And see, howe'er it blows without,
His fire, like Vesta's, ne'er goes out;
Nor soot unsightly smudge the dish,
And spoil the vol au vent, or fish. Nor only to the chimney looks Our true Mageiros, king of cooks; Beside the chimney, that his eye May clearly view the day's supply, He opes his window, in that spot Where Sol peeps in, to show what's what: The range, the dresser, ceiling, floor, What cupboard, shelves, and where the door Are his to plan; and if he be The man I mean, to each he'll see. Lastly, to marshal in array The long-drawn line of man and tray: The light-arm'd first, who nimbly bear Their glittering lances through the air; And then the hoplitic troop to goad, Who bend beneath their chargers' load, And, empty dishes ta'en away, Place solid flank for new assay; While heavy tables creak and groan Under the [Greek: chôros lopadôn]. All this demands such skill, as wields The veteran chief of hard-won fields! Who rules the roast might rule the seas, Or baste his foes with equal ease; And cooks who're equal to a rout, Might take a town, or storm redout.—W. J. B.
The same.
Cook. Our art is not entirely despicable,
If you examine it, good Demylus;
But the pursuit has been run down, and all
Almost, however stupid, say they're cooks;
And by such cheats as these the art is ruin'd.
For, if you take a veritable cook,
Well brought up to his business from a boy,
And skilful in the properties of things,
