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.
*62*
A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, SENT TO SIR SIMEON STEWARD
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.
*63*
AN ODE TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW
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.
*64*
A PANEGYRIC TO SIR LEWIS PEMBERTON
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:
