Eighteenth Century

Plots and politics may hurt us, but Pudding cannot.

The Head of Man is like a Pudding: And whence have all Rhimes, Poems, Plots and Inventions sprang, but from that same Pudding. What is Poetry, but a Pudding of Words.

The Law is but a Cookery of Quibbles and Contentions. Some swallow every thing whole and unmix’d; so that it may rather be call’d a Heap, than a Pudding. Others are so Squeamish, the greatest Mastership in Cookery is requir’d to make the Pudding Palatable: The Suet which others gape and swallow by Gobs, must for these puny Stomachs be minced to Atoms; the Plums must be pick’d with the utmost Care, and every Ingredient proportion’d to the greatest Nicety, or it will never go down.