SONG LXIII. A Mock.
[Lay that Sullen Garland by thee!]
1.
Lay that Sullen Garland by thee!
Keep it for th'Elizian, shade!
Take my Wreath of Lusty ivy
Not of that faint Mirtle made!
When I see thy Soul descending,
To that cool, and fertile plain,
Of sad Fooles that lack attending
Thou shalt have the Crown again,
Now drink Wine, and know the odds
'Twixt that Lethe, and the gods!
B.
Cast that Ivy Garland from thee!
Leave it for some Wilder-Blade!
Venus wreath would best become thee,
Not for Blasing Bacchus made:
When my high flown Soul's ascended,
To Love's bright and warmer Sphear,
Where with Chaplets I'me attended,
Thou an Ivy Bush shalt wear:
Now be Sober! and you'l prove!
Mortals Tipple, gods do Love.
2.
Rouse thy dull, and drowsie Spirits!
See these Soul Reviving-streams!
Stupid Lovers Brain inherits
Nought, but vain, and empty Dreams:
Think not then thy dismall Trances
With our Raptures can contend;
The Lad that Laughs, and Sings & Dances,
May come sooner to his End:
Sadness may, some pitty move,
Mirth, and Courage Ravish Love.
B.
Wellcome merry Melancholly!
Fancying Beautie's quickning Beams!
Boon Companions Wits, are folly
Shrunk in over wetting streams:
Think not, then thy Ranting Humor,
May with Modesty contend,
Lesser Talkers often Doe more
When they come unto their End:
Rudness, Easie Girles may move,
Civil Carriage, Charms a Love.
3.
Fye then on that Cloudy Forehead!
Ope those Vein-like crossed Armes!
You may as well call back the bury'd
As raise Love, with such dull Charmes:
Sacrifice a Glass of Claret
To each Letter of her Name;
The gods have oft descended for it,
Mortals should much more, the same,
If She come not at that Flood
Sleep will come, and that's as Good.
B.
Cloudy Browes do presage Weeping;
And who would not hear our Cryes?
Who the Grave, hath had in Keeping,
Would to pitty Love arise:
Offer up a Yoke of Kisses,
To the Damo'sell you adore!
Jove for such a Bliss as this is,
Would come, now though ne're before:
If this way, she can't be had,
Drinking comes, and that's as Bad.
