Nor will it stop here: The _Opera_ Composers shall have t'other Contest, which shall best sing-forth his Praises. Sorry am I that _Nicolino_ is not here, he would have made an excellent Sir _John_. But _Senefino_, being blown up after the manner that Butchers blow Calves, may do well enough. From thence the Painters and Print-sellers shall retail his goodly Phiz; and what _Sacheverel_ was, shall Sir _John Pudding_ be; his Head shall hang Elate on every Sign, his Fame shall ring in every Street, and _Cluer_'s Press shall teem with Ballads to his Praise. This would be but Honour, this would be but Gratitude, from a Generation so much indebted to so Great a Man. But how much do we deviate from Honour and Gratitude, when we put other Names to his Inventions, and call 'em our own? What is a Tart, a Pie, or a Pasty, but Meat or Fruit enclos'd in a Wall or Covering of Pudding. What is a Cake, but a Bak'd Pudding; or a _Christmas_-Pie, but a Minc'd-Meat-Pudding. As for Cheese-cakes, Custards, Tansies, they are manifest Puddings, and all of Sir _John_'s own Contrivance; for Custard is as old if not older than _Magna Charta_. In short, Pudding is of the greatest Dignity and Antiquity. Bread it self, which is the very Staff of Life, is, properly speaking, a Bak'd Wheat-Pudding. To the Satchel, which is the Pudding-Bag of Ingenuity, we are indebted for the greatest Men in Church and State. All Arts and Sciences owe their Original to Pudding or Dumpling. What is a Bag-Pipe, the Mother of all Music, but a Pudding of Harmony. And what is Music it self, but a Palatable Cookery of Sounds. To little Puddings or Bladders of Colours we owe all the choice Originals of the Greatest Painters: And indeed, what is Painting, but a well-spread Pudding, or Cookery of Colours.