_ The Cooks are chopping herbs and mince-meat to make Pies, and
breaking Marrow-bones--
_Char._ Can they set them again?
_And._ Yes, yes, in Broths and Puddings, and they grow stronger for the
use of any man.
_Char._ What speaking's that? sure there's a Massacre.
_And._ Of Pigs and Geese, Sir, and Turkeys, for the spit. The Cooks are
angry Sirs, and that makes up the medley.
_Char._ Do they thus at every Dinner? I ne're mark'd them yet, nor know
who is a Cook.
_And._ They're sometimes sober, and then they beat as gently as a Tabor.
_Char._ What loads are these?
_And._ Meat, meat, Sir, for the Kitchen, and stinking Fowls the Tenants
have sent in; they'll ne'r be found out at a general eating; and there's
fat Venison, Sir.
_Char._ What's that?
_And._ Why Deer, those that men fatten for their private pleasures, and
let their Tenants starve upon the Commons.
_Char._ I've read of Deer, but yet I ne'er eat any.
_And._ There's a Fishmongers Boy with Caviar, Sir, Anchoves, and Potargo,
to make ye drink.
_Char._ Sure these are modern, very modern meats, for I understand 'em
not.
_And._ No more does any man from Caca merda, or a substance worse, till
they be greas'd with Oyl, and rubb'd with Onions, and then flung out of
doors, they are rare Sallads.
_Char._ And why is all this, prethee tell me, _Andrew_? are there any
Princes to dine here to day? by this abundance sure there should be
Princes; I've read of entertainment for the gods at half this charge; will
not six Dishes serve 'em? I never had but one, and that a small one.
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