It is the market of young lecturers, whom
you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes. It is the general mint of
all famous lies, which are here like the legends of popery, first coined
and stamped in the church. All inventions are emptied here, and not few
pockets. The best sign of a temple in it is, that it is the thieves'
sanctuary, which rob more safely in the crowd than a wilderness, whilst
every searcher is a bush to hide them. It is the other expence of the
day, after plays and tavern; and men have still some oaths left to swear
here. The visitants are all men without exceptions, but the principal
inhabitants and possessors are stale knights and captains[65] out of
service; men of long rapiers and breeches, which after all turn
merchants here and traffic for news. Some make it a preface to their
dinner, and travel for a stomach: but thriftier men make it their
ordinary, and board here very cheap[66]. Of all such places it is least
haunted with hobgoblins, for if a ghost would walk more, he could not.
A COOK.
The kitchen is his hell, and he the devil in it, where his meat and he
fry together. His revenues are showered down from the fat of the land,
and he interlards his own grease among, to help the drippings. Choleric
he is not by nature so much as his art, and it is a shrewd temptation
that the chopping-knife is so near. His weapons ofter offensive are a
mess of hot broth and scalding water, and woe be to him that comes in
his way. In the kitchen he will domineer and rule the roast in spite of
his master, and curses in the very dialect of his calling.
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