There is no land like it under heaven; it is there always day and never night; there quarrelling and strife are unknown; there no people die; there falls neither hail, rain, or snow, neither is thunder heard there, nor blustering winds—
“There is a well fair abbaye
Of white monks and of grey;
There both bowers and halls,
All of pasties be the walls,
Of flesh, and fish, and rich meat,
The like fullest that men may eat.
Floweren cakes be the shingles all,
Of church, cloister, bower, and hall.
The pins be fat pudings,
Rich meat to princes and kings.”
The cloister is built of gems and spices, and all about are birds merrily singing, ready roasted flying into the hungry mouths; and there are buttered larks and “garlek gret plenté.”
A French poem on this land describes it as a true cookery-land, as its nickname implies. All down the streets go roasted geese turning themselves; there is a river of wine; the ladies are all fair; every month one has new clothes. There bubbles up the fountain of perpetual youth, which will restore to bloom and vigour all who bathe in it, be they ever so old and ugly.
However much the burlesque poets of the Middle
