 had never read it till the other poem was very nearly perfected; yet it is admirable to see how a true rule will be adapted to a good work, or a good work to a true rule. I should be heartily glad, for the sake of the public, if our poets, for the future, would make use of so good an example. I doubt not but, whenever you or I write comedy, we shall observe it.

I have just now met with a surprising happiness; a friend that has seen two of Dr. Lister's works, one De Buccinis Fluviatilibus et Marinis Exercitatio, an Exercitation of Sea and River Shellfish; in which, he says, some of the chiefest rarities are the pizzle and spermatic vessels of a snail, delineated by a microscope, the omentum or caul of its throat, its Fallopian tube, and its subcrocean testicle; which are things Hippocrates, Gal n, Celsus, Farnelius, and Harvey, were never masters of. The other curiosity is the admirable piece of Cœlius Apicius, De Opsoniis & Condimentis, sive Arte Coquinaria, Libri decem, being Ten Books of Soups and Sauces, and the Art of Cookery, as it is excellently printed for the doctor, who in this so important affair is not sufficiently communicative. My friend says, he has a promise of leave to read it. What remarks he makes I shall not be envious of, but impart to him I love as well as his

Most humble servant, &c.

THE ART OF COOKERY,

IN IMITATION OF

HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.

TO DR. LISTER.

INGENIOUS Lister, were a picture drawn
With Cynthia's face, but with a neck like brawn;
With wings of Turkey, and with feet of calf;
Though drawn by Kneller, it would make you
Such is, good sir, the figure of a feast, [laugh!
By some rich farmer's wife and sister drest;
Which, were it not for plenty and for steam,
Might be resembled to a sick man's dream,
Where all ideas huddling run so fast,

That syllabubs come first, and soups the last.
Not but that cooks and poets still were free,
To use their power in nice variety;
Hence mackarel seem delightful to the eyes,
Though dress'd with incoherent gooseberries.
Crabs, salmon, lobsters, are with fennel spread,
Who never touch'd that herb till they were dead;
Yet no man lards salt pork with orange-peel,
Or garnishes his lamb with spitchcock'd eel.

A cook perhaps has mighty things profess'd,
Then sent up but two dishes nicely dress'd:
What signify scotcht-collops to a feast?
Or you can make whipp'd cream; pray what relief
Will that be to a sailor who wants beef;
Who, lately shipwreck'd, never can have case,
Till re-establish'd in his pork and pease?
When once begun, let industry ne'er cease
Till it has render'd all things of one piece :
At your dessert bright pewter comes too late,
When your first course was all serv'd up in plate.
Most knowing sir! the greatest part of cooks,
Searching for truth, are cozen'd by its looks.
One would have all things little; hence has tried
Turkey-poults, fresh from th' egg, in batter fried:
Others, to show the largeness of their soul,
Prepare you muttons swol'd, and oxen whole.
To vary the same things, some think is art:
By larding of hogs-feet and bacon-tart,
The taste is now to that perfection brought,
That care, when wanting skill, creates the fault.
In Covent-Garden did a taylor dwell,
Who might deserve a place in his own Hell:
Give him a single coat to make, he'd do 't;
A vest, or breeches, singly: but the brute
Could ne'er contrive all three to make a suit:
Rather than frame a supper like such clothes,
I'd have fine eyes and teeth, without my nose.
You, that from pliant paste would fabrics raise,
Expecting thence to gain immortal praise,
Your knuckles try, and let your sinews know
Their power to knead, and give the form to dough;
Choose your materials right, your seasoning fix,
And with your fruit resplendent sugar mix:
From thence of course the figure will arise,
And elegance adorn the surface of your pies.
Beauty from order springs; the judging eye
Will tell you if one single plate's awry.
The cook must still regard the present time:
T'omit what 's just in season is a crime.
Your infant pease t' asparagus prefer,
Which to the supper you may best defer.
Be cautious how you change old bills of fare,
Such alterations should at least be rare;

Yet credit to the artist will accrue,

Who in known things still makes th' appearance

new.

Fresh dainties are by Britain's traffick known,
And now by constant use familiar grown.
What lord of old would bid his cook prepare
Mangoes, potargo, champignons, caveare?
Or would our thrum-capp'd ancestors find fault,
For want of sugar-tongs, or spoons for salt?
New things produce new words, and thus Monteth
Has by one vessel sav'd his name from death.
The seasons change us all. By Autumn's frost,
The shady leaves of trees and fruit are lost.
But then the Spring breaks forth with fresh supplies,
And from the teeming Earth new buds arise.
So stubble-geese at Michaelmas are seen
Upon the spit; next May produces green.
The fate of things lies always in the dark:
What cavalier would know St. James's Park !?
For locket stands where gardens once did spring;
And wild-ducks quack where grasshoppers did sing;
A princely palace on that space does rise,
Where Sedley's noble muse found mulberries2.
Since places alter thus, what constant thought
Of filling various dishes can be taught?
For he pretends too much, or is a fool,
Who'd fix those things where fashion is a rule.

King Hardicnute, midst Danes and Saxons stout,
Carouz'd in nut-brown ale, and din'd on grout;
Which dish its pristine honour still retains,
And, when each prince is crown'd, in splendour
reigns.

By northern custom, duty was express'd,
To friends departed, by their funeral feast.
Though I've consulted Holinshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know
Who, to refresh th' attendants to a grave,
Burnt-claret first or Naples-biscuit gave.

A pye, which still retains his proper name:
Trotter from quince and apples first did frame
Though common grown, yet, with white sugar
strow'd,

And butter'd right, its goodness is allow'd.

peace,

As wealth flow'd in, and plenty sprang from [crease. Good-humour reign'd, and pleasures found in'Twas usual then the banquet to prolong By music's charm, and some delightful song; Where every youth in pleasing accents strove To tell the stratagems and cares of love;

In the time of king Henry VIII. the park was a wild wet field; but that prince, on building walks, and, collecting the waters together, gave St. James's palace, enclosed it, laid it out in to the new-enclosed ground and new-raised building the name of St. James. larged by Charles II.; who added to it several It was much enfields, planted it with rows of lime-trees, laid out the Mall, formed the canal, with a decoy, and other ponds, for water-fowl. The limetrees or tilia, whose blossoms are incomparably fragrant, were probably planted in consequence of a suggestion of Mr. Evelyn, in his Fumifugium, published in 1661.-The improvements lately made seem in some measure to have brought it into the state it was in before the Restoration; at least, the wild-ducks have in their turn given way to the grass-hoppers. N.

2 A comedy called, The Mulberry Garden. N.

How some successful were, how others crost;
Then to the sparkling glass would give his toast,
Whose bloom did most in his opinion shine,
To relish both the music and the wine,

Why am I styl'd a cook, if I'm so loth
To marinate my fish, or season broth,

Or send up what I roast with pleasing froth;
If I my master's gusto won't discern,
But, through my bashful folly, scorn to learn?
When among friends good-humour takes its birth,
'Tis not a tedious feast prolongs the mirth;
But 'tis not reason therefore you should spare,
When, as their future burgess, you prepare
For a fat corporation and their mayor.
All things should find their room in proper place;
And what adorns this treat, would that disgrace.
Sometimes the vulgar will of mirth partake,
And have excessive doings at their wake:
Ev'n taylors at their yearly feasts look great,
And all their cucumbers are turn'd to meat.
A prince, who in a forest rides astray,
And, weary, to some cottage finds the way,
Talks of no pyramids of fowl, or bisks of fish,
But, hungry, sups his cream serv'd up in earthen
dish;

Quenches his thirst with ale in nut-brown bowls,
And takes the hasty rasher from the coals:
Pleas'd as king Henry with the miller free,
Who thought himself as good a man as he.
Unless some sweetness at the bottom lie,
Who cares for all the crinkling of the pye?
If you would have me merry with your cheer,
Be so yourself, or so at least appear.

The things we eat by various juice control
The narrowness or largeness of our soul,
Onions will make ev'n heirs or widows weep;
The tender lettuce brings on softer sleep;
Eat beef or pye-crust if you'd serious be;
Your shell-fish raises Venús from the sea;
For Nature, that inclines to ill or good,
Still nourishes our passions by our food.

If you perhaps would try some dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you'd make your own,
Like ancient sailors still regard the coast,
By venturing out too far you may be lost.
By roasting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And boiling what they roasted, much is spoil'd.
That cook to British palates is complete,
Whose savoury hand gives turns to common meat.

Happy the man that has each fortune tried, To whom she much has given, and much denied: With abstinence all delicates he sees, And can regale himself with toast and cheese: Your betters will despise you, if they see Things that are far suppassing your degree; Therefore beyond your substance never treat; 'Tis plenty, in small fortune, to be neat. 'Tis certain that a steward can't afford An entertainmeut equal with his lord. Old age is frugal; gay youth will abound With heat, and see the flowing cup go round. A widow has cold pye; nurse gives you cake; From generous merchants ham or sturgeon take. The farmer has brown bread as fresh as day, Aud butter fragrant as the dew of May. Cornwall squab-pye, and Devon white-pot brings; And Leicester beaus and bacon, food of kings!

Though cooks are often men of pregnant wit, Through niceness of their subject, few have writ. In what an aukward sound that ballad ran, Which with this blustering paragraph began:

At Christmas-time, be careful of your fame, See the old tenants' table be the same; Then, if you would send up the brawner's head, Sweet rosemary and bays around it spread: His foaming tusks let some large pippin grace, Or midst those thundering spears an orange place; Sauce like himself, offensive to its foes, The roguish mustard, dangerous to the nose. Sack and the well-spic'd hippocras the wine, Wassail the bowl with ancient ribbands fine, Porridge with plums, and turkeys with the chine.

"There was a prince of Lubberland,

A potentate of high command,
Ten thousand bakers did attend him,
Ten thousand brewers did befriend him:
These brought him kissing-crusts, and those
Brought him small-beer before he rose."

The author raises mountains seeming full,
But all the cry produces little wool:
So, if you sue a beggar for a house,
And have a verdict, what d' ye gain? A louse!
Homer inore modest, if we search his books,
Will show us that his heroes all were cooks;
How lov'd Patroclus with Achilles joins,
To quarter out the ox, and spit the loins.
Oh could that poet live! could he rehearse
Thy journey, Lister, in immortal verse!

"Muse, sing the man that did to Paris go, That he might taste their soups, and mushrooms know!"

Oh, how would Homer praise their dancing dogs, Their stinking cheese, and fricasee of frogs! He'd raise no fables, sing no flagrant lie, Of boys with custard choak'd at Newberry; But their whole courses you'd entirely see, How all their parts from first to last agree.

If you all sorts of persons would engage, Suit well your eatables to every age.

The favourite child, that just begins to prattle, And throws away his silver bells and rattle, Is very humoursome, and makes great clutter, Till he has windows on his bread and butter: He for repeated supper-meat will cry, But won't tell mammy what he'd have, or why. The smooth-fac'd youth, that has new guardians

chose,

From play-house steps to supper at the Rose,
Where he a main or two at random throws:
Squandering of wealth, impatient of advice,
His eating must be little, costly, nice.

Maturer age, to this delight grown strange,
Each night frequents his club behind the 'Change,
Expecting there frugality and health,
And honour rising from a sheriff's wealth:
Unless he some insurance-dinner lacks,
'Tis very rarely he frequents Pontack's.
But then old age, by still intruding years,
Torments the feeble heart with anxious fears:
Morose, perverse in humour, diffident,
The more he still abounds, the less content;
His larder and his kitchen too observes,
And now, lest he should want hereafter, starves;
Thinks scorn of all the present age can give,
And none these threescore years knew how to live.
But now the cook must pass through all degrees,
And by his art discordant tempers please,
And minister to health and to disease.

Far from the parlour have your kitchen plac'd, Dainties may in their working be disgrac'd.

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