Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

The drunken Lover. J. D. Delight.

I Dore, I dote, but am a sott to show't, I was a very fool to let her know't; For now she doth so cuning grow, She proves a freind worse then a foe: She will not hold me fast nor let me goe, She tells me, I cannot forsake her; Then straight I endeavor to leave her, But to make me stay throw's a kisse in my way, Oh then I could tarry for ever.

Then I retire, salute, and sit down by her, There do I five in frost, and freeze in fire, New Nectar from her lipps I sup. And though I do not drink all up; Yet am I drunk with kissing of the cup: For her lipps are two brimmers of Clarret, Where first I begin to miscarry: Her brests of delight, are two bottles of white, And her eyes are two cups of Canary.

Drunk as I live, dead drunk beyond reprieve For all my secrets dribble through a sive, Her arme about my neck she laith, Now all is Scripture that she saith Which I lay hold on, with my fuddled faith, I find a fond lover's a drunkard; And dangerous is when he flyes out, With hipps and with lipps, with black eyes and white thighes, Blind Cupid sure tippled his eyes out.

She bids me, Arise, tells me I must be wise, Like her, for she is not in love she cryes; Then do I fret and fling and throw, Shall I be fettered to my foe? Then I begin to run but cannot goe I pray thee, sweet, use me more kindly. You had better for to hold me fast, If you once disengage your bird from his cage, Beleeve me hee'le leave you at last.

Lik a sot I sit that fild the towne with witt, But now confesse I have most need of it; I have been drunk with duck and deare, A bove aquarter of a yeare: Beyond the cure of sleeping or small beere, think I can number the months to, Iuly, August, September, October Thus goes my account a mischeife upon't But sure I shall goe when I am sober.

My legs are lame, my courage is quite tam'de, My heart and all my body is inflamde; Now by experience I can prove. And sweare by all the powers above; Tis better to be drunk with wine then love. Good sack makes us merry and witty, Our faces with jwells adorning; And though that we grope yet, there is some hope, That a man may be sober next morning.

Then with command she throwes me from her hand, She bids me goe yet knowes I cannot stand; I measure all the ground by tripps, Was ever Sot so drunk in sipps, Or ever man so over seene in lipps, I pray, maddam fickle, be faithfull, And leave off your damnable dodging, Pray do not deceive me, either love me or leave me, And let me go home to my lodging.

I love too much but yet my sollie's such I cannot leave, I must love to 'ther touch. Heres a Health unto the King, how now? I am drunk and speak treason I vow; Lovers and fooles say any thing you know, I feare I have tyred your patience, But I am sure, tis I have the wrong on't,

My wit is bereft me; for all that I have left me Will but just serve to make me a song on't, My mistris and I shall never comply, And there is the short and the long on't.