This was not all, they had a Cook besides,
To boil chicken and marrowbone, well spiced
With tart powder and pounded cyperus root -
A connoisseur of London ale to boot,
He could roast and boil and griddle and fry,
Make ground-meat pottage and bake a pie.
But it seemed to me an unhappy thing
That he had a scabbed ulcer on his shin;
He sweetened a creamed capon with the best.
To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale.
Wel koude he knowe a draughte of London ale.
He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,
Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,
That on his shyne a mormal hadde he.
For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.