Or love, on dainty Cates and Feasts to feed,
War is the thing they most delight to breed,
You may sooner bite off their beards that are
Full hard, and stiff with bristled, rugged, hair,
Than their wide mouths leave Milk their daily fare:
We fly from dainty Kitchins, and do fill
Our Bellies with rank Meats, and Countray swill,
Of old, men fed on boyl’d Meats, ’gainst their will.
A dish of Grass, that had no smack, did hold
Hog’s and sheep’s flesh together, hot or cold,