The Rolliad. an Heroick Poem, Canto I

The Fatal Breakfast and the Cruel Fair I sing: Calliope, the verse prepare! Say, why such rage inflam'd a Lady's soul To rob the hungry stomach of it's ROLL?

Now 'gan the Sun the dappled east t'adorn, And troops of feather'd warblers hail'd the morn; Brisk Chanticleer flew crowing from his bed, And prest Dame Partlet with the morning tread: Ducks quack, hogs grunt, dogs howl, and horses neigh, With Nature's musick ush'ring in the day; Sounds lost, alas! too soon in ruder note With clamour issuing from Atossa's throat.

Now sounding thro' the house with dreadful knell The loud-tongu'd clapper strikes upon the bell. The maid in haste half huddling on her cloaths The termagant, Sir John's fair partner, rose. She comes, her clamour strikes all others dumb, My Lady frowns, and all the house looks glum.

Some furious ravings in the kitchen past The tardy Breakfast greets our eyes at last: Three scraps of bread and butter sad we see, Two lumps of sugar and six grains of tea. Hunger, they say, thro' stony walls will break, As bards write libels for a dinner's sake. Hunger all arts and sciences can teach, Makes lawyers plead, quacks kill, and parsons preach. Hence, Cousin, rose the workings in thy brain, A better meal by stratagem to gain: Butter'd by stealth, by stealth most slily got, Smok'd on the board a French Roll, piping hot.

Pale as grim Ghost whose mealy aspect shocks, And red by turns as twenty Turkey-Cocks, With eyes inflam'd, and leer malign, she view'd The dear-bought morsel of delicious food. " And have I then so oft, enrag'd she cried, My longing soul its foremost wish denied? So oft have grudg'd a farthing's small expence, And shall another squander thus my pence? This prudent proverb have I ne'er forgot, A penny sav'd is worth a penny got? Have I still held it for a maxim clear, A pin per diem makes a groat per year? And shall insatiate Cousins shock my soul, Appall'd at Ruin, and a Butter'd Roll? And thou, voracious Sir, my greatest curse, Whose monstrous lux'ry daily shrinks my purse, Say, will not then our common fare go down And must good bread be scorn'd because 'tis Brown?"

Cousin, abash'd, now raising pert his head, Look'd in My Lady's face, and thus he said.

Tell me, good Madam, where's that mod'rate man Who will not mend his lot when e'er he can? Who will not for a palace slight a cot, Or leave cold mutton for a slice of hot? Where lofty Highgate haughtily looks down On all the smoke-girt steeples of the town, By an old wizard-sage around my head The branching Antlers of a Stag were spread. There by those Horns I swore, those sacred Horns, A solemn oath no Christian trav'ler scorns, Ne'er with unhallow'd tooth Brown Bread to bite, When kinder fortune should afford me White.

He said, and feasted on the luscious diet, Eat, says Sir John, Eat, Cousin, and Be Quiet.