A chicken takes a month to fatten,
Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hour
Will more than half-a-score devour.
So after toiling twenty days
To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,
Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before.
How shall a new attempter learn