Classic Poem

To my noblest Friend, Sir I. P. Knight .

Sir,
 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 seemd t' amaze the feast,
 And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
 Could since vant wretched herring and poore Iohn.
  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 the 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 though 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 priviledge to maintaine,
 Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine
 Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay
 To drinke his happy life and raigne. 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 leave 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
 Vpon 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 my noblest Friend, Sir I. P. Knight .

Sir,
 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 seemd t' amaze the feast,
 And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
 Could since vant wretched herring and poore Iohn.
  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 the 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 though 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 priviledge to maintaine,
 Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine
 Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay
 To drinke his happy life and raigne. 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 leave 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
 Vpon 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.