"These brought him kissing-crusts, and those
Brought him fmall beer, before he rose."
The author raifes mountains seeming full,
But all the cry produces little wool :
So if you fue a beggar for a houfe,
And have a verdict, what d' ye gain? a louse!
Homer, more modeft, if we fearch his books,
Will fhew 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, Lifter! in immortal verfe!
Mufe! fing the man that did to Paris go That he might taste their foups and mushrooms know! Oh! how would Homer praise their dancing dogs, Their ftinking cheese and fricafee of frogs! He'd raise no fables, fing no flagrant lie, Of boys with custard chok'd at Newberry; By their whole couffes you 'd entirely see How all their parts from first to last agree.
If you all forts of perfons would engage
Suit well your eatables to every age.
The fay'rite child that just begins to prattle,
And throws away his filver bells and rattle,
Is very humourfome, and makes great clutter
Till he has windows on his bread and butter;
He for repeated fupper-meat will cry,
But won't tell mammy what he 'd have or why.
The fmoothfac'd youth, that has new guardians From playhouse steps to fupper at The Rose,[chose, Where he a main or two at random throws: Squandering of wealth, impatient of advice, His eating must be little, coftly, nice.
Maturer Age, to this delight grown strange, Each night frequents his club behind the Change, Expecting there frugality and health,
And honour, rifing from a Sheriff's wealth:
Unless he fome infurance dinner lacks
'Tis very rarely he frequents Pontack's.
But then old age by ftill intruding years
Torments the feeble heart with anxious fears:
Morofe, perverfe in humour, diffident,
The more he ftill abounds the lefs content;
His larder and his kitchen too obferves,
And now left he should want hereafter starves;
Thinks fcorn of all the prefent age can give,
And none these threefcore years knew how to live.
But now the Cook must pass thro' all degrees, 241
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. 245 In private draw your poultry, clean your tripe, And from your cels their flimy substance wipe. Let cruel offices be done by night;
For they who like the thing abhor the fight.
Next let difcretion moderate your cost,
And when you treat three courses be the most.
Let never fresh machines your pastry try
Unless grandees or magiftrates are by ;
Then you may put a dwarf into a pie :
Or if you'd fright an alderman and mayor,
Within a pasty lodge a living hare;'
Then midft their gravest furs fhall mirth arise,
And all the Guild pursue with joyful cries.
Crowd not your table; let your numbers be Not more than fev'n, and never lefs than three. 260 'Tis the deffert that graces all the fcaft,
For an ill end disparages the rest:.
A thousand things well done, and one forgot,
Defaces obligation by that blot.
Make your transparent sweetmeats truly nice 265
With Indian fugar and Arabian spice;
And let your various creams encircled be
With fwelling fruit just ravish'd from the tree.
Let plates and dishes be from China brought,
With lively paint and earth transparent wrought. 270
The feat now done, difcourfes are renew'd,
And witty arguments with mirth purfu'd.
The cheerful mafter midst his jovial friends
His glafs "To their best wishes" recommends.
The grace-cup follows "To his fov'reign's health,"
And to his country "Plenty, peace, and wealth:"276
Performing then the piety of grace
Each man that pleases reaffumes his place ;
While at his gate from fuch abundant Htóre
He fhow'rs his godlike bleffings on the poor.
In days of old our fathers went to war
Expecting sturdy blows and hardy fare :
Their beef they often in their murrions stew'd,
And in their basket-hilts their bev'rage brew'd.
Some officer perhaps might give confent
To a large cover'd pipkin in his tent,
Where every thing that every foldier got,
Fowl, bacon, cabbage, mutton, and what not,
Was all thrown into bank, and went to pot.
But when our conquefts were extensive grown, 290
And thro' the world our British worth was known,
Wealth on commanders then flow'd in apace,
Their Champaigne sparkled equal with their lace;
Quails, becaficoes, ortolans, were fent
To grace the levee of a gen'ral's tent
In their gilt plate all delicates were feen,
And what was earth before became a rich terrene.
When the young players once get to Iflington
They fondly think that all the world's their own:
'Prentices, parish-clerks, and Hectors, meet ;
He that is drunk or bully'd pays the treat.
Their talk is loofe; and o'er the bouncing ale
At conftables and justices they rail;
Not thinking custard fuch a serious thing
That common councilmen 't will thither bring, 305
Where many a man at variance with his wife
With foft'ning mead and cheesecake ends the strife.
Ev'n fquires come there, and with their mean discourse
Render the kitchen which they fit in worse.
Midwives demure, and chambermaids most gay, 310
Foremen that pick the box and come to play,
Here find their entertainment at the height,
In cream and codlings rev'lling with delight:
What these approve the great men will dislike;
But here is the art, if you the palate strike
By management of common things fo well
That what was thought the meanest shall excel,
While others strive in vain all perfons own
Such dishes could be dress'd by you alone.
When straiten'd in your time, and fervants few, You'll rightly then compofe an ambigue, Where first and fecond courfe, and your deffert, All in one fingle table have their part. From fuch a vaft confufion it is delight To find the jarring elements unite And raise a structure grateful to the fight. Be not too far by old example led;
With cantion now we in their footsteps tread.
The French our relish help, and well fupply
The want of things too gross by decency.
Our fathers most admir'd their fauces sweet,
And often aik'd for fugar with their meat;
They butter'd currants on fat veal bestow'd,
And rumps of beef with virgin-honey flrow'd. 334
Volume I.
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