To reach your heart does through your stomach lay,
Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son,
And let the fund afford a little fun,
'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din,
Turn out your purse, and be well lined within.
Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there,
Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear,"
And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks,
The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.—
But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone,