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Till I shall come again let this suffice, I send my salt, my sacrifice To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far As to thy Genius and thy Lar; To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen, The fat-fed smoking temple, which in The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines Invites to supper him who dines, Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef, Not represent but give relief To the lank stranger and the sour swain, Where both may feed and come again; For no black-bearded vigil from thy door Beats with a button'd-staff the poor; But from thy warm love-hatching gates each may Take friendly morsels and there stay To sun his thin-clad members if he likes, For thou no porter keep'st who strikes. No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants, Or staying there is scourg'd with taunts Of some rough groom, who, yirkt with corns, says: "Sir, Y'ave dipped too long i' th' vinegar; And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, Y'ave fared well: pray make an end;