And now we have had enough of cooks, my feasters; lest perhaps some one of them, pluming himself and quoting the Morose Man of Menander, may spout such lines as these—
No one who does a cook an injuryBut I say to you, in the words of the tuneful Diphilus—
Ever escapes unpunish'd; for our art
Is a divine and noble one.
I place before you now a lamb entire,
Well skewer'd, and well cook'd and season'd;
Some porkers in their skins, and roasted whole;
And a fine goose stuff'd full, like Dureus.