Twixt noone and morning; the dull feeders on
Fresh patience, and raisins of the sunne,
They, who had liv’d in th’ hall seaven houres at least,
As if twere an arraignment, not a feast;
And look’t soe like the hangings they stood nere,
None could discerne which the true pictures were;
These now shall be refresh’t, while the bold drumme
Strikes up his frollick, through the hall they come.
Here might I end, my lord, and here subscribe
Your honours to his power: But Oh, what bribe,