Though my deare _Talbots_ Fate exact, a sad And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad For him this houre in mourning: I will write To you the glory of a pompous night, Which none (except sobriety) who wit Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit. I (who still sinne for company) was there And tasted of the glorious supper, where Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest Oth' _Phœnix_ rifled seem'd t'amaze the feast, And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone Could since vant wretched herring and poore John. _Lucullus_ surfets, were but types of this, And whatsoever riot mention'd is In story, did but the dull _Zanye_ play, To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day: For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set, That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit But seven (whom whether we should Sages call Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' _Hungarian_ did prepare Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when He layd his happy siege to _Nortlinghen_. The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke That _Linx_ himselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke, Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth Of the _Canaries_ was exhaust, the health Of his good Majestye to celebrate, Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that: Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine, Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay To drink his happy life and reigne. O day It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene Found accessary else to this fond sinne. But I forget to speake each stratagem By which the dishes enter'd, and in them Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy: But Ile not have you there, before you part You shall have something of another art. A banquet raining downe so fast, the good Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood: Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky, That it was question'd whether heaven were _Black-fryers_, and each starre a confectioner; But I too long detaine you at a feast You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave. _To The Right Honourable_ Archibald _Earle of_ Ar.