The beards of barbels serv’d instead of salads;
Oil’d mushrooms; and the swelling unctuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce;
For which I’ll say unto my cook, There’s gold,
Go forth, and be a knight.
Face. Sir, I’ll go look
A little, how it heightens.
Mam. Do. My shirts
I’ll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light,