TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR. JOHN WICKS by ROBERT HERRICK

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 shouldst thou prize me as a dish
Of thrice boifed 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.

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