Ah Ben!
     Say how or when
     Shall we, thy guests,
     Meet at those lyric feasts,
     Made at the Sun,
     The Dog, the Triple Tun;
     Where we such clusters had,
     As made us nobly wild, not mad?
     And yet each verse of thine
     Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

     My Ben!
     Or come again,
     Or send to us
     Thy wit's great overplus;
     But teach us yet
     Wisely to husband it,
     Lest we that talent spend;
     And having once brought to an end
     That precious stock,—the store
     Of such a wit the world should have no more.

     Now is the time for mirth;
     Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
     For with [the] flowery earth
     The golden pomp is come.

     The golden pomp is come;
     For now each tree does wear,
     Made of her pap and gum,
     Rich beads of amber here.

     Now reigns the Rose, and now
     Th' Arabian dew besmears
     My uncontrolled brow,
     And my retorted hairs.

     Homer, this health to thee!
     In sack of such a kind,
     That it would make thee see,
     Though thou wert ne'er so blind

     Next, Virgil I'll call forth,
     To pledge this second health
     In wine, whose each cup's worth
     An Indian commonwealth.

     A goblet next I'll drink
     To Ovid; and suppose
     Made he the pledge, he'd think
     The world had all one nose.

     Then this immensive cup
     Of aromatic wine,
     Catullus!  I quaff up
     To that terse muse of thine.

     Wild I am now with heat:
     O Bacchus!  cool thy rays;
     Or frantic I shall eat
     Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!

     Round, round, the roof does run;
     And being ravish'd thus,
     Come, I will drink a tun
     To my Propertius.

     Now, to Tibullus next,
     This flood I drink to thee;
     —But stay, I see a text,
     That this presents to me.

     Behold!  Tibullus lies
     Here burnt, whose small return
     Of ashes scarce suffice
     To fill a little urn.

     Trust to good verses then;
     They only will aspire,
     When pyramids, as men,
     Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

     And when all bodies meet
     In Lethe to be drown'd;
     Then only numbers sweet
     With endless life are crown'd.

     DESUNT NONNULLA—

     Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings,
     Let our souls fly to th' shades, wherever springs
     Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil,
     Roses and cassia, crown the untill'd soil;
     Where no disease reigns, or infection comes
     To blast the air, but amber-gris and gums.
     This, that, and ev'ry thicket doth transpire
     More sweet than storax from the hallow'd fire;
     Where ev'ry tree a wealthy issue bears
     Of fragrant apples, blushing plums, or pears;
     And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shew
     Like morning sun-shine, tinselling the dew.
     Here in green meadows sits eternal May,
     Purfling the margents, while perpetual day
     So double-gilds the air, as that no night
     Can ever rust th' enamel of the light:
     Here naked younglings, handsome striplings, run
     Their goals for virgins' kisses; which when done,
     Then unto dancing forth the learned round
     Commix'd they meet, with endless roses crown'd.
     And here we'll sit on primrose-banks, and see
     Love's chorus led by Cupid; and we'll he
     Two loving followers too unto the grove,
     Where poets sing the stories of our love.
     There thou shalt hear divine Musaeus sing
     Of Hero and Leander; then I'll bring
     Thee to the stand, where honour'd Homer reads
     His Odyssees and his high Iliads;
     About whose throne the crowd of poets throng
     To hear the incantation of his tongue:
     To Linus, then to Pindar; and that done,
     I'll bring thee, Herrick, to Anacreon,
     Quaffing his full-crown'd bowls of burning wine,
     And in his raptures speaking lines of thine,
     Like to his subject; and as his frantic
     Looks shew him truly Bacchanalian like,
     Besmear'd with grapes,—welcome he shall thee thither,
     Where both may rage, both drink and dance together.
     Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by
     Whom fair Corinna sits, and doth comply
     With ivory wrists his laureat head, and steeps
     His eye in dew of kisses while he sleeps.
     Then soft Catullus, sharp-fang'd Martial,
     And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal,
     And snaky Persius; these, and those whom rage,
     Dropt for the jars of heaven, fill'd, t' engage
     All times unto their frenzies; thou shalt there
     Behold them in a spacious theatre:
     Among which glories, crown'd with sacred bays
     And flatt'ring ivy, two recite their plays,
     Beaumont and Fletcher, swans, to whom all ears
     Listen, while they, like sirens in their spheres,
     Sing their Evadne; and still more for thee
     There yet remains to know than thou canst see
     By glimm'ring of a fancy; Do but come,
     And there I'll shew thee that capacious room
     In which thy father, Jonson, now is placed
     As in a globe of radiant fire, and graced
     To be in that orb crown'd, that doth include
     Those prophets of the former magnitude,
     And he one chief.  But hark!  I hear the cock,
     The bell-man of the night, proclaim the clock
     Of late struck One; and now I see the prime
     Of day break from the pregnant east:—'tis time
     I vanish:—more I had to say,
     But night determines here; Away!

     To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,
     And mad'st a promise that mine appetite
     Should meet and tire, on such lautitious meat,
     The like not Heliogabalus did eat:
     And richer wine would'st give to me, thy guest,
     Than Roman Sylla pour'd out at his feast.
     I came, 'tis true, and look'd for fowl of price,
     The bastard Phoenix; bird of Paradise;
     And for no less than aromatic wine
     Of maidens-blush, commix'd with jessamine.
     Clean was the hearth, the mantle larded jet,
     Which, wanting Lar and smoke, hung weeping wet;
     At last i' th' noon of winter, did appear
     A ragg'd soused neats-foot, with sick vinegar;
     And in a burnish'd flagonet, stood by
     Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.
     At which amazed, and pond'ring on the food,
     How cold it was, and how it chill'd my blood,
     I curst the master, and I damn'd the souce,
     And swore I'd got the ague of the house.
     —Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire,
     I'll bring a fever, since thou keep'st no fire.

     Since to the country first I came,
     I have lost my former flame;
     And, methinks, I not inherit,
     As I did, my ravish'd spirit.
     If I write a verse or two,
     'Tis with very much ado;
     In regard I want that wine
     Which should conjure up a line.
     Yet, though now of Muse bereft,
     I have still the manners left
     For to thank you, noble sir,
     For those gifts you do confer
     Upon him, who only can
     Be in prose a grateful man.

     Thrice, and above, blest, my soul's half, art thou,
     In thy both last and better vow;
     Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to see
     The country's sweet simplicity;
     And it to know and practise, with intent
     To grow the sooner innocent;
     By studying to know virtue, and to aim
     More at her nature than her name;
     The last is but the least; the first doth tell
     Ways less to live, than to live well:—
     And both are known to thee, who now canst live
     Led by thy conscience, to give
     Justice to soon-pleased nature, and to show
     Wisdom and she together go,
     And keep one centre; This with that conspires
     To teach man to confine desires,
     And know that riches have their proper stint
     In the contented mind, not mint;
     And canst instruct that those who have the itch
     Of craving more, are never rich.
     These things thou knows't to th' height, and dost prevent
     That plague, because thou art content
     With that Heaven gave thee with a wary hand,
     (More blessed in thy brass than land)
     To keep cheap Nature even and upright;
     To cool, not cocker appetite.
     Thus thou canst tersely live to satisfy
     The belly chiefly, not the eye;
     Keeping the barking stomach wisely quiet,
     Less with a neat than needful diet.
     But that which most makes sweet thy country life,
     Is the fruition of a wife,
     Whom, stars consenting with thy fate, thou hast
     Got not so beautiful as chaste;
     By whose warm side thou dost securely sleep,
     While Love the sentinel doth keep,
     With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affright
     Thy silken slumbers in the night:
     Nor has the darkness power to usher in
     Fear to those sheets that know no sin.
     The damask'd meadows and the pebbly streams
     Sweeten and make soft your dreams:
     The purling springs, groves, birds, and well weaved bowers,
     With fields enamelled with flowers,
     Present their shapes, while fantasy discloses
     Millions of Lilies mix'd with Roses.
     Then dream, ye hear the lamb by many a bleat
     Woo'd to come suck the milky teat;
     While Faunus in the vision comes, to keep
     From rav'ning wolves the fleecy sheep:
     With thousand such enchanting dreams, that meet
     To make sleep not so sound as sweet;
     Nor can these figures so thy rest endear,
     As not to rise when Chanticlere
     Warns the last watch;—but with the dawn dost rise
     To work, but first to sacrifice;
     Making thy peace with Heaven for some late fault,
     With holy-meal and spirting salt;
     Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us,
     'Jove for our labour all things sells us.'
     Nor are thy daily and devout affairs
     Attended with those desp'rate cares
     Th' industrious merchant has, who for to find
     Gold, runneth to the Western Ind,
     And back again, tortured with fears, doth fly,
     Untaught to suffer Poverty;—
     But thou at home, blest with securest ease,
     Sitt'st, and believ'st that there be seas,
     And watery dangers; while thy whiter hap
     But sees these things within thy map;
     And viewing them with a more safe survey,
     Mak'st easy fear unto thee say,
     'A heart thrice walled with oak and brass, that man
     Had, first durst plough the ocean.'
     But thou at home, without or tide or gale,
     Canst in thy map securely sail;
     Seeing those painted countries, and so guess
     By those fine shades, their substances;
     And from thy compass taking small advice,
     Buy'st travel at the lowest price.
     Nor are thine ears so deaf but thou canst hear,
     Far more with wonder than with fear,
     Fame tell of states, of countries, courts, and kings,
     And believe there be such things;
     When of these truths thy happier knowledge lies
     More in thine ears than in thine eyes.
     And when thou hear'st by that too true report,
     Vice rules the most, or all, at court,
     Thy pious wishes are, though thou not there,
     Virtue had, and moved her sphere.
     But thou liv'st fearless; and thy face ne'er shows
     Fortune when she comes, or goes;
     But with thy equal thoughts, prepared dost stand
     To take her by the either hand;
     Nor car'st which comes the first, the foul or fair:—
     A wise man ev'ry way lies square;
     And like a surly oak with storms perplex'd
     Grows still the stronger, strongly vex'd.
     Be so, bold Spirit; stand centre-like, unmoved;
     And be not only thought, but proved
     To be what I report thee, and inure
     Thyself, if want comes, to endure;
     And so thou dost; for thy desires are
     Confined to live with private Lar:
     Nor curious whether appetite be fed
     Or with the first, or second bread.
     Who keep'st no proud mouth for delicious cates;
     Hunger makes coarse meats, delicates.
     Canst, and unurged, forsake that larded fare,
     Which art, not nature, makes so rare;
     To taste boil'd nettles, coleworts, beets, and eat
     These, and sour herbs, as dainty meat:—
     While soft opinion makes thy Genius say,
     'Content makes all ambrosia;'
     Nor is it that thou keep'st this stricter size
     So much for want, as exercise;
     To numb the sense of dearth, which, should sin haste it,
     Thou might'st but only see't, not taste it;
     Yet can thy humble roof maintain a quire
     Of singing crickets by thy fire;
     And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbs,
     Till that the green-eyed kitling comes;
     Then to her cabin, blest she can escape
     The sudden danger of a rape.
     —And thus thy little well-kept stock doth prove,
     Wealth cannot make a life, but love.
     Nor art thou so close-handed, but canst spend,
     (Counsel concurring with the end),
     As well as spare; still conning o'er this theme,
     To shun the first and last extreme;
     Ordaining that thy small stock find no breach,
     Or to exceed thy tether's reach;
     But to live round, and close, and wisely true
     To thine own self, and known to few.
     Thus let thy rural sanctuary be
     Elysium to thy wife and thee;
     There to disport your selves with golden measure;
     For seldom use commends the pleasure.
     Live, and live blest; thrice happy pair; let breath,
     But lost to one, be th' other's death:
     And as there is one love, one faith, one troth,
     Be so one death, one grave to both;
     Till when, in such assurance live, ye may
     Nor fear, or wish your dying day.

     Since shed or cottage I have none,
     I sing the more, that thou hast one;
     To whose glad threshold, and free door
     I may a Poet come, though poor;
     And eat with thee a savoury bit,
     Paying but common thanks for it.
     —Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see
     An over-leaven look in thee,
     To sour the bread, and turn the beer
     To an exalted vinegar;
     Or should'st thou prize me as a dish
     Of thrice-boil'd worts, or third-day's fish,
     I'd rather hungry go and come
     Than to thy house be burdensome;
     Yet, in my depth of grief, I'd be
     One that should drop his beads for thee.

     Is this a life, to break thy sleep,
     To rise as soon as day doth peep?
     To tire thy patient ox or ass
     By noon, and let thy good days pass,
     Not knowing this, that Jove decrees
     Some mirth, t' adulce man's miseries?
     —No; 'tis a life to have thine oil
     Without extortion from thy soil;
     Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain,
     Although with some, yet little pain;
     To have thy mind, and nuptial bed,
     With fears and cares uncumbered
     A pleasing wife, that by thy side
     Lies softly panting like a bride;
     —This is to live, and to endear
     Those minutes Time has lent us here.
     Then, while fates suffer, live thou free,
     As is that air that circles thee;
     And crown thy temples too; and let
     Thy servant, not thy own self, sweat,
     To strut thy barns with sheaves of wheat.
     —Time steals away like to a stream,
     And we glide hence away with them:
     No sound recalls the hours once fled,
     Or roses, being withered;
     Nor us, my friend, when we are lost,
     Like to a dew, or melted frost.
     —Then live we mirthful while we should,
     And turn the iron age to gold;
     Let's feast and frolic, sing and play,
     And thus less last, than live our day.

     Whose life with care is overcast,
     That man's not said to live, but last;
     Nor is't a life, seven years to tell,
     But for to live that half seven well;
     And that we'll do, as men who know,
     Some few sands spent, we hence must go,
     Both to be blended in the urn,
     From whence there's never a return.

     For brave comportment, wit without offence,
     Words fully flowing, yet of influence,
     Thou art that man of men, the man alone
     Worthy the public admiration;
     Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
     And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight;
     Tell'st when a verse springs high; how understood
     To be, or not, born of the royal blood
     What state above, what symmetry below,
     Lines have, or should have, thou the best can show:—
     For which, my Charles, it is my pride to be,
     Not so much known, as to be loved of thee:—
     Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays
     Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.

     No news of navies burnt at seas;
     No noise of late spawn'd tittyries;
     No closet plot or open vent,
     That frights men with a Parliament:
     No new device or late-found trick,
     To read by th' stars the kingdom's sick;
     No gin to catch the State, or wring
     The free-born nostril of the King,
     We send to you; but here a jolly
     Verse crown'd with ivy and with holly;
     That tells of winter's tales and mirth
     That milk-maids make about the hearth;
     Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl,
     That toss'd up, after Fox-i'-th'-hole;
     Of Blind-man-buff, and of the care
     That young men have to shoe the Mare;
     Of twelf-tide cakes, of pease and beans,
     Wherewith ye make those merry scenes,
     Whenas ye chuse your king and queen,
     And cry out, 'Hey for our town green!'—
     Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use
     Husbands and wives by streaks to chuse;
     Of crackling laurel, which fore-sounds
     A plenteous harvest to your grounds;
     Of these, and such like things, for shift,
     We send instead of New-year's gift.
     —Read then, and when your faces shine
     With buxom meat and cap'ring wine,
     Remember us in cups full crown'd,
     And let our city-health go round,
     Quite through the young maids and the men,
     To the ninth number, if not ten;
     Until the fired chestnuts leap
     For joy to see the fruits ye reap,
     From the plump chalice and the cup
     That tempts till it be tossed up.—
     Then as ye sit about your embers,
     Call not to mind those fled Decembers;
     But think on these, that are t' appear,
     As daughters to the instant year;
     Sit crown'd with rose-buds, and carouse,
     Till LIBER PATER twirls the house
     About your ears, and lay upon
     The year, your cares, that's fled and gone:
     And let the russet swains the plough
     And harrow hang up resting now;
     And to the bag-pipe all address,
     Till sleep takes place of weariness.
     And thus throughout, with Christmas plays,
     Frolic the full twelve holy-days.

     Here we securely live, and eat
     The cream of meat;
     And keep eternal fires,
     By which we sit, and do divine,
     As wine
     And rage inspires.

     If full, we charm; then call upon
     Anacreon
     To grace the frantic Thyrse:
     And having drunk, we raise a shout
     Throughout,
     To praise his verse.

     Then cause we Horace to be read,
     Which sung or said,
     A goblet, to the brim,
     Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd,
     Around
     We quaff to him.

     Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours
     In wine and flowers;
     And make the frolic year,
     The month, the week, the instant day
     To stay
     The longer here.

     —Come then, brave Knight, and see the cell
     Wherein I dwell;
     And my enchantments too;
     Which love and noble freedom is:—
     And this
     Shall fetter you.

     Take horse, and come; or be so kind
     To send your mind,
     Though but in numbers few:—
     And I shall think I have the heart
     Or part
     Of Clipsby Crew.

     Till I shall come again, let this suffice,
     I send my salt, my sacrifice
     To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far
     As to thy Genius and thy Lar;
     To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen,
     The fat-fed smoking temple, which in
     The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines,
     Invites to supper him who dines:
     Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef,
     Not represent, but give relief
     To the lank stranger and the sour swain,
     Where both may feed and come again;
     For no black-bearded Vigil from thy door
     Beats with a button'd-staff the poor;
     But from thy warm love-hatching gates, each may
     Take friendly morsels, and there stay
     To sun his thin-clad members, if he likes;
     For thou no porter keep'st who strikes.
     No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants;
     Or, staying there, is scourged with taunts
     Of some rough groom, who, yirk'd with corns, says, 'Sir,
     'You've dipp'd too long i' th' vinegar;
     'And with our broth and bread and bits, Sir friend,
     'You've fared well; pray make an end;
     'Two days you've larded here; a third, ye know,
     'Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go
     'You to some other chimney, and there take
     'Essay of other giblets; make
     'Merry at another's hearth; you're here
     'Welcome as thunder to our beer;
     'Manners knows distance, and a man unrude
     'Would soon recoil, and not intrude
     'His stomach to a second meal.'—No, no,
     Thy house, well fed and taught, can show
     No such crabb'd vizard:  Thou hast learnt thy train
     With heart and hand to entertain;
     And by the arms-full, with a breast unhid,
     As the old race of mankind did,
     When either's heart, and either's hand did strive
     To be the nearer relative;
     Thou dost redeem those times:  and what was lost
     Of ancient honesty, may boast
     It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run
     A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son.
     Thus, like a Roman Tribune, thou thy gate
     Early sets ope to feast, and late;
     Keeping no currish waiter to affright,
     With blasting eye, the appetite,
     Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that
     The trencher creature marketh what
     Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by
     Some private pinch tells dangers nigh,
     A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites
     Skin-deep into the pork, or lights
     Upon some part of kid, as if mistook,
     When checked by the butler's look.
     No, no, thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer
     Is not reserved for Trebius here,
     But all who at thy table seated are,
     Find equal freedom, equal fare;
     And thou, like to that hospitable god,
     Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode
     To eat thy bullocks thighs, thy veals, thy fat
     Wethers, and never grudged at.
     The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail,
     The cock, the curlew, and the quail,
     These, and thy choicest viands, do extend
     Their tastes unto the lower end
     Of thy glad table; not a dish more known
     To thee, than unto any one:
     But as thy meat, so thy immortal wine
     Makes the smirk face of each to shine,
     And spring fresh rose-buds, while the salt, the wit,
     Flows from the wine, and graces it;
     While Reverence, waiting at the bashful board,
     Honours my lady and my lord.
     No scurril jest, no open scene is laid
     Here, for to make the face afraid;
     But temp'rate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet-
     Ly, that it makes the meat more sweet,
     And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou
     Dost rather pour forth, than allow
     By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine,
     As the Canary isles were thine;
     But with that wisdom and that method, as
     No one that's there his guilty glass
     Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry
     Repentance to his liberty.
     No, thou know'st orders, ethics, and hast read
     All oeconomics, know'st to lead
     A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show
     How far a figure ought to go,
     Forward or backward, side-ward, and what pace
     Can give, and what retract a grace;
     What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees,
     With those thy primitive decrees,
     To give subsistence to thy house, and proof
     What Genii support thy roof,
     Goodness and greatness, not the oaken piles;
     For these, and marbles have their whiles
     To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand
     It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand.
     Such is thy house, whose firm foundations trust
     Is more in thee than in her dust,
     Or depth; these last may yield, and yearly shrink,
     When what is strongly built, no chink
     Or yawning rupture can the same devour,
     But fix'd it stands, by her own power
     And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock,
     Which tries, and counter-stands the shock
     And ram of time, and by vexation grows
     The stronger.  Virtue dies when foes
     Are wanting to her exercise, but, great
     And large she spreads by dust and sweat.
     Safe stand thy walls, and thee, and so both will,
     Since neither's height was raised by th'ill
     Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece
     Was rear'd up by the poor-man's fleece;
     No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild
     Or fret thy cieling, or to build
     A sweating-closet, to anoint the silk-
     Soft skin, or bath[e] in asses' milk;
     No orphan's pittance, left him, served to set
     The pillars up of lasting jet,
     For which their cries might beat against thine ears,
     Or in the damp jet read their tears.
     No plank from hallow'd altar does appeal
     To yond' Star-chamber, or does seal
     A curse to thee, or thine; but all things even
     Make for thy peace, and pace to heaven.
     —Go on directly so, as just men may
     A thousand times more swear, than say
     This is that princely Pemberton, who can
     Teach men to keep a God in man;
     And when wise poets shall search out to see
     Good men, they find them all in thee.

     All things decay with time:  The forest sees
     The growth and down-fall of her aged trees;
     That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood
     The proud dictator of the state-like wood,
     I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,
     Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.

     Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight,
     But stay the time till we have bade good-night.
     Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy way
     As soon dispatch'd is by the night as day.
     Let us not then so rudely henceforth go
     Till we have wept, kiss'd, sigh'd, shook hands, or so.
     There's pain in parting, and a kind of hell
     When once true lovers take their last farewell.
     What? shall we two our endless leaves take here
     Without a sad look, or a solemn tear?
     He knows not love that hath not this truth proved,
     Love is most loth to leave the thing beloved.
     Pay we our vows and go; yet when we part,
     Then, even then, I will bequeath my heart
     Into thy loving hands; for I'll keep none
     To warm my breast, when thou, my pulse, art gone,
     No, here I'll last, and walk, a harmless shade,
     About this urn, wherein thy dust is laid,
     To guard it so, as nothing here shall be
     Heavy, to hurt those sacred seeds of thee.

     DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND,
     MR JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF
     POSTUMUS

     Ah, Posthumus!  our years hence fly
     And leave no sound:  nor piety,
     Or prayers, or vow
     Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
     But we must on,
     As fate does lead or draw us; none,
     None, Posthumus, could e'er decline
     The doom of cruel Proserpine.

     The pleasing wife, the house, the ground
     Must all be left, no one plant found
     To follow thee,
     Save only the curst cypress-tree!
     —A merry mind
     Looks forward, scorns what's left behind;
     Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may,
     And here enjoy our holiday.

     We've seen the past best times, and these
     Will ne'er return; we see the seas,
     And moons to wane,
     But they fill up their ebbs again;
     But vanish'd man,
     Like to a lily lost, ne'er can,
     Ne'er can repullulate, or bring
     His days to see a second spring.

     But on we must, and thither tend,
     Where Ancus and rich Tullus blend
     Their sacred seed;
     Thus has infernal Jove decreed;
     We must be made,
     Ere long a song, ere long a shade.
     Why then, since life to us is short,
     Let's make it full up by our sport.

     Crown we our heads with roses then,
     And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when
     We two are dead,
     The world with us is buried.
     Then live we free
     As is the air, and let us be
     Our own fair wind, and mark each one
     Day with the white and lucky stone.

     We are not poor, although we have
     No roofs of cedar, nor our brave
     Baiae, nor keep
     Account of such a flock of sheep;
     Nor bullocks fed
     To lard the shambles; barbels bred
     To kiss our hands; nor do we wish
     For Pollio's lampreys in our dish.

     If we can meet, and so confer,
     Both by a shining salt-cellar,
     And have our roof,
     Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof,
     And cieling free,
     From that cheap candle-baudery;
     We'll eat our bean with that full mirth
     As we were lords of all the earth.

     Well, then, on what seas we are tost,
     Our comfort is, we can't be lost.
     Let the winds drive
     Our bark, yet she will keep alive
     Amidst the deeps;
     'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps
     The pinnace up; which, though she errs
     I' th' seas, she saves her passengers.

     Say, we must part; sweet mercy bless
     Us both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness!
     Can we so far
     Stray, to become less circular
     Than we are now?
     No, no, that self-same heart, that vow
     Which made us one, shall ne'er undo,
     Or ravel so, to make us two.

     Live in thy peace; as for myself,
     When I am bruised on the shelf
     Of time, and show
     My locks behung with frost and snow;
     When with the rheum,
     The cough, the pthisic, I consume
     Unto an almost nothing; then,
     The ages fled, I'll call again,

     And with a tear compare these last
     Lame and bad times with those are past,
     While Baucis by,
     My old lean wife, shall kiss it dry;
     And so we'll sit
     By th' fire, foretelling snow and slit
     And weather by our aches, grown
     Now old enough to be our own

     True calendars, as puss's ear
     Wash'd o'er 's, to tell what change is near;
     Then to assuage
     The gripings of the chine by age,
     I'll call my young
     Iulus to sing such a song
     I made upon my Julia's breast,
     And of her blush at such a feast.

     Then shall he read that flower of mine
     Enclosed within a crystal shrine;
     A primrose next;
     A piece then of a higher text;
     For to beget
     In me a more transcendant heat,
     Than that insinuating fire
     Which crept into each aged sire

     When the fair Helen from her eyes
     Shot forth her loving sorceries;
     At which I'll rear
     Mine aged limbs above my chair;
     And hearing it,
     Flutter and crow, as in a fit
     Of fresh concupiscence, and cry,
     'No lust there's like to Poetry.'

     Thus frantic, crazy man, God wot,
     I'll call to mind things half-forgot;
     And oft between
     Repeat the times that I have seen;
     Thus ripe with tears,
     And twisting my Iulus' hairs,
     Doting, I'll weep and say, 'In truth,
     Baucis, these were my sins of youth.'

     Then next I'll cause my hopeful lad,
     If a wild apple can be had,
     To crown the hearth;
     Lar thus conspiring with our mirth;
     Then to infuse
     Our browner ale into the cruse;
     Which, sweetly spiced, we'll first carouse
     Unto the Genius of the house.

     Then the next health to friends of mine.
     Loving the brave Burgundian wine,
     High sons of pith,
     Whose fortunes I have frolick'd with;
     Such as could well
     Bear up the magic bough and spell;
     And dancing 'bout the mystic Thyrse,
     Give up the just applause to verse;

     To those, and then again to thee,
     We'll drink, my Wickes, until we be
     Plump as the cherry,
     Though not so fresh, yet full as merry
     As the cricket,
     The untamed heifer, or the pricket,
     Until our tongues shall tell our ears,
     We're younger by a score of years.

     Thus, till we see the fire less shine
     From th' embers than the kitling's eyne,
     We'll still sit up,
     Sphering about the wassail cup,
     To all those times
     Which gave me honour for my rhymes;
     The coal once spent, we'll then to bed,
     Far more than night bewearied.

     Dull to myself, and almost dead to these,
     My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
     Lost to all music now, since every thing
     Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
     Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure
     More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure.
     But if that golden age would come again,
     And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
     If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were,
     As when the sweet Maria lived here;
     I should delight to have my curls half drown'd
     In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd:
     And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,
     Knock at a star with my exalted head.

     A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here,
     Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year;
     Long I have lasted in this world; 'tis true
     But yet those years that I have lived, but few.
     Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell,
     Lives not those years, but he that lives them well:
     One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he
     Of all those three-score has not lived half three:
     He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast
     Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.

     Come thou, who art the wine and wit
     Of all I've writ;
     The grace, the glory, and the best
     Piece of the rest;
     Thou art of what I did intend
     The All, and End;
     And what was made, was made to meet.
     Thee, thee my sheet.
     Come then, and be to my chaste side
     Both bed and bride.
     We two, as reliques left, will have
     One rest, one grave;
     And, hugging close, we need not fear
     Lust entering here,
     Where all desires are dead or cold,
     As is the mould;
     And all affections are forgot,
     Or trouble not.
     Here, here the slaves and prisoners be
     From shackles free;
     And weeping widows, long opprest,
     Do here find rest.
     The wronged client ends his laws
     Here, and his cause;
     Here those long suits of Chancery lie
     Quiet, or die;
     And all Star-chamber bills do cease,
     Or hold their peace.
     Here needs no court for our Request
     Where all are best;
     All wise, all equal, and all just
     Alike i'th' dust.
     Nor need we here to fear the frown
     Of court or crown;
     Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,
     There all are kings.
     In this securer place we'll keep,
     As lull'd asleep;
     Or for a little time we'll lie,
     As robes laid by,
     To be another day re-worn,
     Turn'd, but not torn;
     Or like old testaments engrost,
     Lock'd up, not lost;
     And for a-while lie here conceal'd,
     To be reveal'd
     Next, at that great Platonic year,
     And then meet here.

     Born I was to be old,
     And for to die here;
     After that, in the mould
     Long for to lie here.
     But before that day comes,
     Still I be bousing;
     For I know, in the tombs
     There's no carousing.

     A funeral stone
     Or verse, I covet none;
     But only crave
     Of you that I may have
     A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
     Which being seen
     Blest with perpetual green,
     May grow to be
     Not so much call'd a tree,
     As the eternal monument of me.