Upon Tubbs.

Huncks has no money, he does swear or say,
About him, when the tavern's shot's to pay.
If he has none in 's pockets, trust me, Huncks
Has none at home in coffers, desks, or trunks.

Since, for thy full deserts, with all the rest
Of these chaste spirits that are here possest
Of life eternal, time has made thee one
For growth in this my rich plantation,
Live here; but know 'twas virtue, and not chance,
That gave thee this so high inheritance.
Keep it for ever, grounded with the good,
Who hold fast here an endless livelihood.

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.
Twice forty, bating but one year
And thrice three weeks, he lived here.
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence.
Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,
Which from his ghost a promise is,
If here ye will some few tears shed,
He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.

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-boil'd 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.

As wearied pilgrims, once possest
Of long'd-for lodging, go to rest,
So I, now having rid my way,
Fix here my button'd staff and stay.
Youth, I confess, hath me misled;
But age hath brought me right to bed.

Who with thy leaves shall wipe, at need,
The place where swelling piles do breed;
May every ill that bites or smarts
Perplex him in his hinder parts.