The Hesperides & Noble Numbers

“Come, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crowned with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home. Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Dressed up with all the country art: See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet: The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lilies. The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned. About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves: Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat: While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after with their breeches rent. Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef: With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With sev'ral dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There's that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, Then to the maids with wheaten hats: To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe. Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat Be mindful that the lab'ring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat. And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough And harrow, though they're hanged up now. And, you must know, your lord's word's true, Feed him ye must, whose food fills you; And that this pleasure is like rain, Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again.”

Recipe from Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome.

“Live, live with me, and thou shall see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee; What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board. The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed With crawling woodbine over-spread; By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown Made of the fleece's purest down. The tongues of kids shall be thy meat, Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread, With cream of cowslips buttered; Thy feasting-tables shall be hills With daisies spread and daffodils, Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody. I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets. A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave; So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it. On holidays, when virgins meet To dance the heyes with nimble feet, Thou shall come forth, and then appear The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-fac'd plum, all simp'ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribands to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth. Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love. These, nay, and more, thine own shall be If thou wilt love, and live with me.”

Recipe from The accomplisht cook of 1660.

“So smell those odours that do rise From out the wealthy spiceries; So smells the flower of blooming clove, Or roses smother'd in the stove; So smells the air of spiced wine, Or essences of jessamine; So smells the breath about the hives When well the work of honey thrives, And all the busy factors come Laden with wax and honey home; So smell those neat and woven bowers All over-arch'd with orange flowers, And almond blossoms that do mix To make rich these aromatics; So smell those bracelets and those bands Of amber chaf'd between the hands, When thus enkindled they transpire A noble perfume from the fire; The wine of cherries, and to these The cooling breath of respasses; The smell of morning's milk and cream, Butter of cowslips mix'd with them; Of roasted warden or bak'd pear, These are not to be reckon'd here, Whenas the meanest part of her, Smells like the maiden pomander. Thus sweet she smells, or what can be More lik'd by her or lov'd by me.”

Recipe from The Boston cooking-school cook book of 1896.

“"Some sort of pear, Apple or plum, is neatly laid (As if it was a tribute paid) By the round urchin; some mixt wheat The which the ant did taste, not eat; Deaf nuts, soft Jews'-ears, and some thin Chippings, the mice filched from the bin Of the gray farmer, and to these The scraps of lentils, chitted peas, Dried honeycombs, brown acorn cups, Out of the which he sometimes sups His herby broth, and there close by Are pucker'd bullace, cankers (?), dry Kernels, and withered haws; the rest Are trinkets fal'n from the kite's nest, As butter'd bread, the which the wild Bird snatched away from the crying child, Blue pins, tags, fesenes, beads and things Of higher price, as half-jet rings, Ribbons and then some silken shreaks The virgins lost at barley-breaks. Many a purse-string, many a thread Of gold and silver therein spread, _Many a counter, many a die, Half rotten and without an eye, Lies here about_, and, as we guess, Some bits of thimbles seem to dress The brave cheap work; _and for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels and children's teeth late shed_, Serve here, both which _enchequered_ With castors' doucets, which poor they Bite off themselves to 'scape away: Brown _toadstones_, ferrets' eyes, _the gum That shines_," etc.”

Recipe from The Boston cooking-school cook book of 1896.

“A little mushroom table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread; A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glittering grit to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is serv'd, We must not think his ear was sterv'd; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet, which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies: Of which he eats, and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle. A little fuzz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands; That was too coarse: but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag: Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh, A bloated earwig and a fly; With the red-capp'd worm that's shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth. A little moth Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth: With withered cherries, mandrakes' ears, Moles' eyes; to these the slain stag's tears The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O'ercome in music; with a wine Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine, But gently press'd from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; _the feast is ended_.”

Recipe from The Book of Household Management of 1861.

“"A little mushroom table spread After _the dance_, they set on bread, A _yellow corn of hecky_ wheat With some small _sandy_ grit to eat His choice bits; with _which_ in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all _the_ while his eye _was_ served We _dare_ not think his ear was sterved: But that there was in place to stir His _fire_ the _pittering_ Grasshopper; The merry Cricket, puling Fly, The piping Gnat for minstralcy. _The Humming Dor, the dying Swan, And each a choice Musician._ And now we must imagine first, The Elves present to quench his thirst A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and _beswetted_ in a blue And pregnant violet; which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery Butterflies: Of which he eats, _but with_ a little _Neat cool allay_ of Cuckoo's spittle; A little Fuz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands-- That was too coarse, but _he not spares To feed upon the candid hairs Of a dried canker, with a_ sagg And well _bestuffed_ Bee's sweet bag: _Stroking_ his pallet with some store Of Emme_t_ eggs. What would he more, But Beards of Mice, _an Ewt's_ stew'd thigh, _A pickled maggot and a dry Hipp, with a_ Red cap worm, that's shut Within the concave of a Nut Brown as his tooth, _and with the fat And well-boiled inchpin of a Bat. A bloated Earwig with the Pith Of sugared rush aglads him with; But most of all the Glow-worm's fire. As most betickling his desire To know his Queen, mixt with the far- Fetcht binding-jelly of a star. The silk-worm's seed_, a little moth _Lately_ fattened in a piece of cloth; Withered cherries; Mandrake's ears; Mole's eyes; to these the slain stag's tears; The unctuous dewlaps of a Snail; The broke heart of a Nightingale O'er-come in music; with a wine Ne'er ravished from the flattering Vine, But gently pressed from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty Bride, Brought in a _daisy chalice_, which He fully quaffs _off_ to bewitch His blood _too high_. This done, commended Grace by his Priest, the feast is ended."”

Recipe from The Book of Household Management of 1861.

“Come then, and like two doves with silv'ry wings, Let our souls fly to th' shades where ever springs Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil, Roses and cassia crown the untill'd soil. Where no disease reigns, or infection comes To blast the air, but ambergris and gums This, that, and ev'ry thicket doth transpire, More sweet than storax from the hallowed fire, Where ev'ry tree a wealthy issue bears Of fragrant apples, blushing plums, or pears; And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shew Like morning sunshine tinselling the dew. Here in green meadows sits eternal May, Purfling the margents, while perpetual day So double gilds the air, as that no night Can ever rust th' enamel of the light. Here, naked younglings, handsome striplings, run Their goals for virgins' kisses; which when done, Then unto dancing forth the learned round Commixed they meet, with endless roses crown'd. And here we'll sit on primrose-banks, and see Love's chorus led by Cupid; and we'll be Two loving followers, too, unto the grove Where poets sing the stories of our love. There thou shalt hear divine Musæus sing Of Hero and Leander; then I'll bring Thee to the stand, where honour'd Homer reads His Odysseys and his high Iliads; About whose throne the crowd of poets throng To hear the incantation of his tongue: To Linus, then to Pindar; and that done, I'll bring thee, Herrick, to Anacreon, Quaffing his full-crown'd bowls of burning wine, And in his raptures speaking lines of thine, Like to his subject; and as his frantic Looks show him truly Bacchanalian-like Besmear'd with grapes, welcome he shall thee thither, Where both may rage, both drink and dance together. Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by Whom fair Corinna sits, and doth comply With ivory wrists his laureate head, and steeps His eye in dew of kisses while he sleeps; Then soft Catullus, sharp-fang'd Martial, And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal, And snaky Persius, these, and those, whom rage (Dropt for the jars of heaven) fill'd t' engage All times unto their frenzies,--thou shalt there Behold them in a spacious theatre. Among which glories, crowned with sacred bays And flatt'ring ivy, two recite their plays-- Beaumont and Fletcher, swans to whom all ears Listen, while they, like syrens in their spheres, Sing their Evadne; and still more for thee There yet remains to know than thou can'st see By glim'ring of a fancy. Do but come, And there I'll show thee that capacious room In which thy father Jonson now is plac'd, As in a globe of radiant fire, and grac'd To be in that orb crown'd, that doth include Those prophets of the former magnitude, And he one chief; but hark, I hear the cock (The bellman of the night) proclaim the clock Of late struck one, and now I see the prime Of day break from the pregnant east: 'tis time I vanish; more I had to say, But night determines here, away.”

Recipe from Cookery and Dining in Imperial Rome.

“Come, Anthea, let us two Go to feast, as others do. Tarts and custards, creams and cakes, Are the junkets still at wakes: Unto which the tribes resort, Where the business is the sport. Morris-dancers thou shall see, Marian, too, in pageantry, And a mimic to devise Many grinning properties. Players there will be, and those Base in action as in clothes; Yet with strutting they will please The incurious villages. Near the dying of the day There will be a cudgel-play, Where a coxcomb will be broke Ere a good word can be spoke: But the anger ends all here, Drenched in ale, or drown'd in beer. Happy rustics! best content With the cheapest merriment, And possess no other fear Than to want the wake next year.”

Recipe from The Book of Household Management of 1861.

“Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words or meat; Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unclipt, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand, That soils my land; And giv'st me for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one. Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year, The while the conduits of my kine Run cream for wine. All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.”

Recipe from The Book of Household Management of 1861.

“Come, sit we under yonder tree, Where merry as the maids we'll be; And as on primroses we sit, We'll venture, if we can, at wit: If not, at draw-gloves we will play; So spend some minutes of the day: Or else spin out the thread of sands, Playing at Questions and Commands: Or tell what strange tricks love can do, By quickly making one of two. Thus we will sit and talk, but tell No cruel truths of Philomel, Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd on To kill herself for Demophon. But fables we'll relate: how Jove Put on all shapes to get a love; As now a satyr, then a swan; A bull but then, and now a man. Next we will act how young men woo, And sigh, and kiss as lovers do; And talk of brides, and who shall make That wedding-smock, this bridal cake, That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine, That smooth and silken columbine. This done, we'll draw lots who shall buy And gild the bays and rosemary; What posies for our wedding rings; What gloves we'll give and ribandings: And smiling at ourselves, decree, Who then the joining priest shall be. What short, sweet prayers shall be said; And how the posset shall be made With cream of lilies, not of kine, And maiden's-blush, for spiced wine. Thus, having talked, we'll next commend A kiss to each, and so we'll end.”

Recipe from The accomplisht cook of 1660.