Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.

A crier of green sauce.

She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too.

Would the cook were o' my mind!

Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.