by Robert Herrick
TO sup with thee thou did'st 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 looked for fowl of price,
The bastard phoenix ; bird of paradise ;
And for no less than aromatic wine
Of maiden's-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-soust-neat's-foot with sick vinegar :
And in a burnished flagonet stood by,
Beer small as comfort, dead as charity.
At which amaz'd, and pond'ring on the food,
How cold it was, and how it chill'd my blood ;
I curs'd 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.
Maiden's-blush, the pink rose.
Larded jet, i.e., blacked.
Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol II.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 78-79.
Created by Anniina Jokinen on July 12, 1999.