_The Sun which doth the greatest comfort bring_ _To absent friends, because the self-same thing_ _They know they see however absent, is,_ _Here our best Hay-make[r] forgive me this,_ _It is our Countreys stile. In this warm shine,_ _I l[y]e and dream of your full Mermaid Wine._ _Oh we have water mixt with Claret Lees,_ _Drink apt to bring in dryer Heresies_ _Than Beer, good only for the Sonnets strain,_ _With fustian Metaphors to stuff the brain,_ _So mixt, that given to the thirstiest one,_ _'Twill not prove Alms, unless he have the stone:_ _I think with one draught mans invention fades,_ _Two Cups had quite spoil'd_ Homers Illiads; _'Tis Liquor that will find out_ Sutcliff's _wit,_ _Lye where he will, and make him write worse yet;_ _Fil'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms;_ _Did_ Rob[ert] Wisdom _write his Singing Psalms;_ _And so must I do this, and yet I think_ _It is a potion sent us down to drink,_ _By special Providence keeps us from fights,_ _Makes us not laugh, when we make legs to knights._ _'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our States,_ _A Medicine to obey our Magistrates_: _For we do live more free than you, no hate,_ _No envy at one anothers_ [happy] _State_ _Moves us, we are all equal every whit:_ _Of Land that God gives men here is their wit:_ _If we consider fully, for our best,_ _And gravest men will with his main house jest,_ _Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do_ _The City tricks, lye, hate, and flatter too:_ _Here are none that can bear a painted show,_ _Strike when you winch, and then lament the blow:_ _Who like Mills set the right way for to grind,_ _Can make their gains alike with every wind:_ _Only some fellows with the subtil'st pate_ _Amongst us, may perchance equivocate_ _At selling of a Horse, and that's the most._ _Methinks the little wit I had is lost_ _Since I saw you, for Wit is like a Rest_ _Held up at Tennis, which men do the best,_ _With the best gamesters: what things have we seen,_ _Done at the_ Mermaid! _heard words that have been_ _So nimble, and so full of subtil flame,_ _As if that every one from whence they came,_ _Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,_ _And had resolv'd to live a fool, the rest_ _Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown_ _Wit able enough to justifie the Town_ _For three days past, wit that might warrant be_ _For the whole City to talk foolishly_ _Till that were cancell'd, and when that was gone,_ _We left an Air behind us, which alone,_ _Was able to make the two next Companies_ _Right witty; though but downright fools, more wise._ _When I remember this, and see that now_ _The Countrey Gentlemen begin to allow_ _My wit for dry bobs, then I needs must cry,_ _I see my days of Ballating grow nigh;_