Is all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine;
Item, your pullets are distinguish’t there
Into foure quarters, as wee carve the yeare,
And are a weeke a wasting: Munday noone
A wing; at supper something with a spoone;
Tuesday a legg, and soe forth; Sunday more,
The liver and a gizard betweene foure:
And for your mutton, in the best houshoulder
’Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder.
Lord! how our stomackes come to us againe,