_Co._ O Heavens! why do I labour out my life in a Beef-pot? and only
search the secrets of a Sallad, and know no farther?
_And._ They are not reveal'd to all heads; these are far above your
Element of Fire, _Cook_. I could tell you of _Archimedes_ Glass, to fire
your Coals with; and of the Philosophers Turf, that ne'er goes out: and,
_Gilbert Butler_, I could ravish thee with two rare inventions.
_But._ What are they, _Andrew_.
_And._ The one to blanch your Bread from chippings base, and in a moment,
as thou wouldst an Almond; the Sect of the Epicureans invented that: The
other for thy Trenchers, that's a strong one, to cleanse you twenty dozen
in a minute, and no noise heard, which is the wonder, _Gilbert_; and this
was out of _Plato_'s new _Ideas_.
_But._ Why, what a learned Master do'st thou serve, _Andrew_?
_And._ These are but the scrapings of his understanding, _Gilbert_; with
gods and goddesses, and such strange people he deals, and treats with in
so plain a fashion, as thou do'st with thy Boy that draws thy drink, or
_Ralph_ there, with his Kitchin-Boys and Scalders.
_Co._ But why should he not be familiar, and talk sometimes, as other
Christians do, of hearty matters, and come into the Kitchin, and there cut
his Breakfast?
_But._ And then retire to the Buttery, and there eat it, and drink a lusty
Bowl to my young Master, that must be now the Heir, he'll do all these, I
and be drunk too; these are mortal things.
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