Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs, When season'd with love, which no rancour disturbs And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife! But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone A man should sit down to dinner, each one Of the dishes which the cook chooses to spoil With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, The chances are ten against one, I must own, He gets up as ill-tempered as when he sat down.