Classic Poem

SIR ,
Ere you pass this threshold, stay,
And give your creature leave to pay
Those pious rites, which unto you,
As to our household gods, are due.
Instead of sacrifice, each breast
Is like a flaming altar drest
With zealous fires, which from pure hearts
Love mix'd with loyalty imparts.
Incense nor gold have we, yet bring
As rich and sweet an offering;
And such as doth both these express,
Which is our humble thankfulness;
By which is paid the all we owe
To gods above, or men below.
The slaughter'd beast, whose flesh should feed
The hungry flames, we for pure need
Dress for your supper; and the gore
Which should be dash'd on every door,
We change into the lusty blood
Of youthful vines, of which a flood
Shall sprightly run through all your veins,
First to your health, then your fair train's.
We shall want nothing but good fare,
To show your welcome and our care;
Such rarities, that come from far,
From poor men's houses banish'd are:
Yet we'll express in homely cheer
How glad we are to see you here.
We'll have whate'er the season yields
Out of the neighbouring woods and fields;
For all the dainties of your board
Will only be what those afford;
And, having supp'd, we may perchance
Present you with a country dance.
Thus much your servants, that bear sway
Here in your absence, bade me say,
And beg, besides, you'ld hither bring
Only the mercy of a king,
And not the greatness: since they have
A thousand faults must pardon crave,
But nothing that is fit to wait
Upon the glory of your state.
Yet your gracious favour will,
They hope, as heretofore, shine still
On their endeavours, for they swore
Should Jove descend, they could no more.