The spiral grooves in smooth meanders flow,
Drags the long chain, the polish'd axles glow,
While slowly circumvolves the piece of beef below:
The conscious fire with bickering radiance burns,
Eyes the rich joint, and roasts it as it turns.
So youthful Horner rolled the roguish eye,
Cull'd the dark plum from out his Christmas pie,
And cried in self-applause—'How good a boy am I.'
So, the sad victim of domestic spite,
Fair Cinderella, pass'd the wintry night,