That dead men might have swallow'd; floating tripes,
And fleets of sausages, in luscious morsels,
Stuck to the banks like oysters: here and there,
For relishers, a salt-fish season'd high
Swam down the savoury tide: when soon behold!
The portly gammon, sailing in full state
Upon his smoking platter, heaves in sight,
Encompass'd with his bandoliers like guards,
And convoy'd by huge bowls of frumenty,
That with their generous odours scent the air.