The Cookes
Are chopping hearbs and mince meat to make pies,
And breaking Marrow-bones-- _Char_. Can they set them againe?
_And_. Yes, yes, in brothes and puddings, and they grow stronger
For the' use of any man. _Cha_. What speaking's that?
Sure there is a massacre. _And_. Of Pigs and Geese Sir,
And Turkeys for the spit. The Cookes are angry Sirs,
And that makes up the medly. _Cha_. Do they thus
At every dinner? I nere mark'd them yet,
Nor know who is a Cook. _And_. Th'are sometimes sober,
And then they beat as gently as a Tabor.
_Char_. What loads are these? _Andr_. Meat, meat, Sir, for the Kitchin,
And stinking Fowles the Tenants have sent in;
They'l nere be found out at a general eating;
And there's fat Venison, Sir. _Cha_. 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 red of Deer, but yet I nere eat any.
_And_. There's a Fishmongers boy with Caviar Sir,
Anchoves and Potargo, to make ye drink.
_Cha_. Sure these are modern, very modern meats,
For I understand 'm not. _And_. No more do's any man
From Caca merda or a substance worse,
Till they be greas'd with oyle, and rub'd with onions,
And then flung out of doors, they are rare Sallads.
_Cha_. And why is all this, prithee 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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