Classic Poem

Lardella was, or ought to be the Name,
Of the warm, juicy, wholesome, Kitchen-Dame,
Who burnt no Flesh, yet did my Heart inflame;
Made my Blood, like her Pot, boil o'er, till that,
She, like it, made its Froth to quench its Heat;
And like her Roast-Meat, with her Dripping so,
Made my Flesh keep itself from burning too;
Stirr'd up the Fire in her Hearth, and my Breast,
And made herself, for Love, a bounteous Feast;
So did the Hunger of Love's Famish'd lay,
Whose Stomachs for a Set-Meal cou'd not stay;
I so, who love a wholesome, ready Bit,
More than to stay for better, did think fit,
The Cook-Maid, to quell Hunger, then to spit;
Who, when i'th' Kitchen she my Hunger spy'd,
Into her Larder me she led aside;
First wound, at once, her Jack up, and my Love,
That it, and I, might in her Service move,
More briskly, and to her more useful prove;
By which, she show'd, 'twas her Care, and Concern,
No Flesh, she had the handling of, shou'd burn;
Which made me have more Stomach still to her.
Wherefore, I follow'd to the Larder, where
She bid me fall to, what best pleas'd me there;
When I, that I might my worst Hunger stop,
Fell to her Free Flesh, eating her Lips up;
And without more Entreaties (as we say)
To satisfie me, claw'd her Flesh away,
Who wish'd me, all the while, much better Cheer,
Which, tho' 'twas coarse, I thought more wholsome Fare;
And therefore did more greedily fall on,
Than I to Flesh, more dainty, shou'd have done;
For to those, who their Chaps with Dainties treat,
The most Coarse Fare, becomes most delicate;
Because it is, as 'twere, a Novelty,
And I before, no Cook-Maid's Flesh did try;
Yet, since Good Fare, by the Good Stomach's made,
But Good, or Ill, as that is Good, or Bad,
And Nothing's best, but what we ne'er yet had;
Then that Flesh, for Good Stomachs, is the best,
Which is not Rarest, but is Readiest;
So to her Best, I greedily did fall,
First thought, I cou'd have eaten her up all;
Yet I, but for my Fasting, found on Proof,
I sooner of my Cook-Maid had enough;
I did my Self, and Treater, entertain,
Who did her best, to please me; then again,
Making Excuses for her Homely Fare,
Which, I told her, (with Thanks) she might forbear;
Saying, She best wou'd satisfie me still,
When I her Belly, she, not mine, did fill;
Since, to Good Stomachs, which mind least their Fare,
The best, the cheapest, and the readiest are;
And to the Hungry, least Nice in their Taste,
The Welcome, not the Dainty, makes the Feast;
So not behind, in Love, with her to be,
Her Belly I fill'd, as she mine for me;
The Difference betwixt us, only was,
She me to Satisfie, to Treat, or Please,
(Or that, at once, both's Hunger she might Ease;)
But out of others Bellies spar'd, what she,
To satisfie my Hunger, spar'd to me;
Whilst I, to fill her Belly, ('tis well known)
Did even spare it hers, out of my own;
Yet pardon me, (Dear Cook-Maid!) that I tell,
You Treated me, since it you did so well;
Thy Kindness, 'twere ungrateful to deny,
And I cannot ev'n with a Cook-Maid Lie,
But (if I like her) Roast-meat must I cry;
Since Cupid , in Form of a Scullion-Boy,
Himself, to ease my Hunger, did employ,
My Heart but to support, not to destroy;
Not with his Common Dart, has wounded it,
But has transfix'd it, with the Cook-Maid's Spit,
Made it a Sacrifice i'th' Kitchen Fire,
To satisfie my Hunger of Desire.