Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune,--on the jack--thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, As though it were the same to sing or fry-- Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton’s throat Makes “fritters” of a note! And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that Pan of music--Bishop! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit Receptacles for wit? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minced brains into a Tart? Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her-- Receipts to be devour’d, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbread-- The Kitchen’s _Eaten_ Grammar! Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page-- Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein-- So--in a kitchen--would have talk’d Montaigne. That merry Gascon--humourist, and sage! Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,-- Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or Hume on--“Twice three make four.” Or Lovelass upon Wills,--Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuff’d with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans--old Songs--Pills--Spectacles--and Spits! Thy range is wider than a Rumford range! Thy grasp a miracle!--till I recall Th’ indubitable cause of thy variety-- Thou art, of course, th’ Epitome of all That spying--frying--singing--mix’d Society Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welsh Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!