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And the fame law ordains a pudding then, "To children grateful, nor unfit for men. "Take hens, geese, turkeys, then, or something light, "Because their legs if broil'd will serve at night; "And fince I find that roast beef makes you fleep, 30 "Corn it a little more and so it will keep. "Roast it on Monday; pity it should be fpoil'd: "On Tuesday mutton either roaft or boil'd: ""On Wednesday should be some variety,

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"A loin or breast of veal and pigeon pie : "On Thursday each man of his dish make choice; "'Tis fit on market-days we all rejoice: " And then on Friday, as I faid before, "We'll have a dish of fish and one dish more: "On Saturday stew'd beef with something nice, 40 "Provided quick and toss'd up in a trice, " Because that in the afternoon you know " By custom we must to the alehouse go; "For elfe how should our houses ere be clean

"Except we gave some time to do it then?
"From whence, unless we value not our lives,
"None part without rememb'ring first our wives
"But these are standing råles for ev'ry day,

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" And very good ones, as I fo may fay.

"After each meal let us take a hearty cup;
"And where we dine it is fitting that we fup.

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"Now for the application and the ufe. " I found your care for Sunday an abuse:

" All would be asking, Pray, Sir, where d' you dine? "I have roast beef, choice ven'son, turkey, chine."55 "Ev'ry one is hawling me. Then say poor I

"It is a bitter bus'ness to deny.

"But who is it cares for fourteen meals a-day? "As for my own part I had rather slay

and here and there,

"And take them now and then
"According to my present bill of fare.
"You know I'm fingle: if you all agree
"To treat by turns each will be sure of me."
The Vestry all applauded with a hum,
And the sev'n wifest of them bad him come.

THE MONARCH.

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WHEN the young people ride the skimmington
There is a gen'ral trembling in a town:
Not only he for whom the perfon rides
Suffers, but they sweep other doors befides;
And by that hieroglyphick does appear
That the good woman is the mafter there.
At Jenny's door the barb'rous Heathens swept,
And his poor wife scolded until she wept;
The mob swept on, whilst she sent forth in vain

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Her vocal thunder and her briny rain.
Some few days after two young sparks came there,

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And whilst she does her coffee fresh prepare
One for discourse of news the master calls,
Th' other on this ungrateful subject falls.

"Pray, Mrs. Jenny *, whence came this report, 15 "For I believe there is no great reafon for 't,

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"As if the folks th' other day swept your door, " And half a dozen of your neighbours more?" "There isnothing in it," says Jenny*; "that is done "Where the wife rules, but here I rule alone; " And Gentlemen, you'd much mistaken be "If any one should not think that of the. "Within these walls my fuppliant vassals know "What due obedience to their prince they owe, "And kiss the shadow of my papal toe. "My word is a law: when I my pow'r advance "There is not a greater Monarch ev'n in France. "Not the Mogul or Czar of Muscovy,

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Not Prester John or Cham of Tartary, "Are in their houses Monarch more than I. 30 "My house my castle is, and here I'm king; "I'm pope, I'm emp'ror, Monarch, ev'ry thing. "What tho' my wife be partner of my bed? "The Monarch's crown fits only on this head."

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His wife had plaguy ears as well as tongue, And hearing all thought his difcourse too long: Her confcience faid he should not tell fuch lies, And to her knowledge fuch; she therefore cries, "D'ye hear-you-Sirrah- Monarch-there?-

"Come down

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"And grind the coffee or I'll crack your crown." * So in the copy from which we print, though it is evidently the Monarch himself who fpeaks,

Volume II,

M

THE GARDEN PLOT, 1709.

WHEN Naboth's Vineyard look'd so fine
The king cry'd out "Would this were mine!"
And yet no reason could prevail
To bring the owners to a fale.
Jezebel saw with haughty pride
How Ahab griev'd to be deny'd,
And thus accosted him with scorn;

S

"Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn?

"A king and weep! The ground is your own;

"I'll vest the Garden in the crown."

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With that she hatch'd a Plot, and made

Poor Naboth answer with his head;

And when his harmless blood was spilt

The ground became the forfeit of his guilt.

Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair,
Whose hands perhaps were not fo fair,
Yet had a Jezebel as near.
Hall, of small Scripture conversation,
Yet howe'er Hungerford's quotation,
By fome strange accident had got
The story of this Garden Plot,

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Wisely foresaw he might have reason
To dread a modern bill of treason,
If Jezebel should please to want
His small addition to her grant,

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Therefore refolv'd in humble fort
To begin first and make his court;
And feeing nothing else would do
Gave a third part to save th' other two.

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THE ART OF MAKING PUDDINGS.

I. HASTYPUDDING.

I SING of food by British nurse design'd

To make the stripling brave and maiden kind;
Delay not, Muse! in numbers to rehearse
The pleasures of our life and finews of our verse;
Let Pudding's dish most wholesome be thy theme, 5
And dip thy fwelling plumes in fragrant cream.
Sing then that Dish so fitting to improve
A tender modesty and trembling love,
Swimming in butter of a golden hue,
Garnish'd with drops of rose's spicy dew.

Sometimes the frugal matron feems in haste,
Nor cares to beat her Pudding into paste;
Yet milk in proper skillet she will place,
And gently spice it with a blade of mace,
Then set some careful damsel to look to 't,
And still to stir away the bishop's foot;
For if burnt milk should to the bottom stick,
Like over-heated zeal it would make folks fick.
Into the milk her flour she gently throws,
As valets now would powder tender beaux;

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