My heart's with antidotes provided, When you laugh at me or upon me. Then love me much, and love me ever, TO HIS MISTRESS. My Theodora, can those eyes, And chase this gloomy shade, And in my breast a hell has made; And yet light's power and comfort both control. Some of my flames to thee, And both in joys shall wealthy be: And Love, though blind, shall learn to see, Since you an eye to him and me can lend TO HIS FRIEND THAT HAD VOWED SMALL-BEER, LEAVE off, fond hermit, leave thy vow, And fall again te drinking: That beauty that won't sack allow, Dry love or small can never hold, And without Bacchus Venus soon grows cold. Dost think by turning anchorite, Or a dull smail-beer sinner, Thy cold embraces can invite, Or sprightless courtship win her? No, 'tis Canary that inspires, 'Tis sack, like ail, gives flames to am'rous fires. For epithets to praise her. Low liquors render brains unwitty, And ne'er provoke to love, but move to pity. Thou must, like Neptune, court thy lass, Let's offer at each lady's shrine A full crown'd bowl: first, here's a health to thine. ON CLARET. WITHIN this bottle's to be seen Born of the royal vine: We but nick-name it when we call 'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might With beauty and with taste, That cures one sickness with another, This poets makes, else how could I Nay, and write sonnets too; Then squeeze the vessel's bowels out, Crown each hand with a brimmer; A MOCK SONG. 'Tis true, I never was in love: For there's no art From love's supremacy. I had not age or wit to ken Those virtues which, though thinly set, In thee are altogether met, Which make thee so desired. Thyself and parts Above my arts Have drawn my heart to thee. I boast not of a pedigree, ́ That lords or lordlings be; Nor do I lace my name with grandsires' story, For a fool's coat i' th' herald's book, I am not fashion'd of the mode, Nor rant i' th' gallant's road; Nor in my habit do observe decoruin : They shall derive their honour, 'cause I wear 'em. No frizzling nor scarce locks, and yet Nor shall sweet-powders' vanity delight you; If my locks can't, another's sha'n't invite you. NAY. fie, Platonics! still adoring Could ne'er arrive at nuptial bliss, Condemu'd men's words no truth can show; And hunters, when they prove too slow, Cry, "Hares are dry meat, let 'em go." Th' enamour'd youth, whose flaming breast LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON. 'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her, Though beauty there doth rest, Enough t' inflame the breast Of one, that never did discover The glories of a face before; But I that have seen thousands more, 'Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections, For those are only brief collections Women, like apes and children, strive to do; For chains are chains, though gold: Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me : If friends or birth created love within me, If virtue or good parts could win me, I'd turn Platonic, and ne'er vex Whose flame's not far above, Then ask no reason for my fires, Something there is moves me to love, and I COURTSHIP. My Lesbia, let us live and love, Then t'other hundred as before WHY should I blush or be dismay'd, To tell you I adore you? Since love's a pow'r, that can't be stay'd, And you as well as those before you. You which are fair, and therefore should be kind. Fair as the light, pure as the ray, That in the grey-ey'd morning Meet all in you for your adorning. Let love draw yours to meet my raging flame. Joy of my soul, the only thing, That's my delight and glory, From you alone my love does spring, "Twill crown our happy story. Those fires I burn with all are pure And noble, yet too strong t' endure; 'Twas you did wound, 'twas you that ought to cure. TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH. Now I'm resolv'd to love no more, And turn your tempting eyes away. A puling beauty still to court To make me desperate courses take, ADDED. "Tis wine alone that cheers the soul, But love and ladies make us sad, Fm merry when I court the bowl, While he that courts the madam's mad, Then ladies wonder not at me, For you are coy, but wine is free. TO A PAINTED LADY. LEAVE these deluding tricks and shows, Don't you keep out of sight. Your sex for somewhat else. In your adored face and hair, To set your beauties forth, With oils, and paint and drugs, that cost More than the face is worth. Nature her self her own work does, And hates all needless arts, Disgrace your nat❜ral parts. To love all compounds hateful be, TO A COY LADY. I PRITHEE leave this peevish fashion, Don't desire to be high-priz'd, Love's a princely noble passion, And doth scorn to be despis'd. Though we say you're fair, you know, We your beauty do bestow, For our fancy makes you so. Don't be proud 'cause we adore yon, We do't only for our pleasure, And those parts in which you glory, We by fancy weigh and measure. When for deities you go, For angels, or for queens, pray know, 'Tis our fancy makes you so. Don't suppose your majesty Distinguish'd only by your pride. Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, And pride makes angels dev'ls below, And your pride may make you so. THE RECOVERY. Which both conspire to make thee shine, And yet methinks thou'rt wond'rous fair, Those glories in thy face that are, Nor was't my eyes that had such pow'r This pow'r of love, and tyranny, Be 't where it will, there let it rest. ADVICE TO CELIA. My lovely Celia, while thou dost enjoy, Since all those lilies and those roses, Will tarry but a little space. You should enjoy, but not abuse 'em, And when enjoyments may be had, not fondly to refuse 'em. Let lovers' flatt'ry ne'er prevail with thee; Their vows and protestations be Too often mere hypocrisy. And those high praises of the witty May all be costly, but not fit ye, Now what thy lovers say of thee, Sickness or age will quickly strip away Then those that thee ador'd before will slight thee, and so leave thee. Then while thou'rt fair and young, be kind but wise, Doat not, nor proudly use denying; That tempting toy thy beauty lies The ground does tipple healths apace, When we are ships and sack's the sea. Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing, Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death? We'll live by th' air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent, Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they'll think their plagues are spent, When once they see we don't repine. We do not suffer here alone; Though we are beggar'd, so's the king, Our heads shall turn as round as theirs, Clean down the wind, like cavaliers. Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline, Our selves will be a zodiac, And every mouth shall be a sign. Are circular like Plato's year; WHERE England's Damon us'd to keep, Who fed, not fed upon, his sheep. The laurell'd garland which before The spotless coat which once he wore, Are seiz'd on by the rout, Down scrip and sheep-hook goes, When foxes shepherds be. A MOCK-SONG. HANG up Mars And his wars, We'll tipple my lads together: Those are slaves, Fools and knaves, That have chink, And must pay, For what they say, Good fellows account for neither. THE TROOper. COME, come, let us drink, 'Tis in vain to think, Like fools, on grief or sadness; Let our money fly And our sorrows die, All worldly care is madness; But sack and good cheer Will in spite of our fear, Inspire our souls with gladness. Let the greedy clowns, That do live like hounds, That know neither bound nor measure, Lament each loss, For their wealth is their cross, Whose delight is in their treasure: But we that have none, Will use theirs as our own, And spend it at our pleasure. Troul about the bowl, The delight of my soul, And to my hand commend it. A fig for chink, 'Twas made to buy drink, Before that we go we'll end it; THE GOOD-FELLOW. STAY, stay, shut the gates, T'other quart, faith, it is not so late, As you're thinking, Those stars which you see, In this hemisphere, be But the studs in your cheeks by your drinking. The Sun is gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we, boys, Drink wine, give him water, 'tis sack makes us the boys. Fill, fill up the glass, To the next merry lad let it pass, Come set foot to foot, And but give your minds to't, 'Tis beretical six, that doth slay wit. No Helicon like to the juice of the vine is, For Phœbus had never had wit, or divineness, Had his face not been bow-dy'd as thine, his, and mine is. Drink, drink off your bowls, We'll enrich both our beads and our souls |