Part 1 (2/2)

[Decoration]

_On the Unparalell'd Piece of _Mr. May_ His Cookery._

See here a work set forth of such perfection, Will praise it self, and doth not beg protection From flatter'd greatness. Industry and pains For gen'ral good, his aim, his Countrey gains; Which ought respect him. A good _English_ Cook, Excellent Modish Monsieurs, and that Book Call'd _Perfect Cook_, _Merete's_ Pastery Translated, looks like old hang'd Tapistry, The wrong side outwards: so Monsieur adieu, I'm for our Native _Mays_ Works rare and new, Who with Antique could have prepar'd and drest The Nations _quondam_ grand Imperial Feast, Which that thrice Crown'd Third _Edward_ did ordain For his high Order, and their n.o.ble Train, Whereon St. _George_ his famous Day was seen, A Court on Earth that did all Courts out-s.h.i.+ne.

And how all Rarities and Cates might be Order'd for a Renown'd Solemnity, Learn of this Cook, who with judgment, and reason, Teacheth for every Time, each thing its true Season; Making his Compounds with such harmony, Taste shall not charge with superiority Of Pepper, Salt, or Spice, by the best Pallat, Or any one Herb in his broths or Sallat.

Where Temperance and Discretion guides his deeds; _Satis_ his Motto, where nothing exceeds.

Or ought to wast, for there's good Husbandry To be observ'd, as Art in Cookery.

Which of the Mathematicks doth pertake, Geometry proportions when they bake.

Who can in paste erect (of finest flour) A compleat Fort, a Castle, or a Tower.

A City Custard doth so subtly wind, That should Truth seek, she'd scarce all corners find; Platform of Sconces, that might Souldiers teach, To fortifie by works as well as Preach.

I'le say no more; for as I am a sinner, I've wrought my self a stomach to a dinner.

Inviting Poets not to tantalize, But feast, (not surfeit) here their Fantasies.

_James Parry._

_To the Reader of (my very loving Friend) Mr. _Robert May_ his incomparable Book of Cookery._

See here's a Book set forth with such things in't, As former Ages never saw in Print; Something I'de write in praise on't, but the Pen, Of Famous _Cleaveland_, or renowned _Ben_, If unintomb'd might give this Book its due, By their high strains, and keep it always new.

But I whose ruder Stile could never clime, Or step beyond a home-bred Country Rhime, Must not attempt it: only this I'le say, _Cato_'s _Res Rustica_'s far short of _May_.

Here's taught to keep all sorts of flesh in date, All sorts of Fish, if you will marinate; To candy, to preserve, to souce, to pickle, To make rare Sauces, both to please, and tickle The pretty Ladies palats with delight; Both how to glut, and gain an Appet.i.te.

The Fritter, Pancake, Mushroom; with all these, The curious Caudle made of Ambergriese.

He is so universal, he'l not miss, The Pudding, nor Bolonian Sausages.

Italian, Spaniard, French, he all out-goes, Refines their Kickshaws, and their Olio's, The rarest use of Sweet-meats, Spicery, And all things else belong to Cookery: Not only this, but to give all content, Here's all the Forms of every Implement To work or carve with, so he makes the able To deck the Dresser, and adorn the Table.

What dish goes first of every kind of Meat, And so ye're welcom, pray fall too, and eat.

_Reader_, read on, for I have done; farewell, The Book's so good, it cannot chuse but sell.

_Thy well-wis.h.i.+ng Friend_,

John Town.

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