Chapter III

_Oh yet but look on the Master Cook, the glory of the Kitchin,_
_In sowing whose fate, at so lofty a rate, no Taylor e'r had
stitching,_
_For though he makes the Man, the Cook yet makes the Dishes,_
_The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes,_
_That I who at so many a Feast, have pleas'd so many tasters,_
_Should now my self come to be drest, a dish for you my Masters._

Three merry Boys, &c.

_Cook._ There's a few Copies for you; now farewel friends:
And good Mr. Sheriff let me not be printed
With a brass Pot on my head.

_But._ March fair, march fair, afore, good Captain _Pantler_.