I need not tell you, most ingenious Fair,
That hungry Mortals are not fed with Air,
But solid Food: And this voracious Clay
Asks Drink and Victuals more than once a Day:
Now cou'd your  by his Wit inspire
The chilly Hearth, to blaze with lasting Fire:
Or when his Children round the Table throng,
By an Allusion or a sprightly Song,
Adorn the Board, i'th' twinkling of an Eye,
With a hot Pasty or a Warden Pye,
There might be Reason on  Side,
And not a Sage cou'd blame the prudent Bride.