And with a tear compare these last Lame and bad times with those are past; While Baucis by, My old lean wife, shall kiss it dry. And so we'll sit By th' fire, foretelling snow and sleet, And weather by our aches, grown Now old enough to be our own True calendars, as puss's ear Washed o'er's, to tell what change is near: Then to assuage The gripings of the chine by age, I'll call my young Iülus to sing such a song I made upon my Julia's breast; And of her blush at such a feast. Then shall he read that flower of mine, Enclos'd within a crystal shrine; A primrose next; A piece, then, of a higher text, For to beget In me a more transcendent heat Than that insinuating fire, Which crept into each aged sire, When the fair Helen, from her eyes, Shot forth her loving sorceries; At which I'll rear Mine aged limbs above my chair, And, hearing it, Flutter and crow as in a fit Of fresh concupiscence, and cry: _No lust there's like to poetry_. Thus, frantic-crazy man, God wot, I'll call to mind things half-forgot, And oft between Repeat the times that I have seen! Thus ripe with tears, And twisting my Iülus' hairs, Doting, I'll weep and say, in truth, Baucis, these were my sins of youth. Then next I'll cause my hopeful lad, If a wild apple can be had, To crown the hearth, Lar thus conspiring with our mirth; Then to infuse Our browner ale into the cruse, Which sweetly spic'd, we'll first carouse Unto the Genius of the house. Then the next health to friends of mine, Loving the brave Burgundian wine, High sons of pith, Whose fortunes I have frolicked with; Such as could well Bear up the magic bough and spell; And dancing 'bout the mystic thyrse, Give up the just applause to verse: To those, and then again to thee, We'll drink, my Wickes, until we be Plump as the cherry, Though not so fresh, yet full as merry As the cricket, The untam'd heifer, or the pricket, Until our tongues shall tell our ears We're younger by a score of years. Thus, till we see the fire less shine From th' embers than the kitling's eyne, We'll still sit up, Sphering about the wassail-cup To all those times Which gave me honour for my rhymes. The coal once spent, we'll then to bed, Far more than night-bewearied.