Philemon. (Book vii. § 32, p. 453.)
Cook. A longing seizes me to come and tell
To earth and heaven, how I dress'd the dinner.
By Pallas, but 'tis pleasant to succeed
In every point! How tender was my fish!
How nice I served it up, not drugg'd with cheese,
Nor brown'd above! It look'd the same exactly,
When roasted, as it did when still alive.
So delicate and mild a fire I gave it
To cook it, that you'll scarcely credit me.