To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub,
For in that kitchen range what flames may come
When we have shoveled on this mortal coal.
But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb,
The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs,
The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback,
When he might such a royal dinner make
With a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish,
And run the risk of nightmare or of gout?
And so the thought of soda-mints to come