59. To His Peculiar Friend, Mr John Wicks

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.

60. A PARANAETICALL, OR ADVISIVE VERSE TO HIS FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKS

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.

61. TO HIS HONOURED AND MOST INGENIOUS FRIEND MR CHARLES COTTON

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.

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.