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Fresh dainties are by Britain's traffick known,
And now by conftant use familiar grown.
What lord of old would bid his Cook prepare
Mangoes, potargo, champignons, caveare?
Or would our thrum-capp'd ancestors find fault
For want of fugartongs or fpoons for falt?
New things produce new words, and thus Monteth
Has by one veffel fav'd his name from death.
The seasons change us all. By autumn's frost
The fhady leaves of trees and fruit are loft;

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But then the fpring breaks forth with fresh supplies, And from the teeming earth new buds arife.

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So ftubble geefe at Michaelmas are feen
Upon the fpit; next May produces green.
The fate of things lies always in the dark;
What Cavalier would know St. James's Park *? 80
For Locket's ftands where gardens once did fpring,
And wild ducks quack where grasshoppers did fing:

In the time of King Henry VIII. the Park was a wild wet field; but that prince, on building St. James's palace, enclofed it, laid it out in walks, and collecting the waters together gave to the new-enclofed ground and new-raifed building the name of St. James's. It was much enlarged by Charles I. who added to it several fields, planted it with rows of limetrees, laid out the Mall, formed the canal with a decoy and other ponds for waterfowl. The limetrees or tilia, whofe bloffoms are incomparably fragrant, were probably planted in confequence of a fuggestion of Mr. Evelyn in his Fumifugium, publithed in 1661.-The improvements lately made seem in fome measure to have brought it into the state it was in before the Reftoration; at least the wild ducks have in their turn given way to the grafshoppers.

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A princely palace on that space does rife
Where Sedley's noble Mufe found mulberries *.
Since places alter thus, what constant thought
Of filling various dishes can be taught?
For he pretends too much, or is a fool,
Who'd fix those things where fashion is a rule.
King Hardicnute midft Danes and Saxons stout
Carous'd on nutbrown ale and dir'd on grout,
Which difh its pristine honour still retains,
And when each prince is crown'd in fplendour reigns.
By Northern custom duty was exprest

To friends departed by their fun'ral feaft.

Tho' I've confulted Holinfhed and Stow

I find it very difficult to know

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Who, to refresh th' attendants to a grave
Burnt claret firft or Naples-bifcuit gave.
Trotter from quince and apples first did frame
A pie which ftill retains his proper name:
Tho' common grown, yet with white fugar ftrow'd,
And butter'd right, its goodness is allow’d.

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As wealth flow'd in, and plenty sprang from peace,. Good humour reign'd, and pleasures found increase. 'Twas ufual then the banquet to prolong

By mufick's charm and fome delightful song,
Where ev'ry youth in pleafing accents firove
To tell the ftratagems and cares of love;

A comedy called The Mulberry Garden.

How fome fuccefsful were, how others croft;

Then to the sparkling glass would give his toast, 110
Whose bloons did most in his opinion shine,

To relish both the mufick and the wine.
Why am I ftyl'd a Cook if I'm so loth
To marinate my fifh or feafon broth,

Or fend up what I roaft with pleafing froth, 115.
If I my mafer's gusto won't discern,

But thro' my bashful folly scorn to learn?

When among friends good humour takes its birth 'Tis not a tedious feast prolongs the mirth; But it's not reason therefore you should spare 12c When as their future Burgess you prepare For a fat corporation and their mayor. All things fhould find their room in proper place, And what adorns this treat would that disgrace. Sometimes the vulgar will of mirth partake, And have exceffive doings at their wake: Ev'n tailors at their yearly feafts look great, And all their cucumbers are turn'd to meat. A prince who in a forest rides astray,

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And weary to fome cottage finds the way,
Talks of no pyramids of fowl or bisks of fish,
But hungry fups his cream ferv'd up in earthen dish;
Quenches his thirst with ale in nutbrown bowls,
And takes the hafty rasher from the coals,
Pleas'd as King Henry with the Miller free,
Who thought himfelf as good a man as he.

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Unless fome fweetness at the bottom lie Who cares for all the crinkling of the pie ?

If you would have me merry with your cheer
Be fo yourself, or so at least appear.

The things we eat by various juice control
The narrowness or largeness of our foul.
Onions will make ev'n heirs or widows weep;
The tender lettuce brings on fofter fleep;
Eat beef or piecrust if you 'd serious be;

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Your fhellfish raifes Venus from the sea :

For Nature that inclines to ill or good

Still nourishes our passions by our food.

Happy the man that has each fortune try'd, To whom the much has given and much deny'd; With abstinence all delicates he fees,

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And can regale himself with toaft and cheese.
Your betters will defpife you if they fee
Things that are far furpalling your degree;
Therefore beyond your substance never treat:
'Tis plenty in small fortune to be neat.
'Tis certain that a steward cann't afford
An entertainment equal with his lord.
Old age is frugal, gay youth will abound
With heat, and fee the flowing cup go round.
A widow has cold pie; nurfe gives you cake;
From gen'rous merchants ham or flurgeon take :
The farmer has brown bread as fresh as day,
And butter fragrant as the dew of May

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Cornwall fquabpie, and Devon whitepot brings,
And Lei'fter beans and bacon, food of kings!

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At Christmas time be careful of your fame; See the old tenants' table be the fame ; Then if you would send up the brawner's head, Sweet rosemary and bays around it spread ; His foaming tusks let fome large pippin grace, Or midst those thund'ring spears an orange place; Sauce like himself, offenfive to its foes,

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The roguish muftard, dang'rous to the nose!
Sack and the well-fpic'd Hippocras the wine, 175
Waiffail the bowl with ancient ribands fine,
Porridge with plumbs, and turkeys with the chine.
If you perhaps would try fome dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you 'd make your own,
Like ancient failors flill regard the coast;
By vent'ring out too far you may be lost...
By roafting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And boiling what they roafted, much is spoil'd.
That Cook to British palates is complete
Whose fav'ry hand gives turns to common meat.

Tho' Cooks are often men of pregnant wit,
Thro' niceness of their fubject few have writ.
In what an awkward found that ballad ran
Which with this bluft'ring paragraph began!
"There was a prince of Lubberland,

"A potentate of high command,

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"Ten thoufand bakers did attend him,'

"Ten thousand brewers did befriend him;