She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have
cleft his club to make the fire too.

She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have
cleft his club to make the fire too.

"Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl; I find you are
perfectly qualified for making converts, and so read more

"Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl; I find you are
perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your
mother to make the gooseberry bye."

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
read more

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
She is so hot because the meat is cold;
The meat is cold because you come not home;
You come not home because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.

Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

I never strove to rule the roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my toast.

I never strove to rule the roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my toast.

If your slave commits a fault, do not smash his teeth with your
fists; give him some of the read more

If your slave commits a fault, do not smash his teeth with your
fists; give him some of the (hard) biscuit which famous Rhodes
has sent you.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine,
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine,
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.

Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.

Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs,
When season'd with love, which no rancour disturbs
read more

Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs,
When season'd with love, which no rancour disturbs
And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life
Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife!
But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone
A man should sit down to dinner, each one
Of the dishes which the cook chooses to spoil
With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil,
The chances are ten against one, I must own,
He gets up as ill-tempered as when he sat down.