61. TO HIS HONOURED AND MOST INGENIOUS FRIEND MR CHARLES COTTON For brave comportment, wit without offence, Words fully flowing, yet of influence, Thou art that man of men, the man alone Worthy the public admiration; Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write, And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight; Tell'st when a verse springs high; how understood To be, or not, born of the royal blood What state above, what symmetry below, Lines have, or should have, thou the best can show:-- For which, my Charles, it is my pride to be, Not so much known, as to be loved of thee:-- Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays Be less another's laurel, than thy praise. 62. A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, SENT TO SIR SIMEON STEWARD No news of navies burnt at seas; No noise of late spawn'd tittyries; No closet plot or open vent, That frights men with a Parliament: No new device or late-found trick, To read by th' stars the kingdom's sick; No gin to catch the State, or wring The free-born nostril of the King, We send to you; but here a jolly Verse crown'd with ivy and with holly; That tells of winter's tales and mirth That milk-maids make about the hearth; Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl, That toss'd up, after Fox-i'-th'-hole; Of Blind-man-buff, and of the care That young men have to shoe the Mare; Of twelf-tide cakes, of pease and beans, Wherewith ye make those merry scenes, Whenas ye chuse your king and queen, And cry out, 'Hey for our town green!'-- Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use Husbands and wives by streaks to chuse; Of crackling laurel, which fore-sounds A plenteous harvest to your grounds; Of these, and such like things, for shift, We send instead of New-year's gift. --Read then, and when your faces shine With buxom meat and cap'ring wine, Remember us in cups full crown'd, And let our city-health go round, Quite through the young maids and the men, To the ninth number, if not ten; Until the fired chestnuts leap For joy to see the fruits ye reap, From the plump chalice and the cup That tempts till it be tossed up.-- Then as ye sit about your embers, Call not to mind those fled Decembers; But think on these, that are t' appear, As daughters to the instant year; Sit crown'd with rose-buds, and carouse, Till LIBER PATER twirls the house About your ears, and lay upon The year, your cares, that's fled and gone: And let the russet swains the plough And harrow hang up resting now; And to the bag-pipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness. And thus throughout, with Christmas plays, Frolic the full twelve holy-days. 63. AN ODE TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW