The Art of Dress: a Poem/Apple-Pye

by Leonard Welsted

 

APPLE-PYE.

A

POEM.

By Dr. KING.

Now first Printed from a Correct Copy.

 

 

APPLE-PYE

A

POEM.

 

OF all the Delicates which Britons try,
To please the Palate, or delight the Eye;
Of all the several Kinds of Sumptuous Fare;
There's none that can with Apple-Pye compare,
For costly Flavour, or substantial Paste,
For outward Beauty, or for inward Taste.

 When first this Infant-Dish in Fashion came,
Th'Ingredients were but Coarse, and rude the Frame;
As yet unpolish'd in the Modern Arts,
Our Fathers Eat brown Bread instead of Tarts:
Pyes were but indigested Lumps of Dough,
Till Time and just Expence improved 'em so.

 King Col (as Ancient British Annals^[1] tell)
Renown'd for Fidling, and for Eating well,
Pippins in homely Cakes with Honey stew'd,
Just as he Bak'd, (the Proverb says) he brew'd.

 Their greater Art succeeding Princes show'd,
And modell'd Paste into a neater Mode;
Invention now grew lively, Palate nice,
And Sugar pointed out the Way to Spice.

 But here for Ages unimprov'd we stood,
And Apple-Pye was still but homely Food;
When God-like Edgar of the Saxon Line,
Polite of Taste, and studious to refine,
In the Disert perfuming Quinces cast,
And perfected with Cream the rich Repast.
Hence we proceed the outward Parts to trim,
With Crinkumcranks adorn the polish'd Brim;
And each fresh Pye the pleas'd Spectator greets
With Virgin-Fancies, and with new Conceits.

 Dear Nelly, learn with Care the Pastry Art,
And mind the Easy Precepts I impart:
Draw out your Dough elaborately thin,
And cease not to fatigue your Rolling-Pin:
Of Eggs and Butter see you mix enough:
For then the Paste will swell into a Puff,
Which will in crumpling Sounds your Praise report,
And eat, as Housewives speak, exceeding short.
Rang'd in thick Order, let your Quinces lie;
They give a charming Relish to the Pye.
If you are wise, you'll not Brown Sugar slight,
The Browner (if I form my Judgment right)
A deep Vermillion Tincture will dispence,
And make your Piffin redder than the Quince.

 When this is done, there will be wanting still,
The just Reserve of Cloves and Candy'd Peel;
Nor can I blame you, if a Drop you take
Of Orange-Water, for Perfuming-sake.
But here the Nicety of Art is such,
There must not be too little, nor too much
If with Discretion you these Costs employ,
They quicken Appetite; if not, they cloy.

 Next, in your Mind this Maxim firmly root,
Never o'ercharge your Pye with Costly Fruit:
Oft let your Bodkin thro' the Lid be sent,
To give the kind imprison'd Treasure vent;
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Lest the fermenting Liquor, closely prest.
Insensibly, by constant Fretting, waste,
And o'er-inform your Tenement of Paste.

 To chuse your Baker, think, and think again
(You'll scarce One Honest Baker find in Ten:)
Adust and bruis'd, I've often seen a Pye,
In Rich Disguise and Costly Ruin lie,
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$While pensive Crust beheld its Form o'erthrown,
Exhausted Apples griev'd, their Moisture flown,
And Syrup from the Sides ran trickling down.

 O be not, be not tempted, Lovely Nell,
While the hot-piping Odours strongly smell,
While the delicious Fume creates a Gust,
To lick th' o'erflowing Juice, or bite the Crust.
You'll rather stay (if my Advice may Rule)
Until the Hot's corrected by the Cool;
'Till you've infus'd the luscious Store of Cream,
And chang'd the Purple, for a Silver Stream;
'Till that smooth Viand its mild Force produce,
And give a Softness to the tarter Juice.

 Then shalt thou, pleas'd, the Noble Fabrick view,
And have a Slice into the Bargain too;
Honour, and Fame alike, we will partake,
So Well I'll Eat, what you so Richly Make.

 

FINIS.

 

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1. See, the old Ballad of King Col.