To His Peculiar Friend, M. Jo. Wicks

by Robert Herrick

Since shed or cottage I have none,
I sing the more, that thou hast one
To whose glad threshold, and free door,
I may a poet come, though poor,
And eat with thee a savoury bit,
Paying but common thanks for it.
Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see
An over-leaven look in thee,
To sour the bread, and turn the beer
To an exalted vinegar:
Or should'st thou prize me as a dish
Of thrice-boiled worts, or third-day's fish;
I'd rather hungry go and come,
Than to thy house be burdensome;
Yet, in my depth of grief, I'd be
One that should drop his beads for thee.

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