Then, may your plants be prest with fruit,
Nor bee, or hive you have be mute;
But sweetly sounding like a lute.
Next, may your duck and teeming hen
Both to the cock's tread say Amen;
And for their two eggs render ten.
Last, may your harrows, shears, and ploughs,
Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows,
All prosper by our virgin vows.
Alas! we bless, but see none here
That brings us either ale or beer;
In a dry house all things are near.
Let's leave a longer time to wait,
Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate,
And all live here with needy fate.
Where chimneys do for ever weep
For want of warmth, and stomachs keep,
With noise, the servants' eyes from sleep.
It is in vain to sing, or stay
Our free feet here; but we'll away:
Yet to the Lares this we'll say:
The time will come when you'll be sad
And reckon this for fortune bad,
T'ave lost the good ye might have had.
Prest, laden.
Near, penurious.
Leave to wait, cease waiting.
