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 Like thee, or dare the buskins to unloose Of thy brave, bold, and sweet Maronian muse. But since I'm call'd, rare Denham, to be gone, Take from thy Herrick this conclusion: 'Tis dignity in others, if they be Crown'd poets, yet live princes under thee; The while their wreaths and purple robes do shine Less by their own gems than those beams of thine. Pæan-gardens, gardens sacred to Apollo. Nicely, fastidiously.


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It was, and still my care is, To worship ye, the Lares, With crowns of greenest parsley And garlic chives, not scarcely; For favours here to warm me, And not by fire to harm me; For gladding so my hearth here With inoffensive mirth here; That while the wassail bowl here With North-down ale doth troul here, No syllable doth fall here To mar the mirth at all here. For which, O chimney-keepers! (I dare not call ye sweepers) So long as I am able To keep a country table, Great be my fare, or small cheer, I'll eat and drink up all here. Troul, pass round.