Come men with lutes and bowls, and find a welcome
Here in my garden,
Find bowers and deep shade and windy grasses,
And by the south wall, wet and forward-jutting,
One early branch fire-tipped with Roman cherries.
O naught is absent,
O naught but you, kind head that far in prison
Sunk on a weary arm, feels no god’s pity
Stroking and sighing where the kingly laurels
Were once so plenty,