To Mr. Lawrence

 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, 
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius reinspire 
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice 
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? 
He who of those delights can judge, and spare 
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

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