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Robert Herrick - The Invitation
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To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,
And mad`st a promise that mine appetite
Should meet and tire, on such lautitious meat,
The like not Heliogabalus did eat:
And richer wine would`st give to me, thy guest,
Than Roman Sylla pour`d out at his feast.
I came, `tis true, and look`d for fowl of price,
The bastard Phoenix; bird of Paradise;
And for no less than aromatic wine
Of maidens-blush, commix`d with jessamine.
Clean was the hearth, the mantle larded jet,
Which, wanting Lar and smoke, hung weeping wet;
At last i` th` noon of winter, did appear
A ragg`d soused neats-foot, with sick vinegar;
And in a burnish`d flagonet, stood by
Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.
At which amazed, and pond`ring on the food,
How cold it was, and how it chill`d my blood,
I curst the master, and I damn`d the souce,
And swore I`d got the ague of the house.
—Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire,
I`ll bring a fever, since thou keep`st no fire.
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