59. To His Peculiar Friend, Mr John Wicks
Since shed or cottage I have none,I sing the more, that thou hast one;To whose glad threshold, and free doorI may a Poet come, though poor;And eat with thee a savoury bit,Paying but common thanks for it.—Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to seeAn over-leaven look in thee,To sour the bread, and turn the beerTo an exalted vinegar;Or should’st thou prize me as a dishOf thrice-boil’d worts, or third-day’s fish,I’d rather hungry go and comeThan to thy house be burdensome;Yet, in my depth of grief, I’d beOne that should drop his beads for thee.