William Scrivener,
Cook to the Corporation.
Alas! alas! Will Scriviner’s dead, who by his art
Could make death’s skeleton edible in each part;
Mourn, squeamish stomachs, and ye curious palates,
You’ve lost your dainty dishes and your salades;
Mourn for yourselves, but not for him i’ th’ least,
He’s gone to taste of a more Heav’nly feast.
Northamptonshire.
BARNWELL.
An Innkeeper.
Man’s life is like a winter’s day,
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed,
The oldest man but sups and goes to bed;
Large is his debt who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay;
Death is the waiter, some few run on tick,
And some, alas! must pay the bill to Nick!
Tho’ I owe’d much, I hope long trust is given,
And truly mean to pay all debts in Heaven.
PETERBOROUGH.
Sir Richard Worme.
Does worm eat Worm? Knight Worme this truth confirms,
For here, with worms, lies Worme, a dish for worms.
Does worm eat Worme? sure Worme will this deny,
For Worme with worms, a dish for worms don’t lie.
’Tis so, and ’tis not so, for free from worms,
’Tis certain Worme is blest without his worms.
Jane Parker.