Then cause we Horace to be read, Which sung, or said, A goblet to the brim Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd, Around We quaff to him. Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours In wine and flowers, And make the frolic year, The month, the week, the instant day To stay The longer here. Come then, brave knight, and see the cell Wherein I dwell, And my enchantments too, Which love and noble freedom is; And this Shall fetter you. Take horse, and come, or be so kind To send your mind, Though but in numbers few, And I shall think I have the heart, Or part Of Clipseby Crew. _Securely_, free from care. _Thyrse_, a Bacchic staff. _Instant_, oncoming. _Numbers_, verses. 545. TO HIS WORTHY KINSMAN, MR. STEPHEN SOAME. Nor is my number full till I inscribe Thee, sprightly Soame, one of my righteous tribe; A tribe of one lip, leaven, and of one Civil behaviour, and religion; A stock of saints, where ev'ry one doth wear A stole of white, and canonised here; Among which holies be thou ever known, Brave kinsman, mark'd out with the whiter stone Which seals thy glory, since I do prefer Thee here in my eternal calender. 546. TO HIS TOMB-MAKER. Go I must; when I am gone, Write but this upon my stone: Chaste I lived, without a wife, That's the story of my life. Strewings need none, every flower Is in this word, bachelour. 547. GREAT SPIRITS SUPERVIVE. Our mortal parts may wrapp'd in sear-cloths lie: _Great spirits never with their bodies die_. 548. NONE FREE FROM FAULT. Out of the world he must, who once comes in. _No man exempted is from death, or sin._ 549. UPON HIMSELF BEING BURIED. Let me sleep this night away, Till the dawning of the day; Then at th' opening of mine eyes I, and all the world, shall rise. 550. PITY TO THE PROSTRATE. 'Tis worse than barbarous cruelty to show No part of pity on a conquered foe. 552. HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY. Here, here I live with what my board Can with the smallest cost afford. Though ne'er so mean the viands be, They well content my Prew and me. Or pea, or bean, or wort, or beet, Whatever comes, content makes sweet. Here we rejoice, because no rent We pay for our poor tenement, Wherein we rest, and never fear The landlord or the usurer. The quarter-day does ne'er affright Our peaceful slumbers in the night. We eat our own and batten more, Because we feed on no man's score; But pity those whose flanks grow great, Swell'd with the lard of others' meat. We bless our fortunes when we see Our own beloved privacy; And like our living, where we're known To very few, or else to none.