Men may talk of country-Christmasses and court-gluttony,
Their thirty-pound* buttered eggs, their pies of carp's tongues,
Their pheasants drenched with ambergris, the carcases
Of three fat wethers bruised for gravy, to
Make sauce for a single peacock; yet their feasts
Were fasts, compared with the city's...
Did you not observe it?
There were three sucking pigs served up in a dish,
Ta'en from the sow as soon as farrowed,
A fortnight fed with dates and muskadine,
That stood my master in twenty marks apiece,
Besides the puddings in their bellies, made
Of I know not what. -- I dare swear the cook that dressed it
Was the devil, disguised like a Dutchman.
Phillip Massinger (1583-1640)
*About 240 eggs
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