An Epistle from Mary the Cook, to Richard the Farmer

Richard! of all mankind the most complete, Plump as a partridge, and as sugar sweet, Thy breath is fragrant as the new-mown hay, Thy roguish eyes have stole my heart away, Thy dunghills mounts of sweet perfumes appear, Thy hogs grunt music to my love-sick ear; Where'er you tread a fragrant odour flies, Sweet as the vapour from the sweetest pies. On Sunday last it was you threw me down, My apron tore, and all bedaub'd my gown, Then would I fain have told you, you was rude, And slapt your face—ah! faith I wish I could; What could I do? your hugging stopp'd my breath, Nor could I move, tho' I'd been hugg'd to death: Since that dear time my heart has known no rest, But has been broiling in my flaming breast; Since that sweet time I neither sleep nor eat, I spoil my puddings, and I burn my meat. What mischief love creates in human hearts! My master swears he cannot touch my tarts. Whate'er I dress, since then, I'm sure to spoil, Nor can I roast or bake, or stew or boil. By day, by night, whate'er I think or do, My thoughts are always gadding after you.

Amelia and the gentlefolk above Say they are poz, that Moll is deep in love: In vain I vow, pertest, and swear in vain They see my vows are much against the grain: They see the love that I would fain conceal, They see my face as white as any veal.

Then to my arms, and to my wishes fly, I'll fill thy pockets with a Christmas pye, Of finest flour a pudding I will make, Store it with plumbs, and bake it for thy sake; For oft I've heard (oh bless that charming voice!) A bak'd plumb-pudding was my Dickey's choice.

Come then, oh come! and charm my longing eyes, Come, save my soups, my puddings, and my pyes; One smile from thee my senses will restore, And I shall cook as I have cook'd before.