Two large potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Unwonted softness to the salad give, Of mordent • mustard add a single spoon- Distrust the condiment which bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt: Three times the spoon with oil of

Lucca crown, And once with vinegar procured from town. True flavour needs it, and your poet begs, The pounded yellow of two well-boiled

Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, scarce suspected, animate the whole: And lastly on the favoured compound toes

A magic teaspoon of anchovy sauce: Then, though green turtle fail, though venison's tough, And ham and turkey are not boiled enough, Serenely full, the epicure may say -"Fate cannot harm me - I have dined to-day."