56. The Invitation
To sup with thee thou didst me home invite,And mad’st a promise that mine appetiteShould 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 wineOf 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 appearA ragg’d soused neats-foot, with sick vinegar;And in a burnish’d flagonet, stood byBeer 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.