Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pox take you Mristress! I'le begon!
I have Friends to wayt upon;
Think you, I'le my self confine,
To your Humors! (Lady mine!)
No, your lowring, seems to say,
Tis a rayny Drinking day,
To the Tavern I'le a way.

Pox take this Drinking? what's to pay!
I have Lasses for me stay:
Think you I'le my self besot
To the Quar't, or Pottle-pot;
No, They only heighten one,
For this after Action.
To the Whore-house I'le begon:

2.

There have I, a mristress got
Cloysterd in a Pottle pot
Brisk and sparkling, as thine Eye,
When those riches glances flie,
Plump and bounding, soft and fair,

Buxom, blith, and debonaire,
And she's called Sack my Dear.

There a mistress won have I,
Cloyster'd, in no Nunnery;
Neat, and brisk, as Spanish Wine,
Or the Juyce in Carnadine.
Plump and Gallant, and hath store,
To suffice, me o're, and O're,
And she's Cælia cal'd, my Whore.

3.

Sack is my better mistress far,
Sack's mine only Beauty-stare;
Whose Divine and sprightful rayes,
Twinckle in each Nose and Face:
Should I all her Beauties show,
Thou thy self, wouldst Love-sick grow,
And she'd prove, thy mistress too.

She is my holy whole delight!
Whose Beauty stars, make day of night:
Whose lovely Aires, and comely Grace,
Ne're adorn'd Anothers Face,
Did they all thy features see,
Drinkers, would my Rivals be,
And be Top't, with none, but thee.

4.

She with no tart scorn, will blast me!
Yet upon the Bed, she'l cast me:
And ne're blush her self to red,
Nor fear, the loss of Mayden-head:
Yet she can, I dare to say,
Spirits, into me convey,
More, then, thou, canst take away.

What though she scorn, or sometimes frown,
On the Bed, I'le lay her down;
Where she blushes not, like one,
That's asham'd, of what sh'as done:
Yet I gain, I dare to swear,
In an hour, more spirit, from her,
Then Sack yeilds thee, in a year.

5.

Getting Kisses, here's, no coyle,
Here's no Handkercheifes, to spoyle!
Yet, I, better Nector sipp,
Then e're dwelt, upon thy Lip
And though still, and mute she be,
Quicker wit, she brings to me,
Then, e're I, could find in thee.

Though for a Kiss, we strive a while,
Pay tears, to purchase half a smile,

VVe scorn, when hence, such bliss, is got,
The Kissing cupp, or Smiling pot:
Though we talk not, as before,
Blame us not, to think the more
Fancying Kingdomes o're, and o're.

6.

If I go, ne're look, to see
Any more, a fool of me!
I'le no liberty up give,
Nor a maudlin Lover live;
Thou shalt, never, bring me to't,
No not all thy smiles shall do't,
Nor thy Maiden-head to boot.

VVhen I come, I'me sure to find,
A brave Gallant, to my minde,
VVhere I'le, my Liberty, give o're,
And be maudlin Drunk no more:
I shall soon, be, thither led,
Each smile, shall win me, to her Bed,
And all, for her Maiden-head.

7.

But if thou wilt take the pain,
To be good, but once again,
And if one smile, call me back,
Thou shalt be that Lady Sack:

Faith! but try, and thou shalt see,
VVhat a Loving Soul I'le be,
VVhen I'me Drunk, with none, but thee.

But, when all my pains, are spent,
If thou yeildst no fresh content,
And let'st Sack, me, re-invite,
She shall be my whole delight:
Faith! ne're try, for then you'l see,
VVhat a Ranter, I shall be
VVhen I'me drunk, with her, not thee.
Never try! for, then, you'l know,
VVhat brave feats, this Sack, can show,
VVhen I'me drunk, as driven Snow.