64. A Panegyric to Sir Lewis Pemberton
Till I shall come again, let this suffice,I send my salt, my sacrificeTo thee, thy lady, younglings, and as farAs to thy Genius and thy Lar;To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen,The fat-fed smoking temple, which inThe wholesome savour of thy mighty chines,Invites to supper him who dines:Where laden spits, warp’d with large ribs of beef,Not represent, but give reliefTo the lank stranger and the sour swain,Where both may feed and come again;For no black-bearded Vigil from thy doorBeats with a button’d-staff the poor;But from thy warm love-hatching gates, each mayTake friendly morsels, and there stayTo sun his thin-clad members, if he likes;For thou no porter keep’st who strikes.No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants;Or, staying there, is scourged with tauntsOf some rough groom, who, yirk’d with corns, says, ‘Sir,‘You’ve dipp’d too long i’ th’ vinegar;‘And with our broth and bread and bits, Sir friend,‘You’ve fared well; pray make an end;‘Two days you’ve larded here; a third, ye know,‘Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go‘You to some other chimney, and there take‘Essay of other giblets; make‘Merry at another’s hearth; you’re here‘Welcome as thunder to our beer;‘Manners knows distance, and a man unrude‘Would soon recoil, and not intrude‘His stomach to a second meal.’—No, no,Thy house, well fed and taught, can showNo such crabb’d vizard: Thou hast learnt thy trainWith heart and hand to entertain;And by the arms-full, with a breast unhid,As the old race of mankind did,When either’s heart, and either’s hand did striveTo be the nearer relative;Thou dost redeem those times: and what was lostOf ancient honesty, may boastIt keeps a growth in thee, and so will runA course in thy fame’s pledge, thy son.Thus, like a Roman Tribune, thou thy gateEarly sets ope to feast, and late;Keeping no currish waiter to affright,With blasting eye, the appetite,Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but thatThe trencher creature marketh whatBest and more suppling piece he cuts, and bySome private pinch tells dangers nigh,A hand too desp’rate, or a knife that bitesSkin-deep into the pork, or lightsUpon some part of kid, as if mistook,When checked by the butler’s look.No, no, thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beerIs not reserved for Trebius here,But all who at thy table seated are,Find equal freedom, equal fare;And thou, like to that hospitable god,Jove, joy’st when guests make their abodeTo eat thy bullocks thighs, thy veals, thy fatWethers, and never grudged at.The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail,The cock, the curlew, and the quail,These, and thy choicest viands, do extendTheir tastes unto the lower endOf thy glad table; not a dish more knownTo thee, than unto any one:But as thy meat, so thy immortal wineMakes the smirk face of each to shine,And spring fresh rose-buds, while the salt, the wit,Flows from the wine, and graces it;While Reverence, waiting at the bashful board,Honours my lady and my lord.No scurril jest, no open scene is laidHere, for to make the face afraid;But temp’rate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet-Ly, that it makes the meat more sweet,And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thouDost rather pour forth, than allowBy cruse and measure; thus devoting wine,As the Canary isles were thine;But with that wisdom and that method, asNo one that’s there his guilty glassDrinks of distemper, or has cause to cryRepentance to his liberty.No, thou know’st orders, ethics, and hast readAll oeconomics, know’st to leadA house-dance neatly, and canst truly showHow far a figure ought to go,Forward or backward, side-ward, and what paceCan give, and what retract a grace;What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees,With those thy primitive decrees,To give subsistence to thy house, and proofWhat Genii support thy roof,Goodness and greatness, not the oaken piles;For these, and marbles have their whilesTo last, but not their ever; virtue’s handIt is which builds ’gainst fate to stand.Such is thy house, whose firm foundations trustIs more in thee than in her dust,Or depth; these last may yield, and yearly shrink,When what is strongly built, no chinkOr yawning rupture can the same devour,But fix’d it stands, by her own powerAnd well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock,Which tries, and counter-stands the shockAnd ram of time, and by vexation growsThe stronger. Virtue dies when foesAre wanting to her exercise, but, greatAnd large she spreads by dust and sweat.Safe stand thy walls, and thee, and so both will,Since neither’s height was raised by th’illOf others; since no stud, no stone, no pieceWas rear’d up by the poor-man’s fleece;No widow’s tenement was rack’d to gildOr fret thy cieling, or to buildA sweating-closet, to anoint the silk-Soft skin, or bathe in asses’ milk;No orphan’s pittance, left him, served to setThe pillars up of lasting jet,For which their cries might beat against thine ears,Or in the damp jet read their tears.No plank from hallow’d altar does appealTo yond’ Star-chamber, or does sealA curse to thee, or thine; but all things evenMake for thy peace, and pace to heaven.—Go on directly so, as just men mayA thousand times more swear, than sayThis is that princely Pemberton, who canTeach men to keep a God in man;And when wise poets shall search out to seeGood men, they find them all in thee.