Death is the Cook of Nature; and we find, Creatures drest several ways to please her Mind. Some, Death doth Roast with Fevers burning hot: And some he Boils with Dropsies in a Pot. Some are Consum'd, for Jelly, by degrees: And some, with Ulcers, Gravy out to squeeze. Some, as with Herbs, h stuffs with Gouts and Pains: Others, for tender Meat, he hangs in Chains. Some, in the Sea, he Pickles up to keep; Others he, as Sous'd Brawn, in Wine doth steep. Some, with Flesh and Bones, he with the Pox chops small; And doth a French Fricasse make withall. Some, on Grid-ir'ns of Calentures, are broil'd; And some are trodden down, and so quite spoil'd. But some are Bak'd, when Smuther'd they do dye: Some meat he doth by Hectick Fevers Frye. In Sweat, sometimes he Stews with savoury Smell: A Hodg-podg of Diseases he likes well. Some Brains he dresseth with Apoplexy, Or Sawse of Megrims, swimming plenteously: And Tongues he dries with Smoak from Stomacks ill; Which, as the Second Course, he sends up still. Throats he doth Cut, Blood-Puddings for to make; And puts them in the Guts, which Cholicks rack. Some Hunted are, by Him, for Deer, that's Red: And some, as Stall-fed Oxen, Knock'd o' th' Head. Somem Sindg'd and Scall'd for Bacon, seem most rare; When the Salt Rhume and Phlegm they Powder'd are.
From "Poems, or Several Fancies, in Verse, Written by the Thrice-Noble, Illustrious, and Excellent, the Duchess of Newcastle." - Folio, London, 1669, Page 186.
Bodleian Collection, Ballads Catalogue: 2805 c.6(4). Charles Clark, Great Totham, between 1828 and 1866.