A banquet raining downe so fast, the good
Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:
Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre
Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre
Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye
Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,
That it was question'd whether heaven were
Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;
But I too long detaine you at a feast
You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest