or a haughty mother;
Would mollify a judge, would cram a squire,
Or else some smiles from court you would desire;
Or would, perhaps, some hasty supper give,
To show the splendid state in which you live.
Pursuant to that interest you propose,
Must all your wines and all your meat be chose.
Tables should be like pictures to the sight,
Some dishes cast in shade, some spread in light;
Some at a distance brighten, some near hand,
Where ease may all their delicace command;
Some should be moved when broken, others last
Through the whole treat, incentive to the taste.
Locket, by many labors feeble grown,
Up from the kitchen call'd his eldest son;
Though wise thyself (says he), though taught by me,
Yet fix this sentence in thy memory:
There are some certain things that don't excel,
And yet we say are tolerably well.
There's many worthy men a lawyer prize,
Whom they distinguish as of middle size,
For pleading well at bar or turning books;
But this is not, my son, the fate of cooks,
From whose mysterious art true pleasure springs,
To stall of garters, and to throne of kings.
A simple scene, a disobliging song,
Which no way to the main design belong,
Or were they absent never would be miss'd,
Have made a well-wrought comedy be hiss'd;
So in a feast, no intermediate fault
Will be allow'd; but if not best, 'tis nought.
If you, perhaps, would try some dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you'd make your own,
Like ancient sailors, still regard the coast,--
By venturing out too far you may be lost.
By roasting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And broiling what they roasted, much is spoil'd.
That cook to American palates is complete,
Whose savory hand gives turn to common meat.
Far from your parlor have your kitchen placed,
Dainties may in their working be disgraced.
In private draw your poultry, clean your tripe,
And from your eels their slimy substance wipe.
Let cruel offices be done by night,
For they who like the thing abhor the sight.
'Tis by his cleanliness a cook must please;
A kitchen will admit of no disease.
Were Horace, that great master, now alive,
A feast with wit and judgment he'd contrive,
As thus: Supposing that you would rehearse
A labor'd work, and every dish a verse,
He'd say, "Mend this and t'other li