POEMS OF ALEXANDER BROM E. Lefes jeu Yet since my fate Has drawn me to this sin, Which I did hate, To the purpose, now my hand is in, Spite of those arts you use : And let you know the world is not so bare, There's things enough to love, besides such toys as ladies are. I'll love good wine, I'll love my book and Muse; Nay, all the Nine; I'll love my real friend, I'll love my horse; and could I chooso One that would not my love abuse, While you rejoice, and feast your eyes, to see me To her my heart should bend. thus forlorn. I will love those that laugh, and those that sing, But yet be wise, I'll love my country, prince, and laws, and those that love the king. Did think your eyes THE INDIFFERENT. MISTAKE me not, I am not of that mind I could have said as much by any she: To hate all woman kind; You are not beauteous of yourself, but are made Nor can you so my patience vex, so by me. To make my Muse blaspheme your sex, Nor with my satires bite you: Though there are some in your free state, Some things in you, who're candidate, That he who is, or loves himself, must hate : Yet I'll not therefore slight you. For I'm a schismatic in love, And what makes most abhor it, In me does more affection move, And I love the better for it. And when we will can mortalise, and make you so I vow, I am so far from loving none, again That I love every one: If fair, I must; if brown she be, She's lovely, and for sympathy, 'Cause we're alike, I love her; If young, she's pliant to the sport; Gray hairs and wrinkles, yet I'll court, Be her hair red, be her lips gray or blue, Or has she but the ruins of a nose, Though scales, not skin, does clothe her, Nor wil! I therefore loath her. There are no rules for beauty, but 'Tis as our fancies make it: Be you but kind, I'll think you fair, THE RESOLVE. TELL me not of a face that's fair, That like an angel sings; And it must be a she: The glories of your ladies be Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, Lilies their whiteness stain: What fool is he that shadows seeks, And may the substance gain! Then if thou'lt have me love a lass, Let it be one that's kind, Else I'm a servant to the glass, That's with Canary liu'd. Though you are witty, what care I? Nay, should you boast of honesty, Write after that fair copy, man, May tempt a Jove to be Guilty of love's idolatry, And make a pleasure of an hermitage; Tho' their teeth are not, if their necks wear pearl, A kitchen wench is consort for an earl. "'Tis money makes the man," you say, 'T shall make the woman too; When both are clad in like array, December rivals youthful May: This rules the world, and this Perfection of both sexes is; This Flora made a goddess, so 'twill you: This makes us laugh, this makes us drink and sing: This makes the beggar trample o'er his king. WHY'S THE COUNST L. my friend so melancholy? Pr'ythee why so sad, why so sad? Beauty's vain, and love's a folly, Wealth and women make men mad. Does thy mistress seem to fly thee? Drown thy thoughts in wine. Try again, and don't give over, They are tyrants if you moan; If nor thyself, nor love, can move her, If thy courtship can't invite her, Love thyself and friend. THE WARY WOOER. FAITH, you're mistaken, I'll not love That face that frowns on me: Though it be handsome, 't shall not move My centred soul, that's far above The magic of a paint, That on a devil writes a saint: I hate your pictures and imagery. I'm no love-sinon, nor will tamely now Lie swaddled in the trenches of your brow. TO HIS MISTRESS. LADY, you'll wonder when you see That both in them and in their author lies. I that came hither with a breast Coated with mail about; Where reason lodg'd within, and love kept out. My thoughts turn'd, like the needle, about, And fain would find some north-pole out, Till now they're fix'd, and point to you above. Lend me one ray, and do but shine Upon my verse and me; Your beauty can enrich a line, And so you'll make 'em yours, not mine; Since there's no Helicon like love and thee. But thou, I warrant thee, do'st suppose This new design will slay me, And ravel out my life with woes, Till death, at last, mine eyes shall close; That all may read, "Lo! here I lie Tomb'd in thy heart, slain by thine eye." But I, I vow, will be more wise, And love with such discretion. TO HIS MISTRESS. Way dost thou frown, my dear, on me? 'Twas only 'cause thou wert in place. Cur'd of a sickness but by thee. The little birds for dirt repair And shall not I kiss foul and fair? Wilt thou give birds more pow'r than 1? When all the world I've ranged about, And, at the last, can find none out Will make thee my sole deity. THE HARD HEART. STILL so hard-hearted? what may be And thus thy hardness fitted? To make one act both sin and curse, Till thee there never was but one Was to a rock translated, The tears send to thee are grown Yet 1, dear rock, must worship thee, LOVE'S ANARCHY. LOVE, I must tell thee, I'll no longer be Be offer'd at thy shrine, Or at thine altar burn'd. Love, like religion,'s made an airy name, To awe those fools whom want of wit makes tame. There's no such thing as quiver, shafts, or bow, And grieve the mind, 'Tis the poor masculine sex: Women no sorrows find. 'Tis not our persons, nor our parts, can move 'em, Nor is't men's worth, but wealth, make ladies love 'em. Reason henceforth, not love, shall be my guide, My fellow-creatures shan't be deified; I'll now a rebel be, And so pull down That distaff-monarchy, And females' fancy'd crown. In these unbridled times who would not strive To free his neck from all prerogative? THE CONTRARY. NAY, pr'ythee do be coy, and slight me, Unsing'd, and prove a salamander. But let me woo, whilst thou dost fly me. 'Tis my delight to dally with thee, I'll court thee still if thou'lt deny me; For there's no happiness but loving, Enjoyment makes our pleasures flat. Give me the heart that's always moving, And's not confin'd t' one you know what. I've fresh supplies on all occasions, Of thoughts, as yarious as your face is; No directory for evasions, Nor will I court by common-places. 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, That does in clouds about me roll, 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, TO HIS FRIEND THAT HAD VOWED SMALL-BEER. 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 small-beer sinner, Thy cold embraces can invite, Or sprightless courtship win her? No, 'tis Canary that inspires, 'Tis sack, like oil, 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 We but nick-name it when we call 'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might Feast both his eye and appetite With beauty and with taste, Physicians may prescribe their whey That cures one sickness with another, This poets makes, else how could I Nay, and write sonnets too; Then squeeze the vessel's howels out, Crown each hand with a brinemer; 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. That though I never was in love, Nor never meant to be, 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 decorum : They shall derive their honour, 'cause I wear 'em. No frizzling nor scarce locks, and yet Perhaps more hair than wit: Nor shall sweet-powders' vanity delight you; A wig for an auxiliary. If my locks can't, another's sha'n't invite you. And which is worse, I cannot woo With gold, as others do, Nor bait your love with lordships, lands, and towers; As serves to spoil my poetry, Nay, you shan't make a fool of me, Though I no statist be; Nor shall I be so valiant to fight for ye: Nor did I e'er do't; but in sport I won't run mad for love, nor yet go marry. And yet I know some cause does move, 'Tis for your honour's sake that you affect me; And her health's drunk by all that do respect me. Then love thou on, I'll tipple till Both of us have our fill, And so thy name shall never be forgotten: For tho' thou'rt not so old, thy heart's as rotten. EPITHALAMY. NAY, fie, Platonics! still adoring The fond chimeras of your brain? Could ne'er arrive at nuptial bliss, Condemu❜d men's words no truth can show ; Th' enamour'd youth, whose flaming breast LOVE'S WITHOut reason. 'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her, 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, 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, And only scorn the poor: If virtue or good parts could win me, My soul with difference of sex; Whose flame's not far above, Then ask no reason for my fires, Something there is moves me to love, and I |