INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.
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O-NIGHT, grave sir, both my poor house and IDo equally desire your company;Not that we think us worthy such a guest,But that your worth will dignify our feast,With those that come; whose grace may make that seemSomething, which else could hope for no esteem.It is the fair acceptance, sir, createsThe entertainment perfect, not the cates.Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,An olive, capers, or some bitter saladUshering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,Lemons and wine for sauce: to these, a coneyIs not to be despaired of for our money;And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,The sky not falling, think we may have larks.I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which someMay yet be there; and godwit if we can;Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe’er, my manShall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,Livy, or of some better book to us,Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat;And I’ll profess no verses to repeat:To this if aught appear, which I not know of,That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;But that which most doth take my muse and me,Is a pure cup of rich canary wine,Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine:Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,Are all but Luther’s beer, to this I sing.Of this we will sup free, but moderately,And we will have no Pooly’ or Parrot by;Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;But at our parting we will be as whenWe innocently met. No simple wordThat shall be uttered at our mirthful board,Shall make us sad next morning; or affrightThe liberty that we’ll enjoy to-night. EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY,A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL. WEEP with me all you that readThis little story;And know for whom a tear you shed,Death’s self is sorry.’Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As heaven and nature seemed to striveWhich owned the creature.Years he numbered scarce thirteenWhen fates turned cruel;Yet three filled zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act, what now we moan,Old men so duly;As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him oneHe played so truly.So, by error to his fateThey all consented;But viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
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