You May Also Like / View all maxioms
I seem to you cruel and too much addicted to gluttony, when I
beat my cook for sending up read more
I seem to you cruel and too much addicted to gluttony, when I
beat my cook for sending up a bad dinner. If that appears to you
too trifling a cause, say for what cause you would have a cook
flogged.
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
read more
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
She is so hot because the meat is cold;
The meat is cold because you come not home;
You come not home because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! the pudding was out of the
copper. A smell like a washing-day! That read more
Hallo! A great deal of steam! the pudding was out of the
copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A
smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each
other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the
pudding.
He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the
grinding.
Have I not tarried?
read more
He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the
grinding.
Have I not tarried?
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.
Have I not tarried?
Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.
Still have I tarried.
Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word 'hereafter' the
kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and
the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance
to burn your lips.
Every investigation which is guided by principles of nature fixes
its ultimate aim entirely on gratifying the stomach.
Every investigation which is guided by principles of nature fixes
its ultimate aim entirely on gratifying the stomach.
Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs,
When season'd with love, which no rancour disturbs
read more
Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs,
When season'd with love, which no rancour disturbs
And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life
Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife!
But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone
A man should sit down to dinner, each one
Of the dishes which the cook chooses to spoil
With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil,
The chances are ten against one, I must own,
He gets up as ill-tempered as when he sat down.
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
Would the cook were o' my mind!
Would the cook were o' my mind!
