University of Virginia Library

Of Hospitality.

Where art thou? no where? no, where's thy consort
Of old Black-iacks, Blew-coats? They'r flown to th' Court
Where they'r transformd. To what good Dyonise?
To Pages like Pie-colourd Butterflies;
Alasse poore Country, thou hast nothing then
But vast penurious houses without Men;
A row of smoake-lesse Chimneyes which agrees,
With barme-lesse Hogsheds, empty Butteries,
VVorme-eaten Rafters, VVindores Spider-wouen,
VValls Snaile-belimed, a Loome-mudded Ouen
Estrang'd from Bake-meats, nasty Dayeries,
Halls hung with Caules and forlorne Nurseries.
And yet Panurgus thou art more to blame
Then Court house-keepers, for thou thinks no shame
VVhen foot-bet Trauellers that's like to burst
VVith heat, come to thy house to quench their thirst,
To boult thy Buttry-dore and bid them goe
To th'Alehouse, where th'aue nothing to bestow:
VVherefore to saue their money, thou dost bring,
These wearied Trauellers to some wholsome Spring,
VVhere they may drink their fill; whenc't may appeare
Thou'lt rather wast thy water then thy Beere.
And thou Cremutius that doest nere display
Thy Bounty but vpon thy Marriage day:
VVhere thou inuites thy friends vnto thy store
Of Resty Bacon; for thou hast no more
Of Cates, to make their welcomming exprest,
With one reserued Kilderkin of th' best;
Whose Key thou kept as I informed am,
Till thy Feast-day, and then thou gaue't thy Man:
The wilie Porrus, who had so much wit
As to appoint a time which might befit
His iolly Cumrades to drinke vp thy Beere
While thou and thy staru'd Guests conferring were:
But by what hap I know not, he is found,
With his Boon-socio's trauersing their round,
Which makes thee sweare, fearing thy Beere should lack,
To pull thy Blew-coate from poore Porrus back,
But how did Porrus mittigate thy rage?
Sir take your Coate, so you will pay my wage.
But this doth little moue thy worthlesse minde,
He weares thy Coate, thou keepes his wage behind.
And Luscu, thou that neuer made expence,
In vaine disbursements aboue eighteene pence
In all thy time; me thinks I see in thee
The Misers Mirror or Anatomie
Rightly depictur'd, who hath wealth at will,
Yet (like th'Hydropticke Man) is thirsty still:
Seest thou not Luscus how thou starues thy selfe,
To Cram thy Coffers and encrease thy Pelfe?
And yet how fond art thou, all thou dost saue,
Will in the end afford thee but a Graue,
A Shroud, thus ends thy care, thus ends thy store:
This Beggers haue and Princes get no more.
And yet, vnhappy thou, drains golden streames,
T'inhance thine owne by indirectest meanes.
Making this Axiom with thy humour fit,
Thou cares not how thou get, so thou may get:
But if thou knewst what wiser men doe know,
Thou wouldst not get before thou question how.