In things a moderation keep: _Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep_. 781. TO ANTHEA. Let's call for Hymen, if agreed thou art; _Delays in love but crucify the heart_. Love's thorny tapers yet neglected lie: Speak thou the word, they'll kindle by-and-bye. The nimble hours woo us on to wed, And Genius waits to have us both to bed. Behold, for us the naked Graces stay With maunds of roses for to strew the way: Besides, the most religious prophet stands Ready to join, as well our hearts as hands. Juno yet smiles; but if she chance to chide, Ill luck 'twill bode to th' bridegroom and the bride. Tell me, Anthea, dost thou fondly dread The loss of that we call a maidenhead? Come, I'll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire Is not by marriage quench'd, but flames the higher. _Maunds_, baskets. _Fondly_, foolishly. 782. UPON PREW, HIS MAID. In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid: From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet. 783. THE INVITATION. To sup with thee thou did'st me home invite; And mad'st a promise that mine appetite Should meet and tire on such lautitious meat, The like not Heliogabalus did eat: And richer wine would'st give to me, thy guest, Than Roman Sylla pour'd out at his feast. I came, 'tis true, and looked for fowl of price, The bastard phœnix, bird of paradise, And for no less than aromatic wine Of maiden's-blush, commix'd with jessamine. Clean was the hearth, the mantel larded jet; Which wanting Lar, and smoke, hung weeping wet; At last, i' th' noon of winter, did appear A ragg'd-soust-neat's-foot with sick vinegar: And in a burnished flagonet stood by, Beer small as comfort, dead as charity. At which amaz'd, and pondering on the food, How cold it was, and how it chill'd my blood; I curs'd the master, and I damn'd the souce, And swore I'd got the ague of the house. Well, when to eat thou dost me next desire, I'll bring a fever, since thou keep'st no fire. _Tire_, feed on. _Lautitious_, sumptuous. _Maiden's-blush_, the pink-rose. _Larded jet_, _i.e._, blacked. _Soust_, pickled. 784. CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS. Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts' desiring. With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-teending. Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here; The while the meat is a-shredding For the rare mince-pie, And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading. _Psaltries_, a kind of guitar. _Teending_, kindling.