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(Book vii. § 36, p. 455.)

Pupil. Good master, many men have written largely On cookery; so either prove you're saying Something original, or else don't tease me.

Cook. No, Syrus; think that I'm the only person Who've found and know the gastronomic object. I did not learn it in a brace of years, Wearing the apron just by way of sport; But have investigated and examined The art by portions during my whole life— How many kinds of greens, and sorts of sprats— The manifold varieties of lentils:— To sum up all—when I've officiated During a funeral feast, as soon as ever The company return'd from the procession, All in their mourning robes, by merely lifting My saucepan's lid I've made the weepers laugh, Such titillations ran throughout their bodies, As if it was a merry marriage-banquet.

Pupil. What? just by serving them with sprats and lentils?

Cook. Pshaw! this is play-work merely! If I get All I require, and once fit up my kitchen, You'll see the very thing take place again That happen'd in the times of the old Sirens. The smell will be so sweet, that not a man Will have the power to walk right through this alley; But every passer-by will stand directly Close to my door, lock-jaw'd, and nail'd to it, And speechless, till some friend of his run up, With nose well plugg'd, and drag the wretch away.

Pupil. You're a great artist!

Cook.                        Yes, you do not know To whom you're prating. There are very many That I can spy amongst the audience there, Who through my means have eat up their estates.—