Yo Sherrrreeeee without an i, but with the proper phonetic ending,
I'm so sorry you had the flu. Isn't it late in the season? or maybe not up there in the frozen tundra. Anyway, are you better?
The market has driven me to wine and bad poetry.
Here is one you might appreciate, written by the charming Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle ,
Death is the cook of Nature; and we find
Meat dressèd several ways to please her mind.
Some meats she roasts with fevers, burning hot,
And some she boils with dropsies in a pot.
Some for jelly consuming by degrees,
And some with ulcers, gravy out to squeeze.
Some flesh as sage she stuffs with gouts, and pains,
Others for tender meat hangs up in chains.
Some in the sea she pickles up to keep,
Others, as brawn is soused, those in wine steep.
Some with the pox, chops flesh, and bones so small,
Of which she makes a French fricasse withal.
Some on gridirons of calentures is broiled,
And some is trodden on, and so quite spoiled.
But those are baked, when smothered they do die,
By hectic fevers some meat she doth fry.
In sweat sometimes she stews with savoury smell,
A hodge-podge of diseases tasteth well.
Well, that's quite enough, I think.
BUt what do you suppose drives a woman to write such fearful verse???? And a Duchess at that. |
