To sup with thee thou didst me home invite; And mad'st a promise that mine appetite Sho'd meet and tire, on such lautitious meat, The like not Heliogabalus did eat: And richer Wine wo'dst give to me (thy guest) Then Roman Sylla powr'd out at his feast. I came; (tis true) and lookt for Fowle of price, The bastard Phenix; bird of Paradice; And for no less then Aromatick Wine Of Maydens-blush, commixt with Jessimine. Cleane was the herth, the mantle larded jet; Which wanting Lar, and smoke, hung weeping wet; At last, i' th' noone of winter, did appeare A ragd-soust-neats-foot with sick vineger: And in a burnisht Flagonet stood by Beere small as Comfort, dead as Charity. At which amaz'd, and pondring on the food, How cold it was, and how it child my blood; I curst the master; and I damn'd the souce; And swore I'de got the ague of the house. Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire, I'le bring a Fever; since thou keep'st no fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOOLIN' WID DE SEASONS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT by ALEXANDER POPE POLWART ON THE GREEN by ALLAN RAMSAY THE FISHER'S BOY by HENRY DAVID THOREAU PLUTARCH by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS THE BLUEBELLS OF NEW ENGLAND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A SESTINA, IN IMITAION OF SIG. FRA. PETRARCA by PHILIP AYRES |