For nature that inclines to ill or good,

Still nourishes our paffions by our food.

Happy the man that has each fortune try'd,

To whom she much has giv'n, and much deny'd :
With abstinence all delicates he fees,

And can regale himself with toast and cheese.
Your betters will defpife you if they fee,

Things that are far furpaffing your degree;
Therefore beyond your fubftance never treat,
'Tis plenty in fmall fortune to be neat.
'Tis certain that a steward can't afford
An entertainment equal with his Lord.
Old age is frugal, gay youth will abound
With heat, and fee the flowing cup go round.
A widow has cold pye, nurse gives you cake,
From gen'rous merchants ham or fturgeon take
The farmer has brown bread as fresh as day,
And butter fragrant as the dew of May.
Cornwal fquab-pye, and Devan white-pot brings,
And Leifter beans and bacon, food of Kings!

At Christmas time be careful of your fame,
See the old tenant's table be the fame ;
Then if you would fend up the brawner's head,
Sweet rosemary and bays around it spread:

;

His foaming tulks let some large pippin grace,
Or 'midst those thund'ring spears an orange place;
Sauce like himself, offenfive to its foes,
The roguish mustard, dang'rous to the nose,
Sack and the well-fpic'd Hippocras the wine,
Waffail the bowl with ancient ribbands fine,
Porridge with plumbs, and turkeys with the chine.
If you perhaps would try some dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you'd make your own,
Like ancient failors ftill regard the coaft,
By vent'ring out too far you may be loft.
By roafting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And boiling what they roasted, much is spoil'd.
That cook to British palates is compleat,
Whose fav'ry hand gives turns to common meat.
Tho' cooks are often men of pregnant wit,
Through niceness of their fubject, few have writ.
In what an aukward found that ancient ballad ran,

Which with this bluft'ring paragraph began?

There was a Prince of Labberland,

A potentate of high command,

Ten thousand bakers did attend him,
Ten thousand brewers did befriend him;

These brought him kiffing crufts, and thofe
Brought him (mall beer before he rofe.

The Author raises mountains seeming full;
But all the cry produces little wool:
So if you fue a beggar for a house,

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! cou'd he rehearse
Thy journey L in immortal verfe!
Mufe, fing the man that did to Paris go,

That he might tafte their foups and mushrooms know.

Oh how would Homer praife their dancing dogs, Their ftinking cheese, and fricafleé of frogs! He'd raise no fables, fing no flagrant lye, Of boys with cuflard choak'd at Newbury; But their whole courfes you'd entirely see, How all their parts from first to laft agree.

If you all forts of perfons wou'd engage, Suit well your eatables to ev'ry age.

The fav'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 smooth-fac'd youth that has new guardians
chofe,

From play-house fteps to fupper at the Rofe,
Where he a main or two at random throws:
Squand'ring of wealth, impatient of advice,
His eating must be little, coftly, nice.
Maturer age to this delight grown ftrange,
Each night frequents his club behind the Change,
Expecting there frugality and health,
And honour rifing from a sheriff's wealth
Unless he fome insurance dinner lacks,
'Tis very rarely he frequents Pontack's.

But then old age, by ftill intruding years,

Torments the feeble heart with anxious fears:
Morose, perverse in humour, diffident,
The more he ftill abounds, the less content;
His larder and his kitchen too observes,

And now, left he should want hereafter, ftarves
Thinks fcorn of all the prefent age can give,
And none these threefcore years knew how to live.

But

M

But now the cook must pass through all degrees,
And by his art difcordant 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.
In private draw your poultry, clean your tripe,
And from your eels their flimy substance wipe.
Let cruel offices be done by night,

For they who like the thing, abhor the fight.
Next let discretion moderate your coft,
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 pye.
Or if you'd fright an Alderman or Mayor,
Within a pasty lodge a living hare;

Then midft their graveft furs fhall mirth arise,
And all the Guild pursue with joyful cries.

Croud not your table, let your number be

Not more than fev'n, and never lefs than three.
'Tis the desert that graces all the feast,
For an ill end difparages the rest:

A thousand things well done, and one forgot,
Defaces obligation by that blot.

Make