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Sol's manor was a pretty good house,
But meaner far than Holy-rood-house:
The walls rear'd up of lath and plaister;
'Tis good gear that contents the master.
On the ceil'd roof one Mulciber,
A cripple common sign-post dauber,
Or if you please to call him painter,
Had made some odd draughts at a venture.
The various seasons of the year,
Rank'd in due order, did appear,
And all the beasts, and fowls, and fishes,
Which ilk month made the nicest dishes;
When beef or mutton, lamb or veal,
Salmond or Herring, trout or eel;
When hen and capon, leeks and cabbage,
And all the other kitchen baggage,
Were at their best; here, with one look,
You'd find without the help of book.
In every month, when they are best,
Their various figures are exprest:
In January you'd see haddocks,
In March was painted store of paddocks:
In every other month what nice is;
I must say these were fine devices,
Where one could draw a bill of fare,
Suiting the season of the year;

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Know when to eat his oysters raw,
When crabs are best, & cætera.
This house at night did lodge the God;
You know all day he's still abroad.