Who bolt their food so speedily.

Time’s up; but scarce each sated one

Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun,

Where curious tart and heavy bun

Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.

The combat thickens. On, ye brave!

Who scald your throats, in hope to save

Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave

Will charge for all he ladles ye!

Few, few, digest where many eat,