|
|
The Custard.
By Robert Herrick
For second course, last night, a custard came
To th' board, so hot as none could touch the same:
Furze three or four times with his cheeks did blow
Upon the custard, and thus cooled so;
It seem'd by this time to admit the touch,
But none could eat it, 'cause it stunk so much.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 360 times.
|
|