Though frost and snow lock'd from mine
That beauty which without door lies,
Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that soI might not all thy pleasures know,
Yet, thou within thy
Art of thyself so delicate,
So full of native sweets, that
Thy roof with inward happiness,
As neither from nor to thy
Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starv'd Much poor, if not by thee preserv'd,
Whose prayers have made thy table
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did
Coarse cates unto thy neighbors' board, Yet thou hadst dainties, as the
Had only been thy volary; Or else the birds, fearing the
Might to another Deluge grow,
The pheasant, partridge, and the
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing ox of himself
Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
And every beast did thither
Himself, to be an offering.
The scaly herd more pleasure took,
Bath'd in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves
Through every room, where they
The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
Like suns within, keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their
To all that wander in the night,
And seem to beckon from aloof The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh'd, he will away,
He's faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty
Both from the master and the hind. The stranger's welcome each man
Stamp'd on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his
Grow less 'cause he stays longer here;
There's none observes, much less repines, How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the doorT'examine or keep back the poor;
Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have
Made only to let strangers in;
Untaught to shut, they do not
To stand wide open all the year,
Careless who enters, for they
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty's such,
They cannot steal, thou giv'st so much.
