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Robert Herrick - The Wassail
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Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet stand replete;
Your larders, too, so hung with meat,
That though a thousand, thousand eat,

Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about
Their silv`ry spheres, there`s none may doubt
But more`s sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so,
As that your pans no ebb may know;
But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn sober stream,
Bank`d all with lilies, and the cream
Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then may your plants be press`d with fruit,
Nor bee or hive you have be mute,
But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Last, may your harrows, shares, and ploughs,
Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows,
All prosper by your virgin-vows.

—Alas!  we bless, but see none here,
That brings us either ale or beer;
In a dry-house all things are near.

Let`s leave a longer time to wait,
Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate;
And all live here with needy fate;

Where chimneys do for ever weep
For want of warmth, and stomachs keep
With noise the servants` eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing, or stay
Our free feet here, but we`ll away:
Yet to the Lares this we`ll say:

`The time will come when you`ll be sad,
`And reckon this for fortune bad,
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