And cried, “O rare! how I shall fare!”
But Fortune, spiteful as Old Nick,
Resolved to play our dog a trick;
She made the cook
Just cast a look
Where Tray, beneath the dresser lying,
His promised bliss was eying.
A cook while cooking is a sort of fury,
A maxim worth remem’bring, I assure ye.
Tray found it true,