Shall dance thee an antick, so shall the Turkey:
But O! the Cold Chyne, the Cold Chyne for me:
How shall I sing, how shall I look,
In honour of the Master-Cook?
With brewis Ile noynt thee from head to th’ heel,
Shal make thee run nimbler than the new oyld wheel;
With Pye-crust wee’l make thee
The eighth wise man to be;
But O! the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne for me:
How shall I sing, how shall I look,