_c.o.c.k_, the traditional offering to aesculapius; cp. the last words of Socrates; cp. Ben Jonson, Epig. xiii.

303. TO APOLLO. A SHORT HYMN.

Phbus! when that I a verse Or some numbers more rehea.r.s.e, Tune my words that they may fall Each way smoothly musical: For which favour there shall be Swans devoted unto thee.

304. A HYMN TO BACCHUS.

Bacchus, let me drink no more; Wild are seas that want a sh.o.r.e.

When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't.

I have drank up, for to please Thee, that great cup Hercules: Urge no more, and there shall be Daffodils given up to thee.

306. ON HIMSELF.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay; My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray, My palmer's hat, my scallop's sh.e.l.l, My cross, my cord, and all, farewell.

For having now my journey done, Just at the setting of the sun, Here I have found a chamber fit, G.o.d and good friends be thanked for it, Where if I can a lodger be, A little while from tramplers free, At my up-rising next I shall, If not requite, yet thank ye all.

Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright The fouler fiend and evil sprite From scaring you or yours this night.

307. CASUALTIES.

Good things that come of course, far less do please Than those which come by sweet contingencies.

308. BRIBES AND GIFTS GET ALL.

Dead falls the cause if once the hand be mute; But let that speak, the client gets the suit.

309. THE END.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right; _It is the end that crowns us, not the fight_.

310. UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep.

Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

312. CONTENT, NOT CATES.

'Tis not the food, but the content That makes the table's merriment.

Where trouble serves the board, we eat The platters there as soon as meat.

A little pipkin with a bit Of mutton or of veal in it, Set on my table, trouble-free, More than a feast contenteth me.

313. THE ENTERTAINMENT; OR, PORCH-VERSE, AT THE MARRIAGE OF MR. HENRY NORTHLY AND THE MOST WITTY MRS. LETTICE YARD.

Welcome! but yet no entrance, till we bless First you, then you, and both for white success.

Profane no porch, young man and maid, for fear Ye wrong the Threshold-G.o.d that keeps peace here: Please him, and then all good-luck will betide You, the brisk bridegroom, you, the dainty bride.

Do all things sweetly, and in comely wise; Put on your garlands first, then sacrifice: That done, when both of you have seemly fed, We'll call on Night, to bring ye both to bed: Where, being laid, all fair signs looking on, Fish-like, increase then to a million; And millions of spring-times may ye have, Which spent, one death bring to ye both one grave.

314. THE GOOD-NIGHT OR BLESSING.

Blessings in abundance come To the bride and to her groom; May the bed and this short night Know the fulness of delight!

Pleasures many here attend ye, And, ere long, a boy Love send ye Curled and comely, and so trim, Maids, in time, may ravish him.

Thus a dew of graces fall On ye both; good-night to all.

316. TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything.

We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

318. UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED, AND LEFT A DAUGHTER BEHIND HER.

As gilliflowers do but stay To blow, and seed, and so away; So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, The garden's glory, lived a while To lend the world your scent and smile.

But when your own fair print was set Once in a virgin flosculet, Sweet as yourself, and newly blown, To give that life, resigned your own: But so as still the mother's power Lives in the pretty lady-flower.

319. A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT SENT TO SIR SIMON STEWARD.

No news of navies burnt at seas; No noise of late-sp.a.w.n'd t.i.ttyries; No closet plot, or open vent, That frights men with a parliament; No new device or late-found trick To read by the stars the kingdom's sick; No gin to catch the state, or wring The freeborn 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 milkmaids make about the hearth, Of Christmas sports, the wa.s.sail-bowl, That['s] tost up, after fox-i'-th'-hole; Of blind-man-buff, and of the care That young men have to shoe the mare; Of Twelfth-tide cakes, of peas and beans, Wherewith you make those merry scenes, Whenas ye choose 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 choose; 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 chesnuts 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 rosebuds, 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 bagpipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness.

And thus, throughout, with Christmas plays Frolic the full twelve holidays.

_t.i.ttyries_, _i.e._, the t.i.tyre-tues; see Note.

_Fox-i'-th'-hole_, a game of hopping.

_To shoe the mare_, or, shoe the wild mare, a Christmas game.

_Buxom_, tender.

_Liber Pater_, Father Bacchus.

320. MATINS; OR, MORNING PRAYER.

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence, then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure everything.

Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thence Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense.

Thy golden censers, fill'd with odours sweet, Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.