To Sup With Thee Thou Didst Me Home Invite, And Mad'St A Promise That Mine Appetite Should Meet And Tire, On Such Lautitious Meat, The Like Not Heliogabalus Did Eat: And Richer Wine Would'St Give To Me, Thy Guest, Than Roman Sylla Pour'D Out At His Feast. I Came, 'Tis True, And Look'D For Fowl Of Price, The Bastard Phoenix; Bird Of Paradise; And For No Less Than Aromatic Wine Of Maidens-Blush, Commix'D With Jessamine. Clean Was The Hearth, The Mantle Larded Jet, Which, Wanting Lar And Smoke, Hung Weeping Wet; At Last I' Th' Noon Of Winter, Did Appear A Ragg'D Soused Neats-Foot, With Sick Vinegar; And In A Burnish'D Flagonet, Stood By Beer Small As Comfort, Dead As Charity. At Which Amazed, And Pond'Ring On The Food, How Cold It Was, And How It Chill'D My Blood, I Curst The Master, And I Damn'D The Souce, And Swore I'd Got The Ague Of The House. Well, When To Eat Thou Dost Me Next Desire, I'll Bring A Fever, Since Thou Keep'St No Fire.